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Chapter Text

The cottage in Godric’s Hollow still burned when Albus Dumbledore arrived. Robes billowing in the cold October wind.

Ash drifted through the air like slow-falling snow, glowing embers clinging to the crumbling walls and singeing the leaves of the fallen trees. The Dark Mark lingered above the ruins, bright and protuberant, reflecting in his half-moon glasses. Albus stepped over fallen beams and shattered glass with the calm of a man walking into a meeting he’d planned weeks ago.

He found James Potter first.

James lay half-buried beneath what had once been the staircase, his body pinned, blood running from deep cuts all over his face and body in thin, dark rivers into the floorboards. His eyes were half-open. Alive. Barely. Dumbledore raised his wand and traced it over the man’s chest. The faintest rise and fall of rattling breath answered. A flicker of irritation crossed his face. Albus glanced around the ruined cottage, not seeing Lily or Harry Potter. He apparated upstairs into the nursery.

Lily was collapsed beside the crib. She looked dead, her skin cold and her breaths so shallow they barely stirred the air. Her hand was still outstretched toward the crib where she’d fallen. With his wand Albus checked her pulse, it was slow and faint. His mouth tightened. He exhaled, not in gratitude, but in irritation barely masked. She was meant to die cleanly and neatly as a martyr with no lingering complications. Instead, she clung to life like a loose thread that could unravel everything if tugged by the wrong hands. Dead would have been simpler. The Dead could be mourned and buried. The living had to be managed.

The cottage had given him everything he needed to set a new plan into motion. One that would ensure the Greater Good was upheld, and make sure that he was the saviour once again of the Wizarding World.

Next to Lily, baby Harry sat up in his crib, untouched by the fire or the blast. The lightning bolt-shaped wound on his forehead was still oozing blood. Wide green eyes stared up at the old wizard with confusion but no fear.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said softly, almost reverently. “The prophecy holds.”

Lily had stood between Voldemort and the child without wand or shield, fully prepared to die. And that was all the magic had required. The willingness, the intent, the surrender of her life in Harry’s name. The sacrifice had ignited the old magic protection before her heart stopped beating, sealing itself around the boy in the instant the curse left Voldemort’s wand. The rebound had torn the Dark Lord apart, but Lily still clung to breath.

He glanced once around the ruined cottage. Voldemort’s body, or what was left of it was already unravelling, a smear of rotten magic fading against the scorched wall. The curse had rebounded. The Dark Lord was gone. But not truly gone. Not permanently. That suited Albus Dumbledore just fine.

With slow and deliberate movements, Dumbledore conjured a silvery phoenix Patronus and sent it streaking into the sky. It would reach the Ministry first. Then the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix. By the time anyone else arrived, the stage would be set exactly as he wished, and the story would begin to spread all around the Wizarding World.

He cradled Harry in one arm and cast a stabilising charm over the infant’s head wound. The boy clung to his robes instinctively and whimpered softly. Dumbledore did not smile.

“Only you,” he murmured to the small one year old boy, “can finish what was started.”

He turned back to the broken and weak body of Lily Potter. Lily and James still clung to life out of sheer, stubborn refusal to die. That unfortunately, would complicate things unless he handled it correctly. He could not kill them. That would leave magical traces that even the dwindling aurors would find. There were worse things than death, and quieter cages than graves.

He drew his wand and traced a complicated rune in the air over Lily’s heart. Warding magic sealed around her like glass. Her eyes flew open at the intrusion, until her weakened body once more succumbed to the pain and dark magic. Lily blinked again into unconsciousness. He apparated downstairs, holding baby Harry and performed the same spell and rune on James. Both adult potters slipped under magically induced statis. A complicated charm. They would not die. They would not live. And no one would ever find them.

He vanished the rubble around them with a flick of his wrist, clearing space with impatient precision. A pulse of silent magic rolled through the ruined house as he marked both Potters with a spell keyed to their blood and cores. With another gesture, he sent their bodies elsewhere, far from prying eyes and to a secure, warded location only he could access. He would deal with them later, after the impending chaos that he predicted would happen once news broke about the devastation at Godric’s Hollow.

In Lily and James place, he conjured two ghoulishly convincing golems from ash, splinters, and the lingering magic in the air. He shaped them carefully, moulding the features and forms to match James and Lily as they lay broken. Then with a final twist of his wand he bound each constructed golem to the stolen magical signatures of the originals. To any detection spell, they would read as dead Potters.

The golems settled among the debris like the corpses they were portraying, cooling rapidly in the night air. The real James and Lily were already gone, spirited away before anyone else could arrive. Harry watched none of it, tucked into Dumbledors arm. He only whimpered once, quiet and confused as the lie began its long life.

Several pops sounded outside, the cavalry had arrived. Too late. Aurors came into the house, all with stricken faces. They knew what the dark mark outside meant. The Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold walked into the ruined cottage, disbelief on her face. They all saw the body that lay by Albus’ feet, the small, injured boy in his arms and the wreckage of the cottage that surrounded them.  

He told them they were too late. That James and Lily were gone. That Voldemort had fallen by his own curse. That Harry had survived through the protection of his mother’s love.

Every word was true, framed around a lie so vast no one saw the seams.

When Sirius Black appeared minutes later, wild-eyed and panting with his wand in hand, Dumbledore met him at the edge of the property with a carefully measured expression of sorrow and control. “James and Lily are dead,” he said firmly, before Sirius could speak.

Sirius froze, crushed by the declaration. Grief and fury blurred his vision. He staggered toward the ruins. Dumbledore tightened his hold on Harry. “And I fear,” he added softly, “that their Secret-Keeper betrayed them.”

That broke something in Sirius’s face.

The rest unfolded exactly as Dumbledore planned.

By sunrise, the Wizarding World was already weaving a legend around the baby who had lived, and the tale carefully stitched together from half-truths spun by Albus Dumbledore. Sirius Black had vanished into Azkaban before anyone could demand a trial, and neither the Minister for Magic nor Barty Crouch Senior, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, suspected that Dumbledore had manipulated them into sending him away without the trial that would clear him of being the secret keeper, deliberately denying Black his legal rights. The Potters were secretly entombed, hidden away from the world. Meanwhile, Harry was left marked and guided toward a childhood designed entirely for control.

And Albus Dumbledore, hero, mastermind and saviour watched the world weep with gratitude for his lies.

Chapter Text

Harry did not remember ever being happy. Even in the first few years of his life, warmth had been a fleeting guest in the house on Privet Drive. His aunt and uncle Vernon and Petunia Dursley had no interest in loving him, no interest in him beyond the inconvenience or irritation he caused. Petunia’s eyes would follow him with a cold mix of resentment and fear whenever he dared to move. Vernon’s hands would lash out without thought at Harry. Every day was a lesson: obey, endure, and stay small and unnoticed.

Dumbledore knew everything that happened to Harry in Privet Drive.

He had placed subtle charms upon Harry before he left him on the Dursleys’ doorstep that Halloween night, spells that traced his every step, monitored his moods and subtly reinforced obedience. Every moment of fear, every punishment and every humiliation was catalogued and absorbed like water into Dumbledore's most meticulous plan. Harry did not realise he was being controlled even in his most private thoughts, but the scars would last a lifetime.

The Dursleys were not free of magical influence either. Dumbledore had embedded charms in them with enchantments that intensified their hatred for Harry, magnified their fear and loathing of magic, and bound them to behave exactly as he required. Petunia’s jealousy flared sharper, Vernon’s temper raged higher, and Dudley’s spoilt cruelty grew unchecked all by Albus’ subtle unseen hand. Their hatred was not entirely natural, and it was carefully nurtured to shape Harry’s childhood into a cage of fear, submission and obedience. All for the Greater Good, and all for Albus’ masterplan of finally defeating Voldemort for good. What was the happiness of one boy compared to the happiness of the British Wizarding World.

Some days Harry’s magic would slip out uncontrollably. A cupboard door would slam itself shut when Harry flinched at a raised hand. A lamp would shiver and shatter when Dudley called him names too cruel for a child to bear. His hair would grow longer overnight, tangling in strange patterns and defying even his small efforts to comb it flat. These flashes terrified Harry as much as they fascinated him. They reminded him that he was not ordinary but also that he had no control, no protection and no one to intervene except for the distant figure who watched and recorded. He wished that a distant relative would come and rescue him, to take him away from the Dursleys. His dream never came true.

And so, Harry learned to obey. To crouch when a shadow loomed. To speak only when spoken to. To shrink himself smaller into corners and cupboards and into the very silence of the house because he knew what would happen to him if he did not.

The Dursleys’ favouritism toward Dudley was a daily reminder. Dudley grew fat and entitled a shining example of indulgence. Harry ate scraps and slept in a cupboard under the stairs on a small infant cot mattress. He learned to fear the world outside his narrow and cruel cage. Petunia was his mother’s sister, and taught Harry that curiosity was dangerous and attentiveness could be twisted against him. Her husband Vernon’s temper taught him that fear could be louder than words and that any spark of defiance might bring swift, crushing consequences.

Occasionally in stolen moments, Harry’s magic would flare unpredictably A broomstick would hover without him touching it, a broken toy would float and spin in the air. Once when Dudley cornered him in the kitchen a sudden flare of light erupted from Harry’s hand, causing Dudley to stumble and cry out. The Dursleys were furious, but Dumbledore’s subtle enchantments prevented the magic from leaving lasting evidence. Harry could only feel it, a hidden power, frightening and vast but with no guidance and no outlet.

By the time he had turned 11, Harry was already broken in ways the Dursleys never knew they had achieved. His obedience was not voluntary; it was learned through terror and through careful shaping by both mundane cruelty and distant magical influence. He did not cry when he was punished. He did not fight. He shrank further into himself, waiting for the world to dictate his path.

And all the while, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin (first class), Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock and Grand Sorcerer watched.

Every bruise, every pang of hunger and every burst of uncontrolled magic was noted. Harry was the perfect project broken, powerful, and entirely under the control of the man who claimed to serve the greater good.

The world outside Privet Drive could wait. For now, Harry was nothing more than a boy who had been sent away, marked and observed and groomed for a destiny he did not yet understand.

Chapter Text

Harry was on his hands and knees scrubbing the tiled floor of the Dursleys’ kitchen with a rag so thin it had long ago lost its usefulness. The August morning light was grey and dull seeping through the large windows. The smell of burnt toast lingered faintly in the air mingling with the harsh tang of floor disinfectant. Harry’s knuckles and back ached and yet he scrubbed on silent and careful, as if his very existence depended on remaining invisible. As he scrubbed a sudden clatter made him look up, the post had been thrown onto the table, landing with a harsh careless thump under Vernon’s hand. A thick envelope lay atop the usual bills and junk. It was cream-colored, heavy, and embossed with a large red seal. It was upside down, so he couldn’t see who the letter was addressed to, but he just knew that it was for him.

He reached out and froze, his hand hovering over the envelope and unsure why it made him feel both nervous and hopeful, his small heart beating faster than usual. Before he could act, a shadow fell across him.

Vernon appeared suddenly behind him, looming like a dark storm cloud, his face twisted into a scowl. “What’s this? You? No letters for you!” he barked, his voice sharp and cruel. His hand snatched the envelope before Harry could move the paper trembling slightly in his grasp. Petunia hovered at his side; her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyes wide and almost feverish. Her face was pale and rigid with some mix of fear and jealousy, though Harry could not tell which. The sight made his stomach twist with unease.

The letter never made it into Harry’s hands. Vernon tore it into pieces and tossed it into the kitchen bin while Harry watched powerless to stop him or intervene. That moment in the kitchen marked the beginning of a frustrating cycle. Letters addressed to Harry arriving and always intercepted and just out of reach. Harry could only wonder what they contained, unaware that the contents would change his life forever and bring him to his destiny.

More letters arrived over the following days, each more inventive than the last. Some slid silently under doors, curling around the floorboards as if alive. Others dropped from the chimney in a scattering of ash and sparks, landing in neat little piles as though placed by invisible hands. One morning a letter appeared inside the teapot, steaming gently with the scent of ink and parchment when Harry lifted the lid. Another floated lazily down from the ceiling, suspended on a wisp of golden light that shimmered before vanishing as quickly as it came as if by magic. On one particularly frustrating day a letter tapped insistently at the windowpane, tapping harder with each passing moment until Harry could almost hear it whispering his name.

Every delivery was clever, insistent and entirely beyond his control, but he never got to hold one first. Vernon and Petunia intercepted them all, flinging some into the fire, cutting others up, or locking them away where Harry could not reach. Harry could only watch, powerless, his curiosity growing with every attempt to snatch even a glimpse. The contents remained a mystery. The Dursleys scolded him for showing interest in “nonsense” and threatened punishment for seeking them out.

All the while, Dudley thrived. He was lazy, arrogant and monstrously spoiled. A cruel boy who seemed to take pleasure in tormenting anyone smaller or weaker than himself, particularly Harry. Every minor success, every indulgence and every breath Dudley took was amplified into an accomplishment by Vernon and Petunia. His parents built him into a tormenter, rewarding cruelty with indulgence and strength with admiration. When Dudley pushed Harry into walls, stole what little scraps he was allowed from his plate or laughed at his every stumble, Vernon’s laughter rang behind him like applause and Petunia’s sharp nods gave silent permission. Their approval was the fuel Dudley thrived on moulding him into a bully who lacked conscience or care.

Dudley’s schooling was a reflection of his entitlement. He cared little for lessons, slouched through his homework and failed nearly every test he took. Private tutors tried in vain to get him to focus, and even extra-curricular classes were met with boredom and disinterest. Yet every failure was smoothed over by Vernon’s bribes and connections. No matter how poorly Dudley performed due to the Dursley’s endless pockets he was guaranteed a place at the prestigious private school, Smelting’s. Meanwhile, Harry remained trapped in the local primary school, friendless and constantly punished. Not for his own failings, but because of the lies the Dursleys spread to the staff and to the parents of the other children. He was labelled a troublemaker, unintelligent and inattentive. He quickly learned that trying in school was dangerous and that if he ever showed he was better than Dudley then punishment awaited at home. Teachers were swayed by the Dursleys’ lies and never intervened, never offered help, and ignored the obvious signs of neglect and cruelty upon Harry. A boy who could never measure up to Dudley’s artificially maintained privilege.

Harry was thin and painfully small for his age, his ribs pressing sharply against worn, hand-me-down clothes of Dudley’s that hung loosely on his fragile frame. Hunger gnawed at him constantly, leaving him weak and frail and his growth stunted by years of neglect. Meals when they came were scraps, leftovers from the Dursley’s meals, carefully measured so Harry never had enough to fill his stomach. He was never allowed to eat at the table and always given a cold plate after they had eaten. Fruit, sweets, and puddings were luxuries he had never known. Even water was rationed given sparingly, and only when the Dursleys allowed. Harry relished the days he was forced out the garden doing gardening chores as this meant he could drink endless amounts of water from the hosepipe.

Punishments often meant starvation. When locked in his cupboard under the stairs, Harry could go entire days without food or drink, the air thick and close around him. Thirst and hunger clawed at him, leaving his stomach and head in constant pain. His small hands and feet looked almost too delicate to support his body, and his bones protruded under his thin skin. His hair was unkempt and dull and framed a pale, gaunt face, and his eyes that were too large for his hollowed cheeks seemed always wary, scanning for the next blow or insult.

Sleep offered little relief. He lay on an old thin cot mattress which had been soiled repeatedly when he was an infant in the cupboard, cold and alone, while Dudley sprawled in warmth and comfort. Every muscle in Harry’s body was stiff from sleeping in a cramped position, every breath shallow from hunger. Skin always cold from the draft that seeped in through the gap at the bottom of the door, his thin cot blanket doing nothing to keep the cold away. Even moving caused exhaustion, and the simplest tasks such as scrubbing floors, carrying plates, or fetching water left him winded. The neglect, the cruelty, and the constant lack of nourishment had shaped him into a boy whose body seemed at least 3 years younger than his age, a frail shadow forced to endure a world too large and harsh for him.

His glasses were second-hand and scratched and wrong prescription. The world through them blurred and wavered, letters danced across pages, school whiteboards were indecipherable. Schoolwork became another battlefield, not due to lack of intelligence but because exhaustion, fear, and anxiety weighed on him constantly. Every small attempt at achievement was punished, every spark of independence snuffed out. Harry couldn’t see an end to his misery. He only hoped that him going to the state secondary school away from Dudley would offer him a glimpse of happiness and normalcy. Maybe he could even make a friend.

Number 4 Privet Drive was a theatre of humiliation in which Dudley performed, and Harry was the perpetual victim, learning to make himself invisible at all costs.

Yet even amidst this cruelty, small and uncontrolled flashes of what Harry could only call magic appeared. Harry’s hair grew long and wild overnight after Petunia roughly shaved it all off the evening before. Once, a pair of shoes began to hop across the floor on their own, chasing Dudley in a brief chaotic dance. On another occasion, the ink in his schoolbooks lifted from the pages and wrote strange, swirling patterns that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Each incident terrified him as much as it fascinated him. No one explained these occurrences, and Harry quickly learned to hide and suppress them for fear of drawing Dudley’s ire, or worse.

Dumbledore observed silently, noting every flicker and every tremor of power. Harry was small, weak, and broken in body but beneath the layers of fear and abuse unbeknownst to Albus Dumbledore, something vast and untamed lay waiting.

By eleven, Harry had become a boy defined by absence. Absence of care, warmth, encouragement and freedom. Dudley, fat, lazy, cruel and arrogantly spoiled strutted through life with every indulgence he could imagine, leaving Harry constantly humiliated in his shadow. And yet even under the weight of neglect and oppression, a faint spark of resilience and latent power persisted. A quiet ember that would not be fully extinguished, waiting for the day it could no longer be ignored.

Weeks passed before Harry finally got a glimpse of a letter addressed to him. One quiet afternoon when the Dursleys were distracted by Dudley’s endless demands, a soft golden glow caught his eye in the garden. There, tucked among the roots of a sprawling hedge an envelope hovered a few inches above the ground, suspended as if waiting for him. The parchment shimmered faintly, warm to the touch, and the red seal seemed to pulse softly almost like a heartbeat. Harry’s chest tightened, and his fingers trembled as he reached out.

The moment he touched it, the envelope fluttered lightly, almost as if it were alive, and slid gently into his hands, the paper crisp and impossibly smooth beneath his trembling fingers. Inside, elegant handwriting spelled words that made no sense at first.

Dear Mr Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs:

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July….

He read slowly, unsure what it meant but the letters hinted at a world far larger than Privet Drive. Hogwarts. Magic. A place where he might be more than a servant under the stairs. For the first time, the world seemed to hold possibilities beyond fear, punishment, and neglect. A spark of hope that felt fragile and dangerous.

Harry sat alone on the ground in the dirt of the flowerbed, the envelope clutched tightly in his lap. He was hidden behind the hedge, out of sight of the Dursleys. The sun was low in the sky, not yet fully raised, the air damp with the scent of morning dew wet grass, and Harry felt as though the whole world had shrunk down to the small patch of soil beneath him. For a moment, he let himself imagine Hogwarts, a school where according to the letter magical people lived and learned. Was he magic? Harry’s head ran with the possibilities, all the unexplained things that had happened to him or around him. He found is easy to believe. He just knew it was true.

Then a faint familiar sound made him stiffen. From the distance came the scrape of Dudley’s chair and Vernon’s barked commands, they were already at breakfast, loud and careless as always. The date on the letter made him start, he was sure it was already August, and that he had missed the deadline the letter included. He pulled the letter closer and reread the opening line, trying to focus on the words with his poor eyesight, but his thoughts kept spiralling. His birthday, July thirty-first, had come and gone as usual, unmarked and ignored. He should have received this letter then. Hogwarts would have expected his reply already. What if it was too late to go and he missed his chance to leave the Dursleys forever? Anger flared within him at the attempts to keep his letters from him, making him miss the deadline. He took a few breaths and looked around, making sure that nothing unexplained happened with his burst of anger. He whispered apologies to the empty garden, trembling at the thought of failure that was no fault of his own.

Re-reading the letter, there were rules, instructions, lists of supplies but also a sense that this was meant for him alone, a world separate from the one that had trapped him for eleven long years. He read in secret, heart racing, eyes darting nervously to the hedge where Dudley might appear at any moment. The letters seemed to hum with a quiet magic, as if alive, bending slightly toward him when he leaned closer. Harry didn’t understand it, didn’t know how it worked, but he could feel a pull, a promise of escape and of belonging, and the fear of losing it only sharpened its appeal.

He folded the letter carefully, sliding it back into the envelope as though it might crumble if he breathed too hard. He would have to hide it well. The Dursleys could not know he had it; they would snatch it away, tear it up, or worse, pretend it had never existed. His thoughts bounced from one hiding place to another, frantic and jittery like leaves in a storm. The loose floorboard under the cupboard? He had hidden things there before. A broken toy soldier, a marble, a stub of pencil, all long since found and confiscated. The hollow space behind the pipes near the boiler? Too damp he thought, the letter would be ruined. In the lining of his oversized coat? Risky he determined, Petunia sometimes “borrowed” his coat for cleaning rags.

He gripped the envelope tighter, the edges digging into his fingers. He needed somewhere only he could reach, somewhere no one else would even think to look. He went back into the house, silently walking through the empty kitchen where his family had just vacated after their breakfast. He went into his cupboard and tucked it beneath his thin mattress. It would be hidden from sight, shielded from Dudley’s prying eyes and the Dursleys’ endless inspections. Only he could reach it here, and the thought gave him a small flicker of control in a house where he usually had none. He pressed the mattress down gently, listening for footsteps, heart hammering and for a moment imagined the letter safe and waiting, a secret in a world that had never given him one before.

But hiding it was not enough. His mind raced. The letter spoke of lists and supplies. Books, robes, cauldrons and wands, things he couldn’t even imagine holding let alone owning. Panic swelled in his chest like a rising tide as he tried to picture himself walking into a shop with empty pockets. How could he afford anything when the Dursleys begrudged him even scraps of food? Would Hogwarts still take him if he arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back? Would they even let him through the door?

He sat down and pulled the letter back out, conflicted. His fingers ran over the smooth paper again and again, tracing the loops of the handwriting as though the ink itself might whisper an answer. “Professor McGonagall”, the name on the letter stood out like a beacon. Whoever she was, she had sent this to him and was expecting a reply. Maybe if he wrote back and explained that he had only just received it then she would help. Maybe she would understand. But how could he? He had no stamps, no paper, no money and no idea where to send it even if he did. He imagined scrawling a note on a torn scrap of Dudley’s old homework and leaving it on the doorstep, hoping it would somehow fly to her.

The thought of writing back almost felt foolish. Why would someone like her bother with him? He was a boy who wasn’t even allowed a proper meal or bed, let alone a future. No teacher had ever liked him or even listened to him, why would this one be any different? A lump formed in his throat as the fear deepened, pressing down like a heavy hand. What if they decided he wasn’t worth the trouble? What if Hogwarts wasn’t real, or worse, what if they decided he wasn’t wanted after all?

The sunlight was beginning to creep higher, but Harry hardly noticed through the small gaps in his cupboard door. Beneath the panic, a flicker of determination sparked. He would try. He didn’t know how yet, but he would. Even if it meant sneaking scraps of paper from Dudley’s schoolbag or scrawling a message on the back of a cereal box. Even if it meant hiding the note in the garden at night and whispering her name into the darkness, hoping the wind might carry it.

For the first time in his life, there was something in his hands that wasn’t a punishment or a chore. It was a chance. Fragile, impossible, and terrifying, but a chance nonetheless. And he would not let the Dursleys take it from him.

Chapter Text

Harry sat huddled in the cramped darkness of his cupboard under the stairs, the envelope with his Hogwarts letter clutched in his hands. His heart still raced from the discovery, the thrill of possibility tempered by panic over the deadline he might have already missed. The Dursleys were loud in the house. Dudley shouting at his game upstairs, Vernon sat in front of the blaring TV and Petunia loudly gossiping on the telephone. Harry’s mind was racing as he sat silently. He needed to respond. The letter mentioned Professor McGonagall by name. Whoever she was, she had sent this to him and expected a reply. But how could he possibly contact her? He had no stamps, no envelopes, no paper, no idea where to send a message, and no money to buy anything.

Then his eyes fell on the drawing he had stuck to the cupboard wall years ago, a childish sketch of a man, a woman, and a child, with a shaggy black dog, a werewolf, and a rat. The paper was faded and curling at the edges, the colours smudged with age. At first, Harry almost laughed at himself; it was absurd to write a serious letter on something he had drawn for fun. But it was all he had. Carefully, he pulled the paper free, flattening it against his lap. The figures stared back at him, witnesses to his quiet defiance.

Harry found a stub of a crayon wedged between the floorboards and pressed it to the paper. He hesitated, staring at the fantastical figures of the dog and werewolf. Did they make him look childish? Would Professor McGonagall even take him seriously? His stomach twisted, but he had no other choice. He folded the paper like a card, so the drawing faced outward and the blank side was hidden inside, giving him a surface to write on.

He began to write, fingers shaking slightly as he formed words across the paper. His letters were crooked, uneven, and sometimes so large they spilled into one another; the handwriting of a boy unused to putting thoughts to paper.  He explained as best he could, that he had only just received the letter, that the deadline had passed and that he desperately wanted to attend Hogwarts but didn’t know how to reply properly. The crayon scraped softly against the paper, smudging faint traces of black and grey, but he pressed on, pouring all his fear, hope, and determination into the tiny lines of text.

As he wrote Harry felt something strange: the paper beneath his fingers seemed to warm slightly as if it recognized the urgency in his heart. The edges curled upward in a subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer, like it was trying to hold the words more carefully than ordinary paper ever could. When he paused to take a shaky breath, the little black dog in the corner of the drawing seemed to shift its stance, the eyes darker and alert, almost as though it were watching over his secret. The werewolf’s teeth appeared sharper in the dim light. Harry blinked, unsure if it was his imagination, or if the paper itself had begun to respond to his hope.

When he finished, he folded the paper carefully, tucking it into the small space under his thin mattress alongside the Hogwarts letter. It was a fragile, imperfect plan, but it was all he had. As he pressed the envelope and note down into the hidden space, he felt a strange weight lift slightly from his chest. The folded paper seemed to pulse faintly under his fingers, as though acknowledging his intent, a quiet echo of the magic he had glimpsed so often and yet never understood.

Harry sat back, pressing his forehead against the cupboard wall, listening to the sounds of the Dursleys above him. He whispered an apology into the darkness for his fears and failures, promising himself he would try, that he would find a way. For the first time in his life, he felt the spark of something more than mere survival. Something that belonged to him alone.

Hours passed. Harry stayed laying on his bed. Still, unmoving. Planning. As night fell, the house gradually quieted. Vernon’s snores rumbled from the living room, Dudley’s video game had long since died, and Petunia’s whispers ceased. Shadows stretched across the floorboards, and the faint scent of the evening air crept through the tiny gap in the cupboard door. Harry waited, counting each minute, silent prayers and wishes racing through his mind.

Finally, when even the softest creak of the house seemed to have faded, he slid the cupboard door open just enough to peek into the hall. The coast was clear. Heart hammering, he carefully crawled out, holding his written letter. He crouched low, moving silently through the dim hallway, and reached the front door. Stood on the front step outside, hands trembling, he imagined the letter lifting from his fingers, carried on an invisible wind to wherever Professor McGonagall might be.

He whispered her name into the night, leaning close to the cold wood of the door as if the sound itself could carry his words. “Professor McGonagall… please…” he murmured, he held the letter in open palms, imagining the magic taking the message where it needed to go. He didn’t know if it would work, or if anyone would ever see it, but it was the first time he had tried to reach for something of his own making, and that small, fragile attempt gave him courage.

Then as if in response, the envelope seemed to pulse faintly and suddenly, it was gone. Vanished from his hands, as if it had never existed.

Harry froze, staring at the empty space where the letter had been in his open palms. His mouth opened and closed; wonder knotted in his chest. He looked down, then around the moonlit step and front garden path, squinting through the dim silver light. Had it slipped from his fingers? Dropped to the floor? He crouched, peering, imagining every possible place it could have fallen, but there was nothing. The night was silent, still, and the letter was nowhere to be found.

For a long moment, Harry could hardly breathe. The impossible had happened or so it seemed. Could it really have flown, carried by some unseen magic to where it needed to go? Or had he only imagined it, the desperation of hope making him see what wasn’t there? He pressed his palms together, feeling the hollow emptiness, and a thrill of disbelief mixed with wonder surged through him. Somehow, in the quiet of the house and the glow of the moon, a tiny thrill ran through him, fragile and astonishing: it had worked. Harry felt a rush of exhilaration and let out a tiny, silent whoop. For the first time Harry fell asleep with a small smile on his face.

Minerva McGonagall sat in her office, a collection of first-year acceptance letters spread neatly across her desk. She had been reviewing the latest curriculum for transfiguration – the subject she taught at Hogwarts in addition to being Gryffindor Head of House and Assistant Headmistress. Her eyes lingered on a memo from Madam Hooch about broom restrictions for the new intake. At last she was satisfied everything was in order, she set down her quill and allowed herself a quiet breath. With a flick of her wand, she dimmed the lamps one by one, the room settling into shadow.

Just as she reached for the doorknob, a loud pop sounded in the air. Startled, she turned sharply. At the very centre of her desk, a folded scrap of paper blinked into existence with a faint shimmer, it floated softly until it landed on the desk.

Her breath caught. Slowly and cautiously she approached. The outside showed a childish sketch: a man with black hair and circular glasses, a woman with long red hair and bright green eyes, and a boy with the same black hair as the man standing together, flanked by a great black dog, a wolfish creature with bared teeth, and a rat at their feet. The colours were faded and the crayon marks uneven, but Minerva’s hand trembled as she touched it. She knew those figures.

James, Lily and Harry Potter. And beside them, Sirius Black in his Animagus form of a Grim, Remus as a werewolf. She didn’t know who the rat was, maybe a pet they acquired whilst in hiding from he-who-must-not-be-named. Her throat tightened. For a moment she simply stood, unable to breathe, the weight of memory pressing hard against her chest.

With careful hands, she opened the folded paper.  Inside, the rough scrawl of a child spilled across the page. She read each word in silence, her eyes softening with every crooked letter. His apology, his fear, his desperation to belong, it was all there, painfully raw.

By the time she reached his signature, her lips pressed into a thin line. Harry Potter, writing on scraps of old drawings with a broken crayon, begging not to be left behind.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

I only just found your letter today. I’m really sorry. I hope I’m not too late.

I do want to come to Hogwarts. I want to come more than anything ever. I don’t

know how to send letters the proper way. I don’t have any stamps or an envelope or

money to buy things. I hope this still reaches you somehow.

If I missed it and you can’t take me anymore then I understand  but please could

you tell me if there is still a chance? I am sorry I wasn’t allowed to open the first

letters you sent.

Thank you for writing to me.

From,
Harry. J.  Potter

Minerva lowered herself slowly into her chair, the paper trembling faintly in her grasp. She had not wept in many years, but the sting in her eyes was sharp, undeniable. “This won’t do,” she whispered into the empty room. “This won’t do at all.” Her hand hovered over the Floo powder. Something felt wrong, the letter’s tone, the scrap paper, the apology of a boy who had clearly learned to beg for permission. She swallowed the unease, telling herself Albus would have an explanation, though her heart wasn’t convinced. She tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the grate, emerald flames roaring to life.

“Headmasters office” she called firmly, stepping into the green glow.

Moments later, she was in the Headmaster’s circular office. Dumbledore looked up from behind his desk, surprise flickering across his features. “Minerva?” he asked. “At this hour?” She strode forward, the letter clutched tightly in her hand. Without a word, she placed it before him.  Dumbledore’s eyes widened slightly. He picked up the paper, turning it over, studying both the words and the faded sketch. His expression, usually so serenely unreadable, grew solemn.

“It seems,” Minerva said, her voice taut with emotion, “that young Mr Potter has sent us his reply. And I think you’ll agree, Albus… it deserves our attention.”

The candles in Dumbledore’s office burned low, wax pooling in quiet rivulets that caught the blue light of the moon. The castle was asleep, but he was not. He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on the fire that threw long shadows across the ancient stone walls.

The letter lay open before him, Harry Potter’s clumsy scrawl, the broken child’s plea. He had read it twice, then once more, searching not for the words themselves, but for the potential between them. Desperation. Isolation. Submission. These were not failings; they were necessary ingredients.

McGonagall’s arrival had been expected, though not so swiftly. Her sentimentality was her greatest weakness. She would see only the cruelty of the Dursleys, not the design. She would not understand that pain tempered the will, and that the boy must be malleable when the time came.

He leaned back, the light glinting in his half-moon glasses. “The world adores its martyrs,” he murmured to the empty air. “But martyrs are seldom born, they are made.”

His eyes flicked to a set of wards hovering faintly in the air, a constellation of golden runes that pulsed in rhythm with another heartbeat far away. The Potters’ stasis held strong. He had checked it earlier that night. Their survival was a complication, but a manageable one. The world believed them dead, and that was enough.

For a moment, doubt threatened to whisper through his mind, a faint echo of the boy’s frightened handwriting, but he smothered it. Harry’s power was too great. Too old. The child carried the combined bloodlines of Gryffindor, Peverell, and Potter, each threaded with magic that even Dumbledore had once feared to touch.

“He must never learn what he is,” he whispered. “Not until I decide.”

The flames flickered blue again, and in their shimmer he almost fancied he saw the glint of familiar green eyes. He closed the letter, placed it gently in the fire, and watched it burn to ash.

When the last ember faded, Albus Dumbledore smiled, thin and tired, but satisfied. Everything was still under control.

For now.

Chapter Text

The house at Number Four was silent, its windows black against the early morning sky. Only the faintest stirrings of dawn brushed the horizon, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Inside his cupboard, Harry lay wide awake. His heart beating fast in the stillness. He hadn’t slept much at all since sending his desperate letter, and now a strange certainty thrummed in his chest, something was going to happen.

The quiet was broken by the creak of the front door. It didn’t slam, or rattle, or wake the house, it was just a soft and deliberate sound, as though someone enormous had tried very hard to be gentle. Harry sat up, clutching his knees to his chest and listening. Heavy, careful footsteps padded across the hallway floor, stopping outside the cupboard.

The door slowly opening, letting the dim light spill in.

Harry blinked against the glow of the streetlamps filtering through the open door, and there, filling the space was a large man. The man was colossal, well over twice Harry’s height, with shoulders so broad they surpassed the doorframe. His hair was a wild mane of tangled black curls, falling past his shoulders like he’d never bothered with a comb in his life. A beard just as thick and unruly covered most of his face, shot through with crumbs and bits of leaf as though it collected whatever the wind or his supper offered.

But his eyes were what stopped Harry. They were dark, shiny, and soft, like wet stones in a riverbed. They didn’t match the roughness of the rest of him. They looked kind.

He wore a coat that might once have been brown but was now patched with so many shades of leather and suede it resembled a stitched-together quilt. The pockets bulged oddly, as if half the contents of a hardware shop, a tea set and perhaps a small herd of creatures lived inside. His boots, each as long as Harry’s arm, left faint dents in the hallway floorboards when he stepped forward.

“Harry Potter?” the man whispered, his rumbling voice surprisingly gentle for someone who looked like he could lift the whole staircase with one hand.

Harry nodded, unable to speak.

“Thank Merlin,” the giant man muttered, as though a great weight had lifted. “Name’s Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of Keys at Hogwarts. Been sent fer yeh by the professors. Time to come with me.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. His letter, it had worked. Somehow, impossibly, it had reached them. His heart soared.

Hagrid bent down, one massive hand outstretched to help Harry to his feet. “We’ll not be wakin’ the Muggles. Dumbledore an’ Professor McGonagall thought best we keep this quiet, seein’ how they’ve been keepin’ things from yeh.” His eyes softened as they glanced down Harry’s small frame, a flicker of sorrow in them, but his smile returned quickly. “Don’t need nothin’ from here. We’ll get yeh sorted proper in Diagon Alley.”

Harry stepped out of the cupboard on shaky legs, his oversized clothes hanging off him like rags. He didn’t look back, not at the cupboard, not at the hall, not at the house that had never been home. The only thing he carried was himself. Not a flicker of sadness or doubt entered his mind, he left with a quiet confidence that everything was now going to be okay.

Hagrid straightened, towering in the small hallway, then ducked low to lead Harry to the door. Together they slipped out into the cool morning air. The garden was silvered with dew, the street quiet and still. Harry shivered, though it wasn’t from the cold.

“Got a long day ahead of us,” Hagrid said gently, as if to steady him. “Best get started.”

As they walked down Privet Drive, Harry saw the reflection of the house in Vernon’s Car. It loomed in silence, the Dursleys asleep and unaware. It felt like a shadow he was finally stepping out of, one that would never quite touch him the same way again. Beside him, Hagrid strode forward, each step certain and strong, as if he was carrying Harry into a world that had been waiting for him all along.

The sky was still a deep pre-dawn blue, the streetlamps casting weak pools of orange light on the pavement. Harry clutched the pocket of Hagrid’s oversized coat, unable to let go for fear of this not being real or Hagrid disappearing without him. He didn’t speak at first. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder as though expecting Uncle Vernon to come storming out after them. Hagrid noticed, though he pretended not to. There was a tightness in his chest he hadn't felt in years, a mix of anger and disbelief that anyone could look at the small, silent boy beside him and choose to treat him like something that ought to be hidden.

They didn’t take the Knight Bus or Floo. Instead, Hagrid steered Harry toward the edge of town, where the houses faded and the roads became winder and less populated. Harry was out of breathe from the exertion.  They stopped at a quiet country road where a shabby motorbike with an even shabbier side cart sat waiting under a hedgerow, disguised beneath a pale shimmer of magic only Hagrid could see through. Harry’s eyes widened just slightly, and Hagrid caught the flicker of curiosity through the timidity. Good, he thought. There’s still a spark under all that fear. He lifted Harry into the side cart first, careful as if placing a bird’s egg, then climbed on the chassis, glancing protectively at the boy.

As they rose above the hedges and the rooftops, Harry clung to the handlebars, knuckles white but silent. Eyes wide at the motorbike that was flying! The wind tugged at his hair, stinging his eyes, but he didn’t cry out or laugh or gasp, just endured, as though he’d learned that reactions drew punishment. Hagrid watched him sidelong, guilt gnawing at him. Dumbledore had trusted the Muggles to keep Harry safe, but safe wasn’t the same as cared for. If McGonagall had seen this quiet, shivering scrap of a boy, she’d have transformed herself into her tabby cat form and clawed through the Dursleys’ front door with claws extended.

After a long stretch of silence, Harry finally spoke, barely audible over the wind. “Are you… sure they want me at Hogwarts? Even though I’m late?” His voice was thin, uncertain, and it wasn’t the sort of worry any wizard raised child would have voiced. Hagrid’s heart twisted. He wanted to roar out a promise, to tell the sky and the stars and every blasted Dursley who’d ever scowled at Harry that he was wanted more than anyone in a hundred years, but Harry clearly flinched from loudness, so he kept his voice low and steady.

“Want yeh? Course they do,” Hagrid said. “Yer place is waitin’, been waitin’ since the day yeh were born. Nothin’ in the world would stop yeh goin’ now.” Harry didn’t answer, but some of the tension left his shoulders and a very small smile formed on his face. Hagrid felt it like a small victory.

They touched down in a backstreet behind the Leaky Cauldron in London just as the first hints of dawn slipped across the sky. The pub was still shuttered, the sign creaking faintly on its bracket. Harry stayed close to Hagrid as they approached, his head down, feet careful on the uneven cobbles. Hagrid slowed his steps, letting Harry set the pace, pretending not to notice how the boy kept glancing at the windows and doorways like he expected to be thrown back out at any moment.

Despite the closed shutters, the establishment never closed and was always open. the Leaky Cauldron was dim and still, the smell of pipe smoke and soot lingering in the air. No one was in the bar, apart from the landlord. Tom the landlord, already wiping down the bar despite the hour, froze when he caught sight of Harry, and his eyes went straight to the lightening shape scar on the boys forehead. They then darted briefly to Hagrid with a thousand questions he didn’t voice. Harry shrank instinctively behind Hagrid’s coat. Hagrid rested one enormous hand gently on the boy’s back, steering him forward with surprising gentleness. As Tom gave a soft, stunned greeting, Hagrid thought, not for the first time, that the wizarding world had no idea what sort of Harry Potter it was about to meet, and that they’d all best learn to tread carefully, because someone had failed this boy before, and he’d be damned if it happened again.

Hagrid led Harry through a dim back room of the Leaky Cauldron and out into a narrow brick courtyard. The walls were high and uneven, dark green ivy climbing up around the bricks. Harry glanced at the solid wall ahead, confused. Hagrid gave him a small, almost secretive smile and raised a pink umbrella he produced from one of many coat pockets. He counted the bricks under his breath, “Three up… two across…”, then tapped a particular spot with the tip of the umbrella. The sound was soft but sharp in the silence.

Harry stared.

The bricks trembled and then, slowly, they began to shift. One pulled back, another slid aside, and the wall folded itself inward like something waking from sleep. A widening archway formed, revealing a long cobbled street beyond. Harry took an involuntary step forward, eyes wide.

Harry’s breath caught. He didn’t speak, couldn’t, not with his heart climbing into his throat and his mind struggling to believe any of it was real. “Diagon Alley,” Hagrid said quietly, stepping through the arch and gesturing for Harry to follow. “Bit early yet for the shops to be open proper. Tha’s no bad thing, easier on yeh first time.”

Harry crossed the threshold like he was afraid the ground might vanish beneath him. The world he stepped into felt untouched, waiting. Harry looked around in wonder. Everything seemed strange and impossible, like he’d stepped into a drawing that had come to life.

The shops were all odd shapes and sizes, leaning together like they were whispering secrets, and even though most of them were closed, he could see cauldrons stacked in windows and brooms hanging from hooks as if someone might grab one any minute. The stones under his feet were uneven and old, nothing was loud or moving much, but it still felt… awake. For the first time ever, Harry had the sudden, dizzy thought that maybe he belonged somewhere.

Hagrid started down the street at a slow, steady pace, making sure Harry could keep up. “First stop,” he rumbled, “is Gringotts. Got business there for Dumbledore, and yeh’ve business too, though yeh don’t know it yet.” Harry looked up sharply at him, startled. “Business? Me?”

Hagrid just gave a mysterious grunt that might’ve been agreement. They walked on, the silence of the alley all around them, broken only by the soft thud of Hagrid’s boots and Harry’s lighter steps beside him. And as they made their way toward the gleaming white shape at the far end of the street, Harry kept looking from door to door, window to window, trying to drink in every quiet, impossible inch of it.

Chapter Text

Gringotts towered over the other buildings like it had grown there before the rest of the street even existed. Its white stone caught the early light, and the bronze doors at the entrance gleamed faintly. Harry swallowed, his stomach tight and fluttery. Hagrid gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. “Come on then,” he said quietly. “Nothin’ to be scared of.”

That was easy to say when you were half-giant.

Inside, the bank felt colder than the morning air outside. Tall pillars lined the entrance hall and long counters stretched out on either side. Goblins perched on high stools, quills scratching parchment, eyes sharp and dark and not missing anything. Harry tried not to stare, but he'd never seen creatures like them. Long fingers, clever, pointed faces, and expressions that made him feel as though they were measuring his worth with a glance.

One of them, dressed in dark, formal robes with silver cuffs, hopped down from a polished stool and approached. His eyes flicked to Harry, then to Hagrid, then to the small key clutched in Hagrid’s hand. “Key,” the goblin said, holding out his palm.

Hagrid cleared his throat and handed it over carefully. “Got it from Professor Dumbledore. Said it were for Harry’s vault.”

The goblin’s expression tightened, his gaze moving from the key to Harry’s face. “Protocol states the owner must verify identity before any vault access,” he said coolly.

Hagrid shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “This is Harry Potter.”

Harry could feel the weight of every goblin gaze in the room, prickling at his neck. The goblin inspecting the key didn’t look impressed.

“A name is not proof,” he said. “Identity must be confirmed properly. Especially when keys are passed through... third parties.”

Harry’s fingers curled in his sleeves. He wished he had something to do with his hands, something to hide behind. Another goblin appeared beside the first, taller, older-looking, with thin silver spectacles perched on his nose. He spoke in a voice like cut glass. “I am Griphook, account manager for the Noble House of Potter. The matter will be handled immediately.”

He turned on his heel and gestured for them to follow. Harry glanced at Hagrid, who gave him a nod, and hurried after the goblin through a tall ironwork arch. They passed rows of doors and quiet halls with floors so polished they almost shone. Griphook stopped at a heavy wooden door carved with twisting runes. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The office beyond made Harry freeze on the threshold.

The walls were lined with weaponry, silver daggers, wicked-looking swords, polished shields engraved with crest-like designs. In the middle of the room stood a massive mahogany desk, dark and old. Atop it sat a crystal bowl and a short dagger with a ruby set into the hilt.

Harry’s mouth went dry.

Griphook took his place behind the desk and gestured to two chairs. “Sit. The verification will be brief.”

Hagrid lowered himself carefully into one chair, which creaked in protest. Harry hovered before sitting, his legs stiff. Griphook’s dark eyes flicked to him. “The test will confirm your bloodline and magical status. It is necessary.”

Harry’s palms were damp. “And if it… doesn’t?” The goblin’s expression did not soften. “Then you will not enter the vault.”

Harry’s throat closed. He didn’t ask the other question, what if it said he wasn’t magical at all? Would they just send him back to his relatives like nothing had ever happened?

Griphook set the ruby-handled dagger gently beside the crystal bowl. “If you wish privacy,” he said softly, looking at Harry with a puzzled look, “the half-giant may wait outside.”

Harry jolted, shaking his head almost before Griphook finished speaking. “No. I want Hagrid to stay.”

Hagrid gave him a small, proud nod, like he understood exactly what Harry hadn’t said out loud.

Griphook inclined his head once. “Very well. Hold out your hand.”

Harry did. Or at least, he tried to. His fingers trembled despite him clenching them into a fist. He forced them to unclench and lifted his hand toward the polished desk. The dagger lay so close he could see his own wide eyes reflected in the ruby’s surface.

He told himself to breathe. He’d got this far. Whatever happened next, at least he’d tried.

“It will sting,” the goblin said, not unkindly, “but only for a moment.”

The dagger’s edge kissed his skin, it was quick and precise. Harry sucked in a breath through his teeth as a thin line of red welled up. Griphook angled Harry’s hand over the crystal bowl, counting under his breath. “One… two… three…”

The drops fell soundlessly, they began to swirl across the bottom of the crystal bowl, curling in slow, deliberate circles as though stirred by something unseen. “Four… five… six… seven.”

With a murmured word in a language Harry didn’t recognise, Griphook tapped the cut with the flat of the blade. The skin sealed instantly, not even a mark left behind. Harry blinked, unsure if he was more startled by the blood or by how quickly it had vanished.

The goblin stepped back and began to chant, it was low and rhythmic, the sound vibrating faintly in the air like the hum of distant machinery. The words prickled along Harry’s spine. The liquid in the bowl shimmered, darkening briefly before clearing again, and a roll of parchment rose from a drawer in the desk as though tugged by invisible strings. It floated up and then settled gently onto the polished wood. Ink bled across the surface in curling letters, forming faster than Harry could read. Griphook leaned forward, and read out loud:

Name: Harry James Potter

Title: Most Ancient and Most Noble Heir

Heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble
— House of Godric Gryffindor
— House of Peverell
— House of Potter
— House of Black

Harry just stared. The words sounded like they belonged to someone else entirely, some prince in a storybook. The air felt thicker somehow, like the room was holding its breath with him. Beside him, Hagrid let out a low grunt of surprise.

Griphook’s expression barely changed, but his eyes were sharp and calculating as they flicked from the parchment to Harry. “You are not the active lord of any of these lines,” he said, tone pointed but factual. “Titles remain unclaimed.”

Harry nodded without really understanding. He didn’t know about lords or houses or inheritance, he could barely wrap his head around having a vault. Griphook rolled up the parchment with careful fingers. “This confirms your blood lineage and right of access. Your vault may now be opened.”

Harry swallowed and glanced at Hagrid. The half-giant gave him a reassuring nod, though his eyes still held that troubled, thoughtful crease. Whatever any of it meant, at least he didn’t have to go back.

Chapter Text

Griphook led Harry and Hagrid through the grand marble foyer of Gringotts, his long, precise fingers trailing along the polished surfaces as he moved. “Stay close,” he said sharply, eyes flicking between them, “and don’t dawdle.”

They stepped into a shadowy tunnel and Harry caught sight of a small cart waiting on iron rails. “In here,” Griphook said, gesturing to the cart. It was simple, wooden, with a low railing, and looked far too small to hold a giant like Hagrid comfortably. Hagrid climbed in first, ruffling Harry’s hair as he helped him step onto the narrow seat.

The cart lurched forward, moving smoothly but quickly along the rails. The tunnel walls whizzed past in a blur of stone, dimly lit by glowing sconces. Harry gripped the side of the cart, heart thumping, as the sound of distant grinding metal and echoes of other carts made the underground feel enormous and alive. “How far down does this go?” he asked, voice small.

“Far enough,” Griphook said, his tone clipped, eyes forward. “Deep enough that most humans never see. Keeps the treasures safe.” The cart clattered over a small junction, picking up speed, then slowed again as it approached a massive, shadowed door which was set apart from the rest. “This one’s yours,” Griphook said, his voice softer now, almost reluctantly.

Harry’s stomach lurched with a mix of nerves and excitement as he stared at the vault door. His name was engraved across the top, neat and official. “Mine?” he whispered. Hagrid nodded, giving a small, encouraging grin.

The key felt impossibly heavy in Harry’s hand as he inserted it. The lock clicked, deep and echoing, and the door swung open with a slow, impressive groan. Inside, the vault was not enormous, but it was enough to make Harry’s mouth fall open. Gold coins, silver sickles, and bronze knuts gleamed in soft piles, lighting up Harry’s face. Griphook’s sharp eyes flicked to Harry as he spoke, voice precise and formal. “This is your Trust Vault. It replenishes to fifty thousand Galleons each year, drawn from the main Potter vault.”

Harry reached out, lifting a coin between his fingers, marvelling at the weight and shine. For the first time, he felt the thrill of having something truly his own, no one could take it, no one could stop him.

Griphook leaned over the edge of the vault, eyeing Harry. “Right, the coins. The gold ones are Galleons, and are the equivalent of thirty pounds each. Sickles, the silver coins are five pounds each. Knuts, the small bronze ones are one pound.” Harry tried to imagine thirty pounds in his head, it was more than he’d ever seen in his life.

Harry blinked. “So… fifty thousand Galleons a year… that’s… loads of money?”

“It is acceptable, yes” Griphook said sharply. “Enough for school and what you need. Spend it wisely.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “Wow…”

Hagrid rumbled beside him, shaking his head. “That’s a lotta chocolate frogs, Harry”.

Griphook reached down into the vault and lifted a small, fabric pouch, holding it out to Harry. “Fill it as you need,” he said curtly, his black eyes still watching him. Harry took it carefully, feeling the weight of potential in his hands. Hagrid leaned closer, a grin tugging at his face. “Start with ‘bout fifty Galleons, Harry, and a handful of Sickles and Knuts,” he whispered. “Enough to get yer started at school, buy what you need without runnin’ out too quick.” Harry nodded, heart pounding as he began scooping coins into the pouch, the sound of metal clinking making the moment feel impossibly real.

The cart rumbled back up the tunnel, carrying Harry and Hagrid out of the depths of Gringotts. When they emerged into Diagon Alley, the street was awake, clusters of early shoppers bustled past, carrying parcels and peering into windows, and the shop doors were open and inviting. Hagrid gave a small nod toward a nearby café. “Best get some breakfast first,” he said. Harry’s stomach rumbled, and he hesitated, then asked, “Er.. Hagrid, can I… ask you some things while we eat, please?”

Harry and Hagrid settled at a small table tucked into a quiet corner at the back of the café, away from the growing bustle of Diagon Alley. A neatly folded menu was placed in front of Harry, and he stared at it like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. He had never eaten out before, never had the luxury of choosing food for himself. Hagrid leaned back in his chair, his broad frame filling the space, and gave Harry a reassuring smile. “Order whatever yeh want, Harry. My treat. Don’t hold back.”

Harry hesitated, glancing down at the menu, then finally pointed. “Er… a small English breakfast, please. And… an orange juice.” Hagrid relayed their order to the waitress that came over.

As they waited, Hagrid’s eyes softened. “Listen,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “if there’s anything you’ve been wonderin’ about… anything at all… you can ask me. Nothing’s too daft.”

Harry fiddled with his napkin, swallowing nervously. After a moment, he whispered, “Why… why did I not know about magic? Where are my parents… are they really… dead?”

Hagrid’s gaze dropped for a moment, heavy with memory, before he lifted his eyes to Harry. “I’ll tell yeh everything, Harry. I’ll explain as much as I can.” He gave a small, encouraging nod, letting Harry know that his questions were safe. The waitress brought over their order, and left with a small smile at Harry.

Hagrid stirred his tea slowly, then looked across at Harry, his expression serious but gentle. “Alright, Harry… listen carefully. Yer parents… they were killed on Halloween night, when yeh were just a wee baby.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, his fork trembling in his hand.

“There was… a dark wizard,” Hagrid continued, his voice low so no one nearby could overhear. “A powerful, evil man who wanted to take over the world, wanted to hurt yer parents, and tried to kill yeh too. No one really knows why, but… somethin’ happened. When he tried to curse yeh, the magic… it rebounded. Hit him instead. Killed him. Left yeh… well, left yeh alive.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. “He couldn’t.. kill me?”

Hagrid nodded, eyes softening. “Aye. I bet that every Witch and Wizard knows yer name, Harry. Famous in the wizarding world. Yeh saved everyone, even though yeh were just a baby. After that… yeh had to be kept safe. Dumbledore sent yeh to live with the only family left, yer relatives in the Muggle world. Easier to hide yeh there… safer. None of the Dark Lord’s followers could find yeh.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to take it all in. His heart pounded with a mix of grief, disbelief, and a strange, growing sense of confusion. “Wait… why… why would anyone make me famous? I was just a baby… I don’t understand.”

Hagrid leaned back slightly, giving him a soft, patient smile. “Aye, I know it’s hard to get yer head round it, Harry. But what happened that night… the curse, it didn’t just protect yeh. It… well, it stopped him. Everyone in the wizarding world knows what that dark wizard could’ve done, and how yeh survived. That’s why yer famous… not for what yeh did, mind, but for what happened to yeh. For survivin’ when no one else could. Not one person has ever survived the curse, except you, it’s called the killin’ curse”

Harry frowned, still trying to grasp it. “So… people know my name… because of what happened to me… when I couldn’t even remember it?”

“Exactly,” Hagrid said gently, patting his shoulder. “But don’t worry, Harry. Yeh’re safe now, and finally… back where yeh truly belong.”

Harry poked at his toast, eyes downcast. “Why… why did no one ever come to check on me? To see if I was… safe?” His voice was small, almost a whisper.

Hagrid’s face tightened, a shadow crossing his usually warm expression. He swallowed hard and looked away, running a hand over his massive beard. “I… I don’ know, Harry. No one knew where you were placed, ‘cept the headmaster. They… they couldn’t find you, and I…” His voice faltered, thick with something he didn’t want to say. “I never… I never knew either.”

Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady the nervous flutter in his chest. “So… can we go get all my stuff for Hogwarts? And… do I have to go back to… them first?” His voice wavered, the thought of returning to the Dursleys making his stomach twist. Hagrid leaned across the table, his eyes soft but firm. “Nah, Harry. Yeh don’ have to go back if yeh don’ want. I’ll sort it all out for yeh. We’ll get your robes, books, wand… all of it. Safe and proper, before yer first day.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed, a smile tugging at his face for the first time in years. “Really? I… I don’t have to go back?”

“Not a chance,” Hagrid said with a reassuring nod. “We’ll get everything ready. Just yer, me, and a bit o’ Diagon Alley magic.”

Harry felt a warm rush of relief and excitement.

Harry followed Hagrid through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, his eyes wide at the crowds and the chaos of magical commerce. Wizards and witches bustled past, carrying parcels, chatting loudly, and glancing at the boy with curiosity that made his ears burn. Harry felt small and exposed in the middle of it all, a stranger in a world he’d only just glimpsed.

“Keep close, Harry,” Hagrid rumbled, his hand resting protectively on Harry’s shoulder. “An’ don’ let anyone crowd yeh. Yer new, so some folk might be curious. Best we stick to the list.”

Their first stop was Eeylops Owl Emporium, where Harry chose a snowy owl Hagrid suggested he call Hedwig. Next, they went to Flourish and Blotts for textbooks, Slug & Jiggers Apothecary for potion ingredients, and Potage’s Cauldron Shop, where Harry picked a small pewter cauldron. At each stop, Hagrid stayed close, brushing aside curious onlookers while letting Harry explore and marvel at the magical items. He could hardly contain his excitement, imagining himself at Hogwarts learning spells, brewing potions, and caring for his owl.

They also visited Madam Malkin’s for his Hogwarts robes and Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment for a telescope. With trunk, textbooks, cauldron, potion supplies, Hedwig, robes, and telescope all accounted for, Hagrid carried the bulk of their haul as they moved through Diagon Alley, his wand the last thing on his school list unaccounted for.

Every passerby stopped in their tracks, whispering and craning their necks, eyes wide as though a long-lost prodigy or a famous wizard had just walked past. Harry felt their gaze keenly, but Hagrid’s steady presence gave him the courage to keep moving through the bustling street, the weight of the world’s curiosity pressing in on him for the first time.

Finally, they arrived at Ollivanders, the narrow shop squeezed between two taller buildings. The air inside smelled faintly of wood polish and dust, and countless wand boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling.

Mr. Ollivander emerged from the shadows between the towering shelves of wand boxes, his pale eyes glinting unnaturally behind thin spectacles. He didn’t smile; instead, he studied Harry with a sharp, almost piercing intensity. “Ah… yes… Mr Potter, I wondered when I’d be seeing you” he murmured, his voice low and precise, carrying a strange echo in the quiet shop. Harry shivered, feeling as though the wandmaker could see into his very thoughts.

Ollivander paused, his pale eyes glinting behind thin spectacles as he glanced at Harry. “Ah… curious,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Your parents… yes. James Potter, very fine wand work, nimble and quick. Lily… delicate and precise, strong in protective charms. Both came to me for their wands many years ago.” He tapped his long fingers together, a faint smile flickering.

The shop felt alive. Wands rattled softly on their shelves, some tilting toward Harry, others recoiling as if to warn him away. Each wand Ollivander handed him seemed to test him, some felt too stiff, some too light, some strange in ways he could not describe. Harry could feel them judging him, searching for compatibility. The pile of discarded wands grew higher and higher, as did Harry’s anxiety that he wouldn’t find a wand that suited him. Then, finally, Ollivander reached high for a slender wand and passed it to him. The moment Harry’s fingers closed around it, a surge of warmth exploded through his hand, and a brilliant, crackling spark leapt from the tip, sizzling in the air like a bolt of living lightning

“Ah… curious… very curious, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander whispered, leaning so close that Harry could smell the faint scent of dust and polished wood. “Eleven inches. Holly. Phoenix feather core… One of only two. Its brother wand… well, that it gave you that scar.” He studied Harry with a strange, almost unsettling intensity. “The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. And it has chosen you. That is… rare. Remarkable.”

A sharp tingle ran across Harry’s forehead, faint but undeniable, and he gasped. It was as if the wand had touched something buried deep inside him, a memory or a magic he could not name. The feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only a faint heat behind. Ollivander’s pale eyes flickered, almost knowingly, a shadow of curiosity crossing his expression. “Yes… interesting indeed. That mark… there is a connection, though I cannot say how fully… not yet.”

Ollivander told him it was seven Galleons, and Harry, uneasy under the wandmaker’s intense gaze, reached into his pouch, counted out the coins carefully, and handed them over.

After leaving Ollivanders, Hagrid led Harry down a quiet side street to a small, old-fashioned optician tucked between two larger shops. Harry shuffled behind him, still clutching his wand tightly. Inside, the optician, a thin, pale man beckoned Harry forward. “Come now, Mr. Potter. Let’s see how well you see,” he said softly, his voice calm but serious.

Harry squinted at the floating letters and symbols the optician held before him. “I… I can barely see the top line,” he admitted, blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes.

The optician frowned slightly and lowered the charts. “Hmm… your eyesight is much weaker than expected for a boy your age,” he said gently. “Tell me, Harry… have you always struggled to see? Have you… always had enough to eat?” His eyes softened as he spoke, clearly worried.

Harry’s stomach twisted. He shook his head and looked away. Hagrid’s massive hand fell on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. His face was grim, eyes darkening with hurt. “Blimey… Harry… not knowin’ yeh couldn’t see properly, not eatin’ right… that’s not right, that’s—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard, trying to keep his anger from breaking the moment.

The optician nodded, a quiet understanding in his gaze. “We can fix the eyesight, Mr. Potter. Proper glasses will help immediately, and you’ll see the world clearly for the first time.” He carefully fitted Harry with small, round lenses, adjusting them until Harry could see sharply.

When Harry looked around, the world snapped into perfect focus. Every brick, sign, and glimmer of gold from Gringotts was crisp and bright. He blinked in awe. “I… I can see properly… everything looks… normal,” he whispered.

Hagrid crouched down slightly to meet Harry’s eyes. “Aye… that’s better, that’s right. Never should’ve let yer eyes go so long like that. Poor lad…” He gave Harry’s shoulder a firm squeeze, voice thick with feeling.

Harry smiled faintly, touched by Hagrid’s concern. “Thanks, Hagrid… it’s… amazing.”

Hagrid gently guided Harry back through the bustling streets, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Harry, best be safe while I sort this out,” he murmured. They slipped quietly into the Leaky Cauldron, where Tom, behind the bar, gave Harry a warm nod and a reassuring smile. “Stay put here, lad. I’ll keep an eye on you,” Hagrid said, tucking Harry into a quiet corner booth. “Now… I’ll just send word to Dumbledore proper, let him know yeh won’t be headin’ back to your Aunt an’ Uncles before school.” Harry settled into the booth, feeling both nervous and safe as Hagrid disappeared briefly to carry out the important task.

Chapter Text

Hagrid stood in the back room of the Leaky Cauldron, sweeping a handful of floo powder into the fireplace. “Dumbledore!” he bellowed, as green flames roared to life. The headmaster’s face appeared in the swirling fire, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles, a faint frown creasing his brow.

“Good evening, Hagrid,” Dumbledore said smoothly, though there was a sharpness beneath his calm tone. “I trust Harry is well?”

“Aye, sir. He’s fine,” Hagrid grunted. “But he’s not goin’ back to the Dursleys before school. I’ll be takin’ care of that, yeh understand?”

Dumbledore’s expression shifted into one of surprise, then mild reproach. “Hagrid… I cannot simply override the guardians’ arrangements. There are rules, precedents—”

“Rules won’t keep him safe, sir! Not with them!” Hagrid’s voice rumbled, echoing around the room. “I’ve seen how they treat him. He’s never had a proper meal or a proper day in his life. He’s safer with me, here in Diagon Alley, till school starts.”

Dumbledore’s lips pressed into a thin line, considering the giant’s words. “I see… very well. You may have your way, Hagrid, though I must insist it be temporary. You may either keep him here, at the Leaky Cauldron, under your care until September first, or bring him to Hogwarts immediately.”

Hagrid nodded slowly, shoulders relaxing just slightly. “I’ll speak to Harry, sir. Let him decide what he wants. But he’s stayin’ safe till then, I promise ye.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling once more. “I trust your judgment, Hagrid… as always.” The flames dimmed, and the headmaster’s face receded from the fire, leaving only a warm glow in the hearth. Hagrid turned back to Harry, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Come on, Harry… we’ve got somethin’ to talk about.”

Harry thought it over. The idea of stepping straight into Hogwarts, facing a whole new world all at once felt too much. “I… I think I want to stay here for a bit longer,” he murmured. Hagrid’s smile softened, understanding immediately.

“Reckon that’s sensible, Harry,” Hagrid said gently, guiding him back toward the warm, familiar glow of the Leaky Cauldron. They found a seat at an unoccupied table and he met Harry’s gaze. “An’ yeh know, Harry, it’ll be nice for yeh to ride the Hogwarts Express for the first time, meet some mates an’ get used to things before school proper starts.”

Harry exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. Sitting at the quiet corner table, he watched the street outside, imagining the shops and alleyways he hadn’t yet explored. The promise of magic, adventure, and belonging shimmered just beyond the doorway, but for now, he let himself stay grounded, soaking in the small comforts of the familiar and planning the next steps of his new life. That afternoon, with Hagrid by his side, Harry ventured back into Diagon Alley where he picked out clothes and toiletries for himself as he had left his relatives with nothing, soft pyjamas for chilly nights, trousers and shirts that actually fit, and a jumper with a broomstick pattern that made him grin. For the first time, he could choose what he wanted to wear, and it felt strange and wonderful to have things that were truly his. He paused by a shop window, spotting a little basket of treats, and thought of Hedwig, maybe he could get her some treats or a nice mouse, something just for her.

Harry spent his mornings slowly waking up in a proper, warm bed for the first time in his life. Each day brought three full meals, something he had never truly known, and he discovered a quiet joy in tasting foods he hadn’t been allowed before.

Afternoons were filled with study and preparation: Harry pored over his textbooks, practising simple spells in his imagination, carefully reading about magical creatures, potions, and charms. When the day grew brighter and the shops in Diagon Alley opened, he would explore with Hagrid or on his own, fascinated by every curious item, from shimmering cauldrons to jars of strange powders. On several trips back to Flourish and Blotts, he bought a few additional books that caught his eye: The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century—books he was mentioned in—Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, Hogwarts, A History, Keeping the Secret: Your First Days with a Wand, Beedle and the Bard – a book of children’s folklore stories, Quidditch Through the Ages, and Modern Magical History. He enjoyed reading them at bedtime or alongside his meals, Hagrid leaving him to it most of the time, though always nearby if Harry needed him, and Tom keeping a watchful eye in the background to make sure he was safe.

Every day, without fail, he treated himself to an ice cream from Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, the owner had a habit of piling extra-large sundaes high with chocolate, sprinkles, and whipped cream, giving Harry a cheeky wink as he handed them over. He saw children his own age, laughing with their parents as they carried parcels and peered into shop windows. They seemed so confident, so at ease in the world around them. Harry felt a tight knot in his stomach, wondering if he would ever fit in at Hogwarts, or if he would spend the whole year on the edge, unable to make friends. The thought made him shuffle his feet and glance down at the cobblestones, wishing he knew how it would all turn out.

Harry awoke in his warm bed, the excitement buzzing in his chest almost too much to bear. Today was September 1^st, the day he would leave the Leaky Cauldron and travel to Hogwarts for the very first time.  After breakfast, Hagrid and Harry gave Tom a cheerful wave and headed outside. Outside, the street was beginning to fill with early shoppers, but Hagrid led Harry to the doorway of the Leaky Cauldron and found a muggle taxi waiting by the curb. The driver barely blinked at Hagrid’s size as they loaded the trunk and Hedwig’s cage into the boot. Harry climbed in beside Hagrid, the car lurching forward into the morning traffic.

“Don’ worry, Harry,” Hagrid said, his large hand resting on the back of the seat. “We’ll be at King’s Cross before ye know it. Keep yer wits about yeh, and ye’ll be fine. Yer first year’s startin’ proper today, an’ ye might even meet some other first years on the train.”

They reached the entrance to King’s Cross, the bustle of early travellers swirling around them. Hagrid stopped beside the barrier between platforms nine and ten and crouched down to Harry’s level. “Now, this here’s the tricky bit,” he said gently. “The Hogwarts Express leaves from platform nine and three-quarters. Yeh can’t see it from here, you need to go straight through the barrier. Don’t worry, jus’ keep yer head, walk steady, an’ ye’ll be fine. Once yer through, ye’ll find the train, an’ might even meet some other first years on the way.”

He gave Harry a warm, reassuring smile. “I’ll leave ye to it from here. I’ll see yeh at Hogsmeade Station when the train arrives. Don’ forget yer ticket, and keep some sickles handy for snacks on the train.”

Harry’s stomach fluttered with nerves as he eyed the solid brick wall ahead. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and stepped forward, ready to push into the unknown.

Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore- Headmaster Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Dumbledore sat behind his round, cluttered desk in the dim light of his office, a faint scent of lemon drops lingering in the air. His half-moon spectacles caught the glow from the flickering candles as he steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. The news that Harry would not be returning to the Dursleys before term unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Hagrid had been blunt, uncompromising even, and Dumbledore knew the giant would be an unshakable ally for the boy. Once Hagrid’s protective instincts were stirred, there was no turning him, and the headmaster considered how this might shift the delicate balance of Harry’s upbringing. He tapped a finger on the desk, wondering if it would be simpler to obliviate Hagrid of certain memories to keep him from questioning things too closely or whether he could subtly guide the situation without resorting to magic so intrusive. He decided on performing a subtle charm of suggestion to keep Hagrid from asking too many questions.

A small sigh escaped him as he leaned back, staring out the high, arched window at the grounds below. Perhaps it was better to wait, to see how Harry handled the trip to Hogwarts and how he responded to the world that awaited him. Observing the boy in action would give Dumbledore more options than any careful planning from afar. He allowed himself a faint smile. The game of guardianship and guidance had begun in earnest, and the first move was still to come.

Far below the mountains, a red engine whistled into the distance, carrying the boy who had become both prophecy and pawn.

Minerva McGonagall – Deputy Headmistress’ office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  

Professor McGonagall sat stiffly in her office, her sharp eyes flicking repeatedly to the hourglass on her desk. Since receiving Harry’s letter, she had been anxious. She had hoped to accompany him to Diagon Alley herself, to guide him through the shops as she did with Muggle-born families, ensuring he felt safe and prepared, but Dumbledore had insisted Hagrid go instead.

Her faith in the headmaster wavered in that moment, how could he think to send Hagrid over her? She had done everything she could from a distance, double-checking his acceptance paperwork and the notes Dumbledore had sent, yet it was little comfort compared to the hands-on guidance she had longed to give.

Now, the minutes ticked slowly as she awaited his arrival at Hogwarts. Her hands clasped tightly over her desk, she received the notification that the first-years had arrived on the Hogwarts Express. Her eyes softened slightly, but the tension remained, she would watch, waiting to see how Harry emerged from that train, and whether he would need her guidance and firm hand to help him find his footing in a world that had, until now, been kept from him. She hoped that he would follow his parents and be sorted into her house, Gryffindor.

The Dursleys - Number Four, Privet Drive.

At number four, Privet Drive, the morning post had brought an unexpected letter, crisp and official, addressed to Petunia and Vernon Dursley. Vernon squinted at it, his forehead creasing. “What’s this, Petunia?” he barked, brandishing the envelope that had the big read seal that matched the hundreds of letters being sent to his good for nothing nephew.

Petunia snatched it from him, her lips pursed. “It’s from that… school. Hogwarts,” she said, as though the very name made her shiver. She read the letter aloud, her voice tight with irritation: Harry had been collected to go to Hogwarts and would return in July.

Neither of them spared a second thought for the boy himself, in fact the didn’t even realise that he wasn’t in their house. Their attention was entirely consumed with Dudley, fussing over his uniform, his schedule for Smeltings, and the elaborate plan to ensure he had the smoothest start possible. Harry’s absence barely registered beyond a muttered “good riddance” from Vernon.

The Dursleys busied themselves with Dudley’s preparations, oblivious to the fact that Harry, the boy they had ignored and scorned for years, was stepping into a world far beyond their imagination—a world that would soon change him forever.

Sirius Black – Cell 12, Azkaban Prison

Sirius Black paced the narrow confines of his cell, the stone walls closing in with every step. Ten long years of wrongful imprisonment had hollowed him out, he was skeletal, his hair wild and unkempt, his skin pale from prolonged exposure to the cold and to the Dementors that patrolled the prison. Yet even in this despair, he clung to one unshakable truth: he was innocent.

Each day, he relied on his Animagus form to shield himself from the worst of the Dementors’ effects, transforming into a large black grim to keep the creatures at bay. But the knowledge of his innocence was not enough to quell the ache of his longing. He was a godfather denied, cut off from the boy he had vowed to protect, Harry Potter.

A small scrap of news, smuggled to him by a guard he once served alongside as an Auror, reminded him that it was September 1st. Harry would be leaving for Hogwarts today. The thought lit a spark in Sirius’s mind.. a plan forming, slow and deliberate. He would escape. He would prove his innocence. And one day, he would make those responsible for Lily and James Potter pay. For the first time in a long time,  grin flashed upon his face.

Remus Lupin - Moonlight Cottage, Llanfair-yng-Nghornwy, Anglesey

Remus Lupin sat at the edge of a worn armchair, staring out at the mist rolling over the small hills surrounding Moonlight Cottage. The old home, left to him by his late parents, felt both comforting and empty, its silence echoing the loss he had carried for so long. He was shabby, poorly clothed, and worn thin from the quiet struggle of managing life alone, but he clung to the knowledge that it was September 1st. Harry Potter would be leaving for Hogwarts today.

The thought brought a sharp pang of grief. James and Lily were gone, but not forgotten. And Sirius… he hadn’t heard from him since the week before Halloween, when everything had fallen apart. Peter Pettigrew, too, had vanished, leaving questions in his wake. Remus’ heart wavered between trust and disbelief; though the world had branded Sirius a murderer, he could not reconcile that with the friend he knew. Dumbledore had named Sirius as the Potters’ secret keeper, and despite a small burning in heart at being wrong about his best friend Sirius, Remus trusted him.

He poured himself a cup of tea and glanced at the small clock on the mantle, the hands ticking slowly toward Hogwarts’ usual departure time. Questions swirled in his mind, worries about the boy who had lost so much, and hopes that somehow, in the coming year, the pieces might begin to fall into place.

Peter Pettigrew - The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Peter Pettigrew was small, wiry and unassuming in his rat animagus form, skittered along the floorboards of a quiet farmhouse in Ottery St. Catchpole. For the past ten years, he had hidden in plain sight, slipping through the cracks of the wizarding world while the aftermath of that fateful Halloween consumed everyone else. The Dark Lord had died at the hands of the infant Harry Potter, and Peter’s own cowardice, his betrayal of James and Lily leading to his masters death.

Now he was disguised as Ron Weasley’s pet rat, he watched the world carefully, calculating. Hogwarts was calling young Harry Potter into his first year, and Peter’s mind spun with schemes. Could Harry grow to become a Dark Lord? If so, Peter would be ready. If not… well, then he would finish what he thought was owed to the Dark Lord and avenge his master’s demise. The Death Eaters blamed him anyway, their suspicions as sharp as knives, and Peter’s only hope was that they would accept his loyalty if he played his cards well.

He twitched his whiskers and adjusted his tiny form, preparing for the long trip ahead. The Burrow’s creaky walls and warm smells of home could not soften the calculating glint in his eyes. He would watch, wait, and strike at the right moment.. his loyalty and cowardice entwined in a dangerous balance as the train to Hogwarts approached.

Chapter Text

Harry stepped carefully through the barrier and stopped in his tracks.

The noise hit him first. Steam hissed around his ankles, and the air smelled warm and smoky. A bright red steam engine stood proudly in front of him, gleaming like it had been polished just for today. Above it, a huge old clock ticked steadily on the station wall. All around, children hurried about with trunks and owls and cats, and parents bent down to hug them tight or straighten their collars one last time.

Harry watched for a moment, not quite sure what to do with himself. Nobody was there to wave him off or fuss with his hair, so he gripped Hedwig’s cage a little tighter and swallowed down the funny flutter in his stomach.

Near the train, a couple of older boys were stacking trunks into a tall pile beside a railway worker who was lifting them one by one into the luggage car. Harry shuffled over and placed his own trunk carefully on the ground beside the rest. He hesitated with Hedwig’s cage still in his hands.

She gave a soft, questioning hoot and ruffled her feathers. Harry blinked, then realised what she wanted at once. “You want to fly there, don’t you?” he said quietly. Hedwig hooted again, louder this time, almost impatient.

Harry glanced around to see if anyone would stop him, then unlatched the cage door. Hedwig hopped out, stretched her wings wide, and took off in a graceful swoop. Harry craned his neck to watch her rise above the crowd, snowy and bright against the smudgy sky. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, lifting his arm in a little wave before remembering she probably couldn’t see it anymore.

With the empty cage tucked under his arm, he climbed up the train steps, trying not to get in anyone’s way. Most compartments were already full of chattering students, laughing or sharing sweets or sticking their heads out the windows to call to their families.

Harry walked along the corridor until he found one that was still empty. He slid the door shut behind him and sat by the window. The seat was soft and springy, and for a moment he just sat there, listening to the muffled noise from the platform.

Then he remembered his satchel, the one he’d chosen in Diagon Alley because it looked sturdy and a bit grown-up and he opened the flap. He pulled out Hogwarts, A History and rested it in his lap. The gold letters on the cover gleamed faintly in the light. He opened to the first chapter and began to read, his knees pressed together and his feet not quite touching the floor.

Outside, the conductor blew his whistle with a shrill blast. The compartment door slid open with a clatter.

“Oh.. sorry!” said a tall, red-haired boy, slightly out of breath. His face was a bit pink, and he held a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. “Everywhere else is full. Do you mind if I sit here?” Harry shook his head quickly. The boy grinned and stepped inside, setting his things down with a thump.

“I’m Ron,” he said, flopping onto the seat opposite him. “Ron Weasley.”

Harry closed his book on a finger to keep his place and tried a smile back. It felt a little wobbly, but it was real.

I’m… Harry,” he said quietly. Then, because it felt unfinished, he added, “Harry Potter.”

Ron froze for half a second. His eyes went wide, and his half-eaten sandwich slipped a little in his hand. For a moment he just stared, mouth opening like he might say something, but nothing came out.

Harry shifted in his seat, wishing he hadn't said his last name at all. His stomach gave a nervous twist. He looked down at his book, pretending to read the same line twice.

Ron seemed to shake himself and blinked hard. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry,” he mumbled, ears going pink. “I just.. well.. my brothers have talked about you loads and.. well.. sorry. I’m not trying to stare.”

Harry dared a glance up. Ron was fiddling with the sandwich, looking like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands or his eyes. “I don’t mind,” Harry said quickly, even though his cheeks were hot. “I just… hope that’s okay. Me sitting here.”

Ron blinked again, back to himself now. “What? Course it is! It’s your compartment just as much as anyone’s. You were here first.” He gave an awkward but genuinely kind smile, then leaned back a little, trying to act normal. “So… Hogwarts, first year too?” Harry nodded, the knot in his chest loosening just a bit.

Ron didn’t ask any more questions right away. He took a bite of his sandwich instead, like he’d figured out Harry needed a moment to breathe.

The whistle blew again, long and echoing, and the floor beneath their feet gave a little jolt. Harry glanced out the window just in time to see the platform beginning to slide away, families waving and steam curling around their ankles. Ron dug around in his backpack for a moment and came back with a battered deck of cards. “Do you know Exploding Snap?” he asked, already shuffling.

Harry shook his head. “No… I’ve never played any wizard games before.” Ron grinned, looking pleased to explain something. “It’s brilliant. You’ve gotta match cards, but some of ’em blow up if you’re too slow. Fred and George, my brothers, used to rig the deck so it’d go off in my face every time. Nearly singed my eyebrows off once.”

He dealt the cards between them and showed Harry how to play, gently moving Harry’s hands into place when he hesitated. The first time one of the cards gave a loud pop and a puff of smoke, Harry nearly jumped out of his seat. Ron burst out laughing, not unkindly. “You get used to it,” he said, waving the smoke away with his hand.

They played a few rounds and Harry lost every time, but Ron pretended not to notice. Between turns, Ron talked. He told Harry about growing up with five brothers, and how Bill worked with curses and Charlie worked with dragons, and how Percy was a prefect and wouldn’t stop reminding everyone. The twins, Fred and George, sounded like trouble makers, and Ron said his little sister Ginny had cried when she couldn’t come along.

When they paused the game to rest their hands, Ron leaned back and looked out the window. “So… d’you know what house you’ll be in? At Hogwarts, I mean.” Harry stared at the cards in his lap. “I… don’t really know much about them. I only read a bit in a book.”

Ron shrugged like it was no big deal. “Everyone in my family’s been Gryffindor. Mum’d have kittens if I ended up in Slytherin.” Harry frowned slightly. “Is Slytherin bad?” Ron pulled a face. “Well… You-Know-Who was in Slytherin. Hardly anyone good comes out of there. Dunno what I’d do if the hat put me there.”

Harry’s heart thudded uneasily. He hadn’t thought about being sorted into the wrong place. He’d read in one of his books that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, he who must not be named, had frightened people so badly that most witches and wizards were too afraid to say his name. They called him You-Know-Who instead, as if not naming him would keep him away. Harry shivered a little at the thought.

“I just hope I fit somewhere,” he said quietly. Ron looked over at him properly then, and for once didn’t say anything silly. “You will,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “You’re Harry Potter.”

A sharp knock sounded on the compartment door. Before either of them could answer, it slid open and a girl with bushy brown hair peered inside, followed closely by a round-faced boy who looked close to tears.

“Sorry,” the girl said briskly, “but has either of you seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.” The boy swallowed and managed a small, embarrassed nod. “I.. I’m Neville Longbottom. Trevor’s my toad. He keeps getting away…” Harry and Ron both shook their heads. “Haven’t seen a toad,” Ron said. Neville looked devastated, but the girl didn’t move on this time. She glanced at the empty seats and gave Neville a nudge. “Let’s just sit for a minute. You’ll think straighter when you’ve calmed down.”

Neville nodded miserably and perched on the edge of a seat. The girl sat beside him, hands folded primly in her lap. “I’m Hermione Granger, by the way,” she said, looking between Harry and Ron expectantly.

“Ron Weasley,” Ron said, then nodded toward Harry. Harry hesitated only a moment. “Harry. Harry Potter.”

Neville’s eyes went wide, and Hermione sat up a little straighter, but she didn’t squeal or stare the way people in Diagon Alley had. She just looked at him with sharp curiosity, like she was trying to fit together a puzzle.

“We were just talking about houses,” Ron said quickly, shuffling the exploding snap cards as if nothing remarkable had been said. “What d’you lot think you’ll be in?”

Hermione brightened. “Well, I’ve read about all four, obviously. Gryffindor sounds the best, though Ravenclaw seems respectable too. But I suppose the hat decides based on qualities, not preference.” Neville fidgeted with his sleeves. “My gran wants me in Gryffindor… but I’m not brave. Not really.”

Harry listened, oddly relieved he wasn’t the only one unsure. A rattling sound came from the corridor, and a cheerful voice called, “Anything off the trolley, dears?” Ron glanced out the window of the compartment door and went a bit pink. “I haven’t got much money,” he muttered, sinking into his seat.

Harry stood before he could talk himself out of it. He reached into his coin pouch, still not used to having his own money, and grateful he’d topped it up at Gringotts before the trip, and stepped into the corridor. He bought a bit of everything: Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Cauldron Cakes, and Liquorice Wands. Then he carried the armful back into the compartment and set the pile on the seat between them. Ron stared. “Blimey—” Harry shrugged awkwardly. “We can share.”

Hermione looked surprised but pleased, and Neville blinked like no one had ever offered him sweets before. They each chose something, and soon wrappers were gathering in little piles, and Ron was warning everyone not to try the yellow beans, which “almost always taste like soap or worse.”

Trevor chose that moment to croak loudly from inside Neville’s trouser pocket, making them all jump. Neville fumbled and patted the pocket, red-faced. “He..he must’ve climbed back in when we weren’t looking.”

Harry laughed, and the others did too, not unkindly but a joyful laughter.  Ron showed them all how to play Exploding Snap properly, grinning when Harry nearly singed his eyebrows off during a misstep. Hermione insisted on reading the rules aloud to check if Ron was cheating, and Neville managed to win a round purely by accident when one of the cards exploded early and startled Ron into dropping his hand.

For the first time in his life, Harry sat in a room full of children his age and didn’t feel like an intruder. The scar on his forehead tingled faintly now and again, but he barely noticed. The countryside blurred past the window, and the Hogwarts Express carried them all steadily north, laughter and card explosions filling the air.

A few minutes later, a crisp voice echoed down the corridor. “Ten minutes to Hogsmeade Station! All students, please prepare to disembark.”

Hermione ducked into the compartment she first settled in with Neville, glancing back at the boys. “I’ll just grab my things and change first,” she said briskly. Neville nodded, and thanked her. When she got back she passed Neville his bag, and He, Harry and Ron waited awkwardly in the corridor, whilst Hermione went in to change first.

When Hermione emerged a few minutes later, looking a bit more comfortable in her robes, she smiled at the boys. “All yours,” she said, stepping aside. The boys all stepped in the carriage whilst Hermione waited outside, then all four of them settled back into the compartment to await the arrival of the station. All nervous and excitement, but all content that they’d already found some friends.

The train hissed and groaned as it came to a stop, steam curling in thick clouds into the evening air. The announcement echoed through the compartment, but it was Hagrid’s booming voice that caught Harry’s attention first. “First years over ‘ere! Come on, don’t dawdle now!” The sound carried over the platform, leaving Harry’s heart racing with nervous excitement. He tugged at his trunk, feeling the weight of his belongings, and followed the flow of students spilling out onto the stone platform. Hagrid gave Harry a beaming smile and a wave.

The crowd moved toward the station exit, and Harry’s eyes widened at the sight beyond. A vast, dark lake stretched into the distance, the water shimmering under the moonlight. Lining the edge of the lake were small black boats, gently rocking with the tide. Each boat was polished and sturdy, with Hagrid calling “four to a boat, no more”, and calling back encouragement as the first years stepped forward.

Harry glanced at his first ever friends: Ron was grinning nervously, trying to look brave, while Hermione clutched her bag with tight, determined fingers, and Neville’s cheeks were flushed with equal parts excitement and terror. Harry felt a pang of his own nerves but reminded himself that Hagrid had promised to look after them. Somehow, that made everything a little less scary.

They approached the boats, “Don’t worry,” Hagrid said with a grin, “yer not goin’ far—just across the lake. Nothin’ dangerous, I promise.” Harry climbed into his boat carefully, feeling the cool wood beneath him. The boat rocked slightly as Ron, Hermione and Neville piled in, and he could hear the muffled laughter and chatter from the other first years.

As Hagrid guided the last of the students into their boats, he walked over to Harry. “Hogwarts isn’t far, and yeh’ll see it soon enough.” Harry nodded, gripping the side of the boat tightly. He let his eyes wander over the water, which gleamed like black glass, reflecting the stars above. A sense of awe slowly replaced his anxiety as the boats pushed off, gliding smoothly over the lake’s calm surface.

Harry caught his first glimpse of Hogwarts. The castle rose like a dark, jagged silhouette against the night sky, towers and turrets twinkling with light. Windows glowed warmly, and the sheer size of it made his jaw drop. Every detail, the spires, the battlements, even the drawbridges all seemed impossibly magical.

The boats reached the shore, and Hagrid’s deep voice rang out once more. “Alright, first years! Up we go!” Harry scrambled out, Hedwigs cage in hand and satchel around his shoulder and followed the other children toward a massive door set into the castle wall. Hagrid knocked three times, each rap loud enough to echo through the stone corridor. The door swung open, and standing there was Professor McGonagall, her green robes immaculate, her large pointed hat perfectly perched, and her sharp eyes sweeping over the group. Harry felt a shiver of nervous excitement and awe as he took his first real step into Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

Professor McGonagall’s voice rang clearly through the hall, sharp and commanding yet carrying a note of warmth. “First years,” she called, “you will now be sorted into your Houses. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Please leave any belongings here in the entrance hall; they will be sent to your dormitories once the Sorting is complete.”

The first years looked around, a mixture of excitement and nerves flickering across their faces. “Follow me,” McGonagall added, sweeping past them toward the Sorting Hat and the small wooden stool set in the centre of the hall. “Step forward when your name is called.” Harry’s stomach flipped with nervous excitement as they entered a vast chamber, filled with hundreds of students already seated at long, polished tables. The ceiling above shimmered like the night sky, stars twinkling faintly even though it was indoors.

Harry kept close to the other first years, trying to find comfort in their presence. Somewhere among the children, he caught sight of a pale-faced boy with stark white-blond hair, standing stiffly near the edge. Harry’s curiosity piqued, but he didn’t dare approach; the boy seemed lost in his own world. He took a deep breath and leaned slightly on Ron and Hermione, who had been chatting quietly and giving him small, encouraging smiles.

They were ushered to a small side platform, where the first years were lined up and told to wait for their turn. As the first years were called forward, Harry watched the Sorting Hat resting atop a tall stool in the centre of the hall. Professor McGonagall stood beside it, her green robes catching the torchlight, her expression strict but kind. One by one, names were called, and students stepped forward, sitting nervously as the enchanted hat was lowered onto their heads.

The first name rang out clearly. “Bones, Susan!” McGonagall called.

Susan stepped forward, her head held high, and sat on the small stool. The Sorting Hat was placed carefully on her head, and after a moment’s pause, the Hat shouted out “HUFFLEPUFF”

Removing the hat, Susan smiled as she was guided to the Hufflepuff table. A cheer erupted immediately from the students already seated there, some clapping and a few waving as she joined them. The first cheer of the evening set a lively tone for the rest of the Sorting, and Harry watched, leaning slightly toward his new friends for reassurance as the next name was called.

Harry clapped along as Hermione and Neville were called, relief washing over him as they joined the Gryffindor table. He beamed toward them, keeping his fingers crossed, especially remembering Ron’s earlier hope that they’d all end up in the same house.

Then McGonagall called, “Malfoy, Draco!”. The pale, blond boy strode forward, expression confident. The Sorting Hat barely touched his head before it shouted decisively in his mind: “SLYTHERIN!”

Harry’s stomach tightened at the speed and certainty of the decision. He hoped his was as quick. The Slytherin table erupted with applause, Draco sitting down with a smug tilt of his head.

“Potter, Harry!” McGonagall called, and the whispers swelled into a ripple of muttering and curious glances. Heads turned, some students even standing up on their benches craning to get a better look at the famous boy who had survived the dark wizard. Harry felt his cheeks flush as he walked forward, trying to ignore the attention. Every step toward the stool felt heavier than the last. Even the teachers seated behind the Sorting Hat leaned forward, their eyes fixed on him with quiet fascination.

He perched on the stool, hands gripping the edges nervously, and the Sorting Hat was lowered onto his head, a voice echoed in his mind.

“Ah… interesting… very interesting,” it murmured. “Plenty of courage, daring, a thirst to prove yourself… yet I sense intelligence, curiosity, and a strong sense of fairness. Loyalty runs deep, but so does ambition. A complex mind, indeed. I could see you in Gryffindor, where bravery will guide you. Or perhaps Ravenclaw, where your intellect could shine… Hufflepuff’s heart would welcome you, and Slytherin could bring out your cunning and resourcefulness…”

The Sorting Hat’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “I have not encountered a mind such as yours in over a hundred years,” it continued, “a soul carrying the traits of all four founders. Courage, wit, loyalty, and cunning, all balanced within you. Such a combination is rare, perhaps unprecedented, and it makes this decision… particularly difficult.”

Harry swallowed, the voice seeming to know every thought he had. “Please,” he thought desperately, “Gryffindor. I want to be in Gryffindor. I want to be with my friends.”

A pause. The Sorting Hat chuckled softly in his mind, testing him. “Ah… yes, you care for friendship and courage… you have the heart for Gryffindor. But you could do well in Slytherin, you know. The ambition, the potential…”

Harry clenched his teeth. “I don’t care about Slytherin. I want Gryffindor. Please.”

“Very well… if you’re sure…” The voice gave a final sigh and with a whisper that tickled the edges of his mind, it said:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry felt the Sorting Hat lift off, and he gasped, blinking as a deafening roar of Gryffindor cheers exploded through the hall like cannon fire. Students clapped and shouted, some banging on the tables, while a few of the teachers, including Hagrid cheered along, his booming voice carrying above the chaos. Relief and pride flooded Harry as he made his way toward the Gryffindor table, where Hermione and Neville waited with wide, thrilled smiles.

With Harry seated and the noise quietened down, the Sorting continued swiftly. One by one, the remaining first-years were called, the hall filling with cheers as each student was assigned to their house. Harry kept his eyes on Ron, who fidgeted anxiously as he approached the stool. The hat was lowered onto his head, and a few tense moments later, it shouted its verdict. Ron returned to the Gryffindor table, a grin spreading across his face, and Harry clapped along with the others, happy to have his first friend by his side in the same house.

Dumbledore stood, his eyes twinkling over the students’ heads. “Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts,” he began, his voice carrying easily across the hall. “Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!’ In an instant, the long tables groaned under the weight of dishes: roast meats steaming beside bowls of fresh vegetables, mountains of bread, glistening sauces, and desserts piled high. Harry’s eyes widened, his mouth going dry with awe at the sight of so much food, more than he had ever seen in his life.

As Harry settled into his seat, a tall boy with neat red hair and a confident smile leaned over. “Percy Weasley,” he said, offering his hand. Harry shook it, feeling a little more at ease at the friendly gesture. A few seats away, two boys with mischievous grins and the same shade of red hair waved enthusiastically. “Fred and George,” Percy whispered to Harry, nodding toward them. Harry returned the wave shyly.

Moments later, the ghosts began to drift through the hall. The Bloody Baron glided silently past, and the cheerful Fat Friar floated near the Hufflepuff table, while the Grey Lady appeared with her usual ethereal grace. Harry could hardly believe his eyes, marveling at the strange and whimsical inhabitants of Hogwarts who were just as real as the students themselves.

Harry dug into a hearty slice of roast chicken, trying everything, from roast potatoes to honeyed carrots. Finished off by a treacle tart and warm custard. As the clatter of knives and chatter of students continued, a hush fell over the hall. All heads turned as Dumbledore rose from his seat at the staff table, the long silver beard catching the candlelight. Every eye fixed on him as he smiled warmly, his voice carrying across the hall.

“Welcome, once again, to Hogwarts,” he said, his voice warm but carrying a firm undertone. “For our new students, and as a reminder to our old hands, there are a few important notices.”

“The Forbidden Forest on the edge of the grounds is, as its name suggests, strictly out of bounds. I must also draw your attention to the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side of the castle, which is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” A ripple of nervous laughter swept through the hall, but Dumbledore’s face remained perfectly calm, his twinkling eyes giving nothing away.

“Students are also reminded that magic should not be used in the corridors between lessons, likewise, I am informed that Zonkos’ joke products, delightful though they may be in Hogsmeade, are not permitted inside the castle.”

His smile widened slightly. “That is all for now. Sleep well, dream bright dreams, and be ready for the adventures ahead, please follow your prefects as they show you to your new dormitories”.

“First years, follow us!” called a prefect, and a line of Gryffindor students formed, leading the newcomers toward the portrait of the Fat Lady.

Harry’s jaw dropped as he followed, taking in the winding corridors, the flickering torches, and the staircases that seemed to move of their own accord. When the Fat Lady swung her portrait open with a dramatic flourish, Harry stepped inside and gasped. The Gryffindor common room was warm and inviting, with cozy armchairs, a crackling fireplace, and towers of bookshelves lining the walls.

The prefect led each first year to their dormitory. Harry was sharing with Ron and Neville. Harry’s eyes widened as he saw his four-poster bed, complete with deep red curtains and a soft, plump mattress. His trunk and Hedwigs' cage were waiting for him at the foot of his bed, He quickly rummaged through his belongings, changed into the soft pajamas Hagrid had helped him buy, and climbed into bed.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt safe, warm, and utterly at home. The events of the day, the train, the Sorting, the feast, spun around in his head, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, sleep claimed him without protest.

Chapter Text

Harry felt both nervous and excited as he stepped into his first class at Hogwarts. Charms with Professor Flitwick was full of tiny sparkling sparks that danced across the ceiling whenever a spell was performed correctly. Harry quickly discovered he had a natural knack for certain charms, his fingers catching the movements better than he expected. Flitwick was clearly impressed, and awarded him twenty house points.

Potions with Professor Snape, however, left him tense. The dark greasy haired, hooked nose teacher had a piercing gaze that seemed to follow Harry, and his sharp comments about mistakes made Harry flinch. “Careful, Potter,” Snape hissed, his dark eyes narrowing as if daring Harry to make a mistake. “our new celebrity”.  Harry froze for a moment, his quill hovering over the page. He couldn’t help but wonder why the Potions Master seemed to dislike him so intensely. Harry felt a chill run down his spine, and he wrote his notes extra carefully, determined not to give Snape any excuse to scowl at him.

Transfiguration with McGonagall was both challenging and fun. Her precise instructions and occasional sharp looks kept Harry alert, and he began to understand the subtle differences in magic and intent. He again impressed his professor, and managed to turn his matchstick into a needle on the first go, being the first person in the class to. He earned more points and was overjoyed.

Hermione’s encyclopaedic knowledge quickly became apparent. She recited facts and techniques with such precision that Ron’s frustration bubbled over into light arguments over homework and class assignments. Harry often found himself caught in the middle, so would lean on Neville to avoid the animosity.

Harry could feel the difference in himself from the day he had left the Dursleys. He slept well, ate properly, and his energy returned, making it easier to keep up with the lessons. Most teachers, apart from Snape, noticed his progress, praising his diligence and attitude. Together with Ron, Hermione  Neville, Harry formed a small study group, bonding over shared challenges and excitement.

The end of the first week, the first-years lined up on the grassy pitch, brooms glinting in the sunlight. Madam Hooch, sharp-eyed and brisk, called out instructions. “Mount your brooms carefully. Today, you learn control in the air. Fall and you’ll learn the hard way.”

Harry wobbled as he rose into the sky, heart hammering with exhilaration. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle swooped nearby, taunting Neville, whose broom wobbled violently before he tumbled to the ground. Madam Pomfrey whisked him off to the hospital wing, muttering, while Malfoy sneered at Harry.

“Bet you can’t catch it, Potter!” Malfoy goaded, holding the Remembrall high. Without thinking, Harry kicked off, chasing the red ball through the air. Loops and dives carried him faster than he’d ever flown. With a final lunge, he caught it cleanly. His heart pounded as he soared back down to the ground the wind tugging at his robes. Suddenly, a shadow fell across the sun, Professor McGonagall had appeared at a window above, eyes widening as she watched him dive and swoop with uncanny skill.

She came running down the slope, voice brisk but tinged with excitement. “Potter! That was… extraordinary! You’ll be joining the Gryffindor Quidditch team as Seeker. And you’ll need a proper broom.” A few days later, the morning post brought Harry his very first gift, a gleaming brand new Nimbus 2000 broom – one he had admired over and over again when he was in Diagon Alley. He had to duck his head to brush away a sudden lump in his throat, but a wide smile spread across his face. Glancing up, he caught Professor McGonagall watching from the staff table, her eyes twinkling with quiet pride, and he felt a surge of gratitude he couldn’t put into words.

Classes continued, and Harry and Hermione were in the top of all classes, even Potions to Professors Snape dismay. Halloween arrived, and Hogwarts was buzzing with excitement.

Harry, Ron, Neville and Hermione were hurrying toward the Great Hall for dinner, trying to cut through a deserted corridor on the ground floor. The hallway was dim and quiet, the flickering torches casting long shadows, when a terrifying, guttural roar shattered the silence. From around a corner, a massive troll lumbered into view, swinging its club-like arms wildly.

Ron froze, panic written across his face. “Blimey.. what do we do?” he whispered. Hermione, eyes wide but determined, took a cautious step forward, trying to distract the creature, but she tripped on the uneven stone floor and went down under one of the troll’s massive arms.

Without a second thought, Harry and Neville rushed to help. Harry darted to the troll’s other side, waving his arms and shouting, while Neville seized a fallen torch and swung it to draw the creature’s attention. Together, they managed to pull Hermione free, keeping the troll off balance just long enough for her to scramble to safety.

Their hearts pounded as the three of them ducked behind a pillar, watching the troll stumble blindly before finally being corralled away by the first teachers to arrive, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Hagrid, who appeared almost out of nowhere, looking furious and relieved all at once.

Meanwhile, at the back of the scene, a pale, flustered man in violet robes, Professor Quirrell watched from a shadowed corner, his face twisted with barely concealed anger. Harry experienced, not for the first time around Quirrell a sharp pain in his scar.

As the teachers led the troll out of the castle, Harry couldn’t help but glance at Neville, whose cheeks were flushed from exertion, and at Hermione, brushing herself off with a fierce glare that softened when she looked at him. Ron exhaled shakily, clapping Harry on the shoulder.

“That… that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ron muttered, though his voice wavered. Harry shook his head, feeling an unexpected thrill. They had faced danger together and survived, and for the first time, he sensed that they could truly rely on each other. Somewhere in the shadows, Quirrell’s eyes lingered, and Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, though he didn’t know why.

The incident also began to show Harry and Ron’s protective instincts toward their friends. Whenever Neville or Hermione were teased by Draco Malfoy and his cronies, they would always step in, their courage and loyalty growing stronger with each encounter.

Curiosity soon got the better of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. One afternoon, while wandering near a corridor that was strictly off-limits whilst Neville was with Professor Sprout, they stumbled upon a locked door which opened with a simple alohomora, and behind it was a massive, three-headed dog, each head snapping and growling at the slightest sound. The creature was chained to a thick iron collar, and beneath it, a heavy trapdoor lay set into the stone floor. “Fluffy,” Hagrid’s voice boomed from behind them, the trio jumped. “Don’t go messin’ with him!” he added, scowling. “He’s not for foolin’ about!”

Harry’s curiosity got the better of him. “He’s guarding something, isn’t he?” he asked, eyes wide. Hagrid’s jaw tightened. “Aye, but that is between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel. That trapdoor leads to somethin’ very important, an’ Fluffy’s there to make sure no one gets through.” The trio edged closer to Fluffy, hearts thudding at the dog’s low growls. Hagrid pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself. “Play him a bit of music… he’ll doze right off… I shouldn’ta told ye that!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione froze, exchanging wide-eyed glances. Somehow, they now knew his name, the trick to putting him to sleep, and that whatever lay beyond the trapdoor was far more significant than they could yet imagine. Harry felt a shiver of anticipation, the mystery was tugging at him, daring him to learn more.

Harry sometimes felt a shadow of unease whenever he glimpsed Dumbledore observing from afar. Though the headmaster’s eyes twinkled kindly, there was an intensity in them that made Harry feel both protected and slightly watched. He practiced tirelessly, and the first real quidditch match filled him with exhilaration. Flying above the pitch, he could feel the wind in his hair and the thrill of the chase, his nerves giving way to pure focus. He caught the snitch effortlessly, and when Hermione told him she’d seen a trophy that his dad was on the team, his heart soared.

Malfoy’s bullying escalated, often targeting Neville and Hermione, but Harry and Ron were quick to intervene. Their loyalty and courage became well known in the house, earning them admiration from fellow students.

Christmas brought a magical calm. Harry received his father’s invisibility cloak anonymously with a note that said “use this well”, a gift that filled him with awe and made him earn for his father. The Weasleys had sent small presents and a handmade knitted jumper, and to his surprise, a soft, grey wolf stuffed toy appeared on his bed with a note signed R.J.L. He had no idea who that was, but he cherished it.

Snow fell outside the Great Hall as students celebrated, and Harry felt warmth he had never known, safe among friends and surrounded by magic. For the first time, he truly understood the joy of belonging, far removed from the cold neglect of the Dursleys. He shared moments and laughter with Ron, Neville and Hermione, explored hidden nooks, and quietly treasured the knowledge that he now had a place to call home. During one of Harry’s late night explorations under his fathers cloak, he came across the mirror of Erised. He was enthralled by this magic mirror that showed him surrounded by family, new and old. He returned to it several nights in a row, until one night it was gone.

Hermione remembered reading the name Nicolas Flamel on a Chocolate Frog card, and with some frantic library searches, they discovered that Flamel was a famed alchemist and the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary object capable of turning metal into gold and producing the Elixir of Life, a potion granting immortality. Realising that something so powerful was hidden within Hogwarts, their concern turned to urgency.

Convinced that someone was after the Stone, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville decided they could no longer ignore the signs. Their investigation soon became a quest to stop whoever was trying to steal it, and along the way they faced a series of magical barriers, each tailored to a Hogwarts professor’s strengths.

Getting past Fluffy, the first obstacle was simple. Hagrid had already told them just to play some music and he would fall asleep. It still required nerve, timing, and trust that the floor beneath them wouldn't lead to death.

Below the trapdoor awaited a deadly mass of Devil’s Snare. Its tightening vines threatened to strangle them, but Nevilles Herbology knowledge saved the group as he remembered the plant shrank from light and heat. A quick burst of fire allowed them to break free and move on.

Further along, they encountered a room full of winged keys. Dozens of enchanted silver and gold keys darted madly through the air, and only one would fit the door ahead. Harry’s skill as a Seeker helped him spot and capture the correct key while the others fended off the rest. Speed, accuracy, and cooperation were essential.

Next came the giant wizard’s chess set, a full-sized, enchanted battleground. Ron took command as a knight, guiding his friends through the match with calculated sacrifice. His willingness to risk himself so that the others could advance showed how deeply he valued their mission, and their survival. Neville stayed behind with Ron to go get help.

Beyond the chessboard was a troll, already knocked out when they arrived, likely dealt with by Professor Quirrell who they thought was after the stone, earlier. Even unconscious, its sheer size and the stench of the room were reminder enough of how perilous their path was.

Then came the logic puzzle guarding an array of potions and flames, Snape’s challenge. Hermione’s sharp reasoning allowed her to determine which potion would let Harry move forward and which would enable her to retreat safely. It was a test not of wand work but of intellect and remaining calm under pressure. Only enough potion for one person to go through.

Through every obstacle, their strengths complemented one another: Harry’s bravery, Hermione’s intellect, Ron’s strategy, and Neville’s surprising loyalty and determination. Each challenge deepened their bond and proved that trust in one another was their greatest protection.

At last, Harry reached the final chamber alone. He faced Quirrell, whose mild manner had been a facade for something far darker. The true threat had been closer than any of them guessed: Voldemort was possessing Quirrell, using him as a host to reclaim the Stone and return to power.

Harry’s courage, fast thinking, and the ancient protective magic left by his mother’s sacrifice shielded him when Voldemort tried to take the Stone through force. In the end, it was not strength or spells that stopped the Dark Lord, but love, an enchantment far older and more powerful than he understood. Quirrell was no more, and the phantom that was Lord Voldemort disappeared once more.

When Harry next woke, he was in the hospital wing. His memories were blurry, Quirrell’s touch burning, Voldemort’s voice, and then blackness. Madam Pomfrey fussed over him, but he immediately asked about his friends. Dumbledore arrived and told him Ron, Hermione, and Neville were safe.

Harry asked what had happened to the Stone and Voldemort. Dumbledore gave only what he felt Harry was old enough to hear: the Stone had been destroyed to prevent its misuse, and Nicolas Flamel and his wife had accepted that their long lives would end. Voldemort had escaped, weakened but not gone. Some truths, Dumbledore said, would come later.

Relieved but still uneasy, Harry hesitated before asking one more thing: could he stay at Hogwarts for the summer instead of returning to his relatives? Dumbledore gently explained that, for Harry’s protection, he had to go back, for now, but that Hogwarts would always be here for him.

Surrounded by sweets from well-wishers and reassured that his friends were safe, Harry settled back into the pillows. He was still just a boy who had faced something far bigger than he understood, but he wasn’t alone, and that made the uncertainty easier to bear.

Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore

Dumbledore was quietly satisfied that everything with the Philosopher’s Stone had unfolded exactly as he intended. He had suspected Quirrell from the beginning and was certain Voldemort had found a host. Hiding the Stone at Hogwarts, and allowing a first-year boy to stand in its path had not been a mistake but a controlled test. It was dangerous, undeniably, but in Dumbledore’s mind, danger was sometimes the purest teacher. For the greater good, he told himself. He congratulated himself on another job well done.

There was something almost cold in the way he calculated Harry’s path. He had long kept James and Lily locked away, not just them but all the truth surrounding them… their will, their possessions, and everything a determined person would need to see that they weren’t really dead. He controlled that information as tightly as he controlled Harry’s future. Let the boy believe what he was told. Let him grow in the shadows of secrets. If Harry was to survive Voldemort, Dumbledore needed him shaped, tested, and if necessary, sacrificed. Strength rarely bloomed without pressure, and Harry had to prove he was worthy of the role Dumbledore had already chosen for him.

Minerva McGonagall

Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, was far from calm about it. She was horrified that Harry had been anywhere near such danger and still doubted the wisdom of bringing the Stone into the castle at all. Yet she couldn’t hide her pride, Harry showed remarkable magical ability, bravery and instincts that reminded her so much of James and Lily. Still, she felt uneasy about sending him back to his relatives for the summer, where he would be unappreciated and unprotected in all the wrong ways. She wondered if there was someone she could talk too about getting him placed with a magical family instead.

As the common room rang with celebration, McGonagall lingered by the fire, pretending to inspect the notice board. Her gaze drifted to the photograph of the victorious Quidditch team, Harry’s grin bright, his arm slung round Oliver Wood’s shoulders. She smiled faintly, but the feeling didn’t last. In a few days he’d be sent back to that dreadful house. The idea left her stomach tight with worry. She made a silent promise to speak to Dumbledore again, even if he brushed her off as before.

Peter Pettigrew

Still hiding in plain sight as Ron’s pet rat, Pettigrew had been watching Harry closely all year. What he saw shook him more than he admitted. Harry’s raw magical power, his instincts, and his determined “friends” made Pettigrew certain that the boy could grow into a dark figure to rival Voldemort, or even replace him. Convinced that Harry might not be as “good” as everyone assumed, Pettigrew decided he’d keep spying next year. Better to stay close to power, whatever form it took.

Remus Lupin

Remus had come to a decision of his own, that he needed to speak to Sirius Black. Too many questions about that night still haunted him, and the more he thought about it, the less certain he was of Sirius’s guilt. But every attempt to get access to Azkaban was blocked by the Ministry. If they wouldn't let him in, maybe he could try another route, through Harry. Over the summer, he considered quietly visiting the boy and suggesting he request the reading of his parents’ will at Gringotts. There might be answers buried there the Ministry didn't want revealed. He didn’t know the location of his relatives house, but he did know that it was near Arabella Figg, a squib Order of The Phoenix member that Dumbledore had placed to keep watch on Harry.. surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find Harry, especially with his wolf senses. He doubted Dumbledore’s wards would let him close, but he had to try.

Sirius Black

He’d grown thinner and weaker since September, but his mind was clearer than people believed. He had already mapped out a way to escape through the bars in his dog form. Dementors could not sense him when he slipped into his Animagus form.  The only thing stopping him was the sea, the freezing stretch of water that surrounded the prison fortress. He needed a plan to survive the swim. One possibility formed slowly: using floating debris, driftwood, or even clinging to a passing boat in his Animagus form. If he could get far enough from the island before changing back, he might stand a chance.

Lucius Malfoy

Meanwhile, Lucius Malfoy sat in his manor, pleased with himself. He had retrieved one of Voldemort’s old possessions, a diary belonging to Tom Riddle. He turned it over in his hands, remembering the instructions he’d been given years ago: keep it safe. Lucius was already shaping a plan around it, one that would ruin Dumbledore’s reputation, see Muggle-born students driven out of Hogwarts or worse, and get Arthur Weasley removed from the Ministry. The thought of it filled him with satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Harry was back at Privet Drive, and the Dursleys had wasted no time reminding him how unwanted he was. The moment he’d walked through the door, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had taken all of his school things and locked them away. His trunk had disappeared into the cupboard under the stairs with a bolt and a triumphant slam.

They’d moved him into Dudley’s second bedroom, which sounded like an upgrade until Harry saw it properly. A small bed sat among heaps of broken and discarded toys: ripped teddy bears, a smashed television, headless action figures, and a destroyed toy car with one wheel spinning uselessly. It smelled faintly of dust and old crisps.

Uncle Vernon had gone further this summer. Heavy iron bars now covered Harry’s bedroom window. The bedroom door bristled with seven locks on the outside, and at the bottom, a cat flap had been installed, not for a pet, but for passing through one miserable plate of food a day. Harry’s only comfort was knowing Hedwig was free. He’d let her fly off before boarding the Hogwarts Express months ago, so she hadn’t been trapped. Sometimes he’d spot a white blur outside the barred window, just long enough to feel less alone.

But most days were quiet and heavy and lonely. Harry missed Ron, Hermione, Neville, the common room, the food, even homework. Hogwarts had felt like home, this felt like a punishment he didn’t deserve. One night, everything went sideways.

A strange creature appeared in his bedroom, big eyes like tennis balls, long ears, trembling hands. A house-elf called Dobby. He spoke in anxious whispers, warning Harry not to return to Hogwarts. Harry was too stunned to speak at first. Stay here? With the Dursleys? Forever? That was impossible, cruel, even.

Before Harry could stop him, Dobby caused a disaster downstairs, resulting in smashed pudding and shrieking relatives. An owl arrived soon after, delivering a Ministry warning: Harry had used magic outside school. One more offence and he’d be expelled. Harry was furious with Dobby and terrified by the letter. Why would the elf try to keep him away from the only place he belonged?

He was still stewing days later when rescue literally flew to his window.

Late one night, an old blue car was floating outside his bedroom window. Ron Weasley at the wheel, with Fred and George crammed in the back. Relief flooded Harry so hard he thought he might actually cry. The twins hooked ropes to the bars and yanked them off the window frame with a groan of metal. Fred and George crept into the house, picked the locks on the cupboard, and retrieved his trunk and supplies with practiced ease. Not a single Dursley woke until the car was already lifting off into the sky.

As the Ford Anglia soared over Little Whinging, Harry pressed his face to the window, grinning like a little kid. The street lamps became pinpricks below, and with every mile they left behind, Privet Drive felt smaller and less significant. Ahead waited the Burrow, warm, crooked, alive, and the Weasleys, who actually wanted him there.

For the first time all summer, Harry felt free. The night air whipped through the open window, and he couldn’t help the burst of excitement that bubbled up inside him as the lights of the countryside blurred beneath the flying car.

The Ford Anglia bounced down the Burrow’s crooked driveway, kicking up dust and making the old wooden steps tremble. Harry tumbled out, legs wobbling with relief and excitement. Molly Weasley appeared in the doorway, her eyes widening as they swept over Harry. She hurried forward, her heart clenching at how thin and pale he looked. Good heavens… he’s even worse off than the children said, she thought, anxiety prickling her chest. She pulled him into a brief hug, careful not to alarm him, murmuring softly about the cold wind as she guided him inside. She was so alarmed by the state Harry was in, she forgot to chastise her children for their recklessness in rescuing Harry.

Inside, the house was as chaotic and lively. The twins darted about, chattering excitedly, while Ron hugged Harry so tightly he could barely breathe. Harry met Ron’s little sister Ginny, who only formed squeaks around him. Over the next few weeks, Harry settled into life at the Burrow. He shared a room with Ron, sleeping in a warm bed under a fluffy blanket. He enjoyed the amazing cooking of Mrs Weasley, and Mr Weasleys endless questions about non magical items. He explored every crooked corner of the house, helped the twins with small chores, and spent long afternoons laughing and flying with Ron and his brothers in the garden

Percy appeared at breakfast with a stack of letters. “School lists,” he said, laying them carefully on the table. That morning, the whole family bustled out of the Burrow, travelling via floo powder. Harry clutched his new list tightly and made sure to refill his money pouch at Gringotts. They moved from shop to shop, picking out owl supplies, quills, and ink, carefully working through each item. By midday, they arrived at Flourish and Blotts, where the excited chatter of the crowd filled the air. Gilderoy Lockhart was signing copies of his latest book, and among the throng Harry spotted Hermione and Neville, waving eagerly to him.

Harry’s attention was quickly grabbed when Gilderoy Lockhart spotted him and insisted on posing for a photograph, beaming and pointing his wand for the flash. Harry turned bright red, fumbling and wishing he could disappear. From across the room, Draco Malfoy snickered, loudly making fun of him, which only made Harry squirm more. Meanwhile, Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy’s degrading conversation escalated into a quiet scuffle, and in the confusion Lucius slyly slipped Tom Riddle’s diary into Ginny’s cauldron, hidden from view. The group made their way back to the Burrow, tired but buzzing with excitement for the term ahead.

When they reached the barrier at King’s Cross, Harry and Ron froze in panic, somehow the entrance to Platform 9¾ was sealed. They leapt into the flying Ford Anglia, hearts pounding, and soared to find the train and follow it to Hogwarts. Chaos ensued as they misjudged the landing, crashing into the Whomping Willow; branches lashed out, Rons’ wand snapped, and Snape’s scowl could have frozen them on the spot. Terrified and frazzled, they missed the Sorting, but once back at Hogwarts, the relief of being safely inside the castle washed over them.

Ginny settled into Gryffindor, classes resumed as normal, and before they knew it, Halloween had arrived.

During the Halloween feast, Harry was struck by a sudden, sharp pain in his head, followed by a pounding headache. He decided to leave early with Ron, Hermione, and Neville following. As they made their way through the corridors, a chilling whisper seemed to echo, “Rip… tear… kill”, drawing Harry toward a scene that made his stomach drop. Mrs Norris lay motionless on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of water, and scrawled across the wall were the words, “THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.".” Teachers quickly surrounded them, Draco sneering that mudbloods would be next, while Filch accused Harry of harming his cat. Dumbledore’s calm voice cut through the tension: “No, she has merely been petrified.”

Rumours spread like wildfire through Hogwarts, whispering that Harry might be the Heir of Slytherin. He couldn’t understand why everyone believed it, he wasn’t even in Slytherin. Yet what unsettled him most was the strange, chilling voice he’d heard on Halloween night. No one else had reacted, no one else had heard it. The thought gnawed at him; why could he hear it when no one else could?

During the first Quidditch match, chaos erupted as a rogue Bludger targeted Harry relentlessly. Despite his skill and reflexes, it smashed into his arm, breaking it – just as he caught the snitch and won the game. Lockhart leaned over him with excessive confidence, “removing” the bones with a flourish that left Harry cringing. That evening, whilst in the hospital wing to regrow all his arm bones, Colin Creevey was rushed in petrified. His camera fried. Dumbledore was sombre yet composed, confirming to the gathered staff that the Chamber of Secrets had indeed been opened once more. Dobby appeared reminding Harry that he told him not to return to Hogwarts, Harry angry that Dobby was the cause of the sealer barrier and rogue bludger. He fell into an uneasy sleep.

At the Duelling Club, the tension was thick as Harry faced off against Malfoy. With a sly grin, Malfoy conjured a serpent and sent it slithering toward him. Harry instinctively hissed at it in Parseltongue, commanding it not to attack. The hall fell deathly silent, and then erupted into whispers of horror. Students and teachers alike stared, shaken and suspicious. The realization that Harry could speak to snakes, spread quickly, and most of the students immediately began to vilify him. Only Ron, Hermione, and Neville refused to judge, standing by him as whispers and accusations swirled around the hall.

Still haunted by the strange voice echoing through the halls, Harry stumbled upon a washed up diary in an abandoned girls bathroom, Moaning Myrtle, the ghost of a schoolgirl who had died there years ago haunted the bathroom. Hesitantly, he wrote in the diary and soon uncovered its owner: Tom Riddle, Hogwarts’ head boy from fifty years ago. Through the diary, Harry learned that the last opening of the Chamber of Secrets had released a monstrous spider, and that Hagrid had been blamed for it. Determined to speak to Hagrid, Harry crept to the gamekeeper’s hut under his invisibility cloak, only to arrive in time to see Hagrid being confronted and arrested by Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, with Lucius Malfoy and  Dumbledore present. Hagrid’s face was pale with terror; he was being accused of a crime he hadn’t committed, and he was being sent to Azkaban.

Chaos swept through Hogwarts once more: Justin Finch-Fletchley was found petrified, his body frozen in rigid horror, and the sight of Nearly Headless Nick, also immobilized mid-floating, sent shivers down the students’ spines. Whispers and panic rippled through the castle as everyone realized the attacks were escalating, and fear took hold even among the older students. Harry was still the prime suspect.

Harry’s mind raced as he realized the truth: the voice he had been hearing wasn’t just a strange whisper.. it was a snake speaking, and that was why no one else could hear it. His stomach turned as he grabbed his bag, intending to rush to Hermione and Neville, but Professor McGonagall appeared, her expression grim. “Potter, Wealsey,” she said sharply, “Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater have been found petrified.” She held up the small hand mirrors that had been clutched in their frozen hands. Harry’s heart sank as the pieces clicked together, the creature behind the attacks had to be a basilisk, able to kill with a single stare. No one had ever seen the basilisk directly, Mrs Norris through the puddle of water on the floor, Colin through his camera lens, Justin through Nearly Headless Nick (who couldn’t die again) and Hermione and Penelope through their mirrors… Hermione must’ve figured it out too and warned Penelope. Now all Harry had to do was figure out where the Chamber was.

Ginny had been taken into the Chamber, and scrawled across the wall in jagged letters was the chilling message: “Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.” Harry and Ron grabbed Lockhart, the bumbling Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and dragged him along, trying to make sense of what to do next. Harry realized that the key to understanding the Chamber’s last opening lay with Moaning Myrtle, the ghost who had died there years before. They hurried to the abandoned bathroom, where Myrtle recounted her death in a trembling voice: yellow, slitted eyes had emerged from the sink, and she had frozen before it struck. Harry’s gaze fell on the sink itself; a faint symbol of a snake seemed etched into the porcelain. Holding his breath, he whispered in Parseltongue, “Open.” Slowly, the symbol glowed, and a hidden mechanism shifted, revealing a dark, gaping hole with a slick slide leading down into the unknown depths of the Chamber.

Descending into the Chamber, Harry and Ron were immediately met with chaos. Lockhart, waving Ron’s broken wand, attempted to erase their memories, but the magic rebounded, leaving him blank-eyed and catatonic on the floor. As the walls began to cave in, the boys were separated, forcing Harry to confront the danger alone. Before him lay Ginny, pale and lifeless, while a spectral figure of Tom Riddle revealed his true identity: he was Lord Voldemort, having possessed Ginny to reopen the Chamber. The basilisk lunged, but Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, swooped in, blinding the serpent and bringing the Sorting Hat to Harry. Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor from the hat and struck the basilisk down; a fang embedded in his arm allowed him to stab the diary, destroying Riddle’s memory and ending the possession. Poison coursed through Harry’s veins, but Fawkes’ tears healed him, saving his life. Ginny awoke, bewildered but alive, and Fawkes carried them all, Harry, Ron, and Ginny back to the bathroom, where the teachers waited.

Harry stood before Dumbledore in his office, recounting the events in the Chamber in careful detail, handing over the diary and the basilisk fang as proof. Lucius Malfoy stormed in shortly after, voice laced with fury, demanding Dumbledore be removed for his negligence. As the confrontation escalated, Harry realized with a flash of understanding that it had been Malfoy who had slipped the diary into Ginny’s cauldron all those months ago in Diagon Alley. Quietly, Harry freed Dobby, placing a sock inside the diary; Malfoy’s throw landed it at the house-elf’s feet, and Dobby, grateful, saved Harry from a last-ditch curse. Dumbledore listened to the chaos with calm eyes but avoided all of Harry’s probing questions, finally confirming that he would have to return to the Dursleys. Harry left the office uneasy, the encounter weighing heavily on him; he had survived Voldemort once more, yet Dumbledore’s secrecy made him increasingly suspicious, as if the headmaster was holding back truths that could be vital, and deadly.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, Harry spotted Hermione laughing softly with Ron and Neville, fully restored and as sharp as ever. Harry again was in the top two students. The house cup gleamed proudly on the table, another victory for Gryffindor, but what made Harry happiest was the warmth of his friends’ company. Surrounded by laughter, chatter, and the easy comfort of belonging. Another year was completed at Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

The night was bitterly cold, the wind slicing across the cliffs of Azkaban like a whip. Sirius Black pressed himself against the damp stone walls of his cell, every muscle aching, every bone weary from the starvation that had clawed at him for years. The faint light of the moon glinted on the iron bars, and for a moment, he let himself imagine the soft warmth of a fire at Potter Manor, or the sharp tang of the Forbidden Forest after a fresh rain.

A low growl rumbled in his chest. Sirius glanced around, eyes narrowing. He transformed into his Animagus form, and slipped through the bars of his cell. The passed the dementors on patrol. The guards were occupied, their voices carrying faintly from the watch room as they argued over a particularly complicated wizard’s chess match. They didn’t notice him slinking from shadow to shadow, his body thinning in the form of a Grim. Black fur shimmered along his spine, paws silent against the cold stone floor. Sirius got through the processing room, and slipped through the prison doors with a canine ease, his bulk disappearing into the night.

The cliff’s edge yawned before him. Below, the sea crashed against jagged rocks, each wave frothing white in the moonlight. Sirius hesitated only for a heartbeat, then lunged. The freezing water engulfed him instantly, dragging the air from his lungs and chilling his bones to their marrow. Pain lanced through him as he kicked and paddled, each stroke of his four paws a battle against exhaustion, hunger, and the bitter pull of the currents.

Then he heard it: a howl. High, clear, and piercing the night air. Sirius’ chest tightened. He knew that sound. His canine ears above beneath the water, instincts flaring. He changed direction, swimming toward the sound with a determination that burned hotter than his numb limbs. The water stung his skin, and every breath felt ragged, but he pushed forward, driven by the thought of Moony, by the hope of seeing his godson again.

Miles away, deep in the forest that lay close to the island, Remus Lupin’s heart thumped against his ribs. He crouched among the gnarled roots, his eyes tracing the silver sheen of moonlight filtering through the trees. The forest was alive with the quiet shuffle of nocturnal creatures, but Remus’ focus was elsewhere. Tonight, he would call for his friend. Tonight, he would remind him that he was not alone.

The moon climbed higher, bathing the forest in pale light. Remus looked at the small empty vial at his side, Wolfsbane. The last dose this month before his transformation. He had taken the last of it earlier that evening, a bitter draught that would keep the beast in the background of his mind, leaving the man in charge. His body tensed, muscles coiling. Fur rippled across his skin, bones shifting, teeth sharpening. The transformation came in a rush. Blinding agony, never made easier by the amount of transformations that he had suffered through since childhood.

He lifted his head and howled.

The sound rolled through the trees, echoing across the hills and over the cold, churning waters. It carried a message, simple yet profound: I am here. You are not alone.

Sirius’ lungs screamed for air, his muscles trembling as he clawed toward the forested shoreline. Every stroke felt like dragging lead through ice, but the howl had not faltered, it pulsed through the night like a tether, unyielding. Somewhere beneath the silver light, he could feel the presence of the wolf, the unmistakable rhythm of Moony’s heartbeat in his voice, steady and guiding.

The waves broke around him, frothing and biting, until finally his paws scrabbled at the muddy bank. He hauled himself up, shivering violently, teeth chattering as his soaked fur clung to him. Darkness pressed in from all sides, but Sirius’ sharp eyes caught the glint of fur and the unmistakable shape of a wolf in the shadows.

Moony.

Even in the pale, trembling light, Sirius recognized the stance, the tilt of the head, the wolf was familiar, and yet dangerous. Moony’s amber eyes met his, cautious but filled with relief. Sirius felt the old surge of mischievous defiance, the memory of their school days when they had practised Animagus transformations in secret, ready to run with the wolf and make his transformation easier. Even as a wolf, Moony remembered the Grim, the shape Sirius had taken countless times to calm him, to chase away the dark edges of a full moon.

Moony’s ears twitched, his fur bristling with cautious joy. The howl came again, lower this time, reverberating through Sirius’ bones. Sirius responded with a deep, rumbling growl that was equal parts greeting and relief. The tension in the air broke like ice underfoot.

They circled each other warily, the moonlight painting silver streaks across their black and grey fur. Sirius knew the hunger in his body, the ache from starvation, would take time to fade, but he didn’t care. He could feel the warmth of connection, the tether of trust and history binding him to Moony, and that alone gave him strength.

Moony padded closer, nose twitching, sniffing the Grim that had been part of his pack along with Prongs and Wormtail so many moons ago. Recognition flared in his eyes, and he nudged Sirius with a tentative paw. Sirius barked softly in reply, spinning around, tail lashing, a mixture of joy, relief, and the old Marauder mischief that had survived even the coldest nights of Azkaban.

Sirius let out a long, low howl, answering Moony’s earlier call, a signal of survival, of reunion, and of battles still to come.

They moved through the forest with the silent precision of predators, ears pricked, noses twitching, senses sharpened by the cold night air. Sirius led, Moony flanking, their movements synchronized from years of shared instinct. They hunted small game, the snap of twigs and the rustle of leaves marking each successful catch. Hunger gnawed at them, but the thrill of the chase, the shared focus, kept their minds sharp. Every kill was a small victory, a reminder that freedom tasted sweet and hard-won.

Finally, full of hunted prey and exhausted, they found a hollow beneath the roots of an ancient oak. Hidden and sheltered, it smelled of damp earth and old leaves, humble, but safe. Sirius curled against the mossy floor, muscles aching from the swim, the hunt, the night’s exertions. Moony lay beside him, his body coiled protectively, ears twitching as if listening to threats only he could hear.

Sirius watched the moonlight fade from the sky, aware of the time ticking away before Remus would transform back. He let out a low, contented growl and pressed closer. For the first time in months, Azkaban felt like a distant nightmare, and the forest, the howl, and the quiet warmth of a friend made freedom feel real.

As the moon faded and the first dawn light shone upon the horizon, Moony’s body shuddered, fur receding, bones and muscles reshaping until he stood human once more. He blinked, rubbing his face, the cold night leaving a faint pink flush across his skin. Beside him, Sirius trembled slightly, his own massive form shrinking, fur receding until he too was fully human again, cloak of black hair falling back into dark, tangled waves.

Remus’s eyes were sharp, searching. “Did you… betray them?” His voice was low, hoarse from the howl, but the weight behind it was crushing. “I need to know, Sirius. I need to know the truth.”

Sirius dropped to his knees, shoulders shaking, grief spilling from him in ragged, helpless gasps. “No… no, it wasn’t me,” he choked. “It was Wormtail. We… we switched at the last minute. We thought… we thought no one would suspect him. We wanted them safe… we thought it would keep everyone safe.”

Remus stared, disbelief and relief warring on his face. Sirius buried his head in his hands, inconsolable, the years of imprisonment and suspicion pouring out in silent sobs. And then, as the truth sank in, Remus’s knees gave way beneath him. His own tears fell freely, anger and guilt twisting together. “I thought… I thought it was you all these years… I hated you… I—”

The forest held its breath as they sat there, broken and trembling, friends reunited yet scarred by suspicion and betrayal. Finally, without words, they leaned against each other, finding solace in the raw truth that, at last, neither of them had been alone in the lies that had haunted them for so long.

“We need a plan,” Remus said, voice thin with the restlessness that had followed the night. He pushed himself up, rubbing the stiffness from his limbs. “They’re going to find out you’re gone any minute. We have to leave.. now.”

Sirius’ jaw set. He dragged a ragged hand through hair that still smelled faintly of salt and smoke. “My mother’s dead,” he said, the words flat. “We’ll be able to get into Grimmauld Place. My uncle never actually disinherited me, Mother just liked the dramatics. That old bat burned my name off the family tapestry when she went mad, but there’s no legal thing that takes the house away. It’s still ours.”

Remus’ eyes went hard. “A house full of Blacks, wards, family portraits and a name all over the Ministry records.. are you daft? They’ll be searching for you. Grimmauld Place is a target, Sirius. You going home will put everything in a magnifying glass.”

Sirius laughed, but it was a cracked, desperate sound. “I’m not going to waltz in and ring the bell. Grimmauld Place isn’t some ordinary house, the old Black wards are vicious. They don’t just bar the door; they hide the house itself. No one can see it unless they know the address, and even if they stumble close, the spells turn them aside. The family made it that way on purpose. Paranoid, batty rituals passed down for generations. Only a Black by blood, or someone explicitly ferried through by a Black, can cross those thresholds without tripping deadly curses. That’s why most people only ever knew roughly where the place sits on a map. I’m the only one who can get in properly; the rest would be groping around the wrong street and calling it luck.”

Remus stared at him, old suspicion flickering against the raw relief in his eyes. “You know what will happen if they find you” he said, voice low and tense. “The Ministry will come down hard, you will probably get the dementors kiss.. Dumbledore—” He cut himself off, swallowing. “I don’t trust Dumbledore,” Remus admitted finally, his jaw tight. “He kept me from Harry all this time. He wouldn’t let me see you… he backed legislation that made it harder for me to find work.”

Sirius’s eyes were hard, dark with anger and something more dangerous—desperation edged every word. “He knew I wasn’t the Secret Keeper,” he spat, voice tight. “He was the witness when James and Lily cast the Fidelius Charm. And yet… he sent me away. Left Pettigrew free all these years. I don’t know why he lied, Remus, I don’t know what game he’s playing—but it feels like… like he wanted me out of the way, so he could have Harry all to himself. I thought he was protecting everyone before they died, but he let chaos rule instead. I’m done waiting for anyone else to fix this, I am not about to let him have any part in ruining anybody else's life.”

Sirius’s gaze flicked to the horizon, tense but resolute. “Grimmauld Place. It’s the only place we’ll have to think, to plan… to survive.”

Remus nodded slowly, fear and loyalty warring in his chest. He’d known the Black house as a prison, a place of torment and cold walls, but he saw the truth in Sirius now: it was also the only shelter they might have.

Remus pressed his palms to his face for a long beat, then looked up. The Wolfsbane had held; the lucidness in his eyes steadied him. “All right,” he said finally. “But if we go there, we move fast, we move quiet, and we tell no one until we know who’s safe to tell.”

Sirius let out a breath that might have been a laugh and might have been a sob. “Quiet and fast,” he agreed. “Just like the old days, only with less sneaking into class and more sneaking around death.”

The trees around them whispered the last of the night away. Ahead, the world was waking ignorant and dangerous; behind them, Azkaban’s salt-spray hissed into the dark. Sirius held on tightly to Remus’ arm, and waited for him to apparate them away to the step outside Grimmauld Place.

THE DAILY PROPHET
BREAKING NEWS: SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN
August 1, 1993

By Rita Skeeter

In a shocking turn of events, convicted murderer and known Death Eater Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban prison, the Ministry of Magic confirmed last night. Black, who was serving a life sentence for thirteen counts of murder and for his role in the betrayal that led to the deaths of James and Lily Potter, reportedly vanished from his cell sometime during the night of July 31, 1993.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement spokespersons have warned that Black is considered extremely dangerous and is likely armed, potentially with a firearm the muggles call a gun. Ministry officials have confirmed that Black is charged with:

• Thirteen counts of murder with the blasting Curse
• Providing information to you-know-who that directly resulted in the deaths of James and Lily Potter
• Service to you-know-who – being a known death eater

The circumstances of his escape remain unclear, but sources indicate that the Azkaban guards were occupied in the watch room during the event. The prison’s fearsome Dementors, designed to keep even the most powerful wizards imprisoned, were bested under mysterious circumstances. Investigations are ongoing.

The Ministry has issued an urgent warning to all witches and wizards: approach Black with extreme caution, and immediately report any sightings. Those who may have knowledge of Black’s whereabouts are asked to contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

This marks the first ever escape in Azkaban’s history. Officials emphasize that Black’s escape poses a significant threat to the wizarding community, and efforts to recapture him are ongoing.

Readers are urged to stay informed and take all precautions to ensure safety.

Chapter Text

Azkaban’s chill corridors were alive with alarm bells by the time the first Aurors arrived. The guards were in disarray, all ashen-faced, stammering half-formed explanations, trying desperately to make sense of what they’d allowed to happen. The cell was empty. The door still locked. No signs of forced exit, no tampered wards, no breached stone.

Just the echo of something that should have been impossible.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was in chaos. Files were being ripped from shelves, maps of the British Isles plastered across walls, Aurors summoned from every corner of the country. Someone kept repeating the same useless phrase over and over: “He can’t have just vanished.”

But he had.

Cornelius Fudge arrived before breakfast, puffed up in his green bowler hat and trying not to look terrified. The first thing he did was summon Dolores Umbridge, his senior undersecretary, who came mincing in pink and smugness, already drafting statements for the press. She kept repeating the phrase “negligent oversight” with a little too much relish. Fudge insisted he would personally oversee the search. He made a show of demanding reports, shoving blame, and pacing the corridors as though pacing counted as leadership. But his hands shook each time someone mentioned how long Sirius had been gone before anyone noticed.

They sent word to Dumbledore almost immediately, Fudge insisted on it. Panic made his voice wobble as he dictated the patronus, and though he tried to frame it as a courtesy to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, everyone in the room knew he wanted advice more than protocol. Dumbledore arrived at the Ministry before the Daily Prophet had even begun drafting its special edition. His expression was unreadable, gaze sharp behind the half-moon spectacles. No outrage. No shock. Just quiet calculation that made several officials more uneasy than any tantrum might have.

“He will go to someone he trusts,” Dumbledore said mildly, as though they were discussing school schedules and not a fugitive branded a mass-murderer. “Panic will only scatter your resources.”

Fudge nodded too quickly, almost gratefully, pretending it had been his thought to begin with. Fudge ordered dementors to be sent to guard Hogwarts, pushed by Umbridge’s fanatical speeches. Dumbledore refused without raising his voice. Behind closed doors, voices rose, threats were made, and the Ministry began drafting decrees before the ink on the Prophet was dry.

At Hogwarts, the staffroom crackled with unease. Filius Flitwick read the article twice, his lips thinned to a razor line. Severus Snape merely sneered over his teacup.

“I warned you he was unstable even at school,” Snape drawled. “But no one listened. Perhaps next time you’ll believe me when I say Azkaban is too lenient.”

Flitwick's eyes flashed. “You hated him. That is not the same as knowing him.” Snape didn’t respond, only sipped his tea with infuriating calm.

At the Burrow, the paper slipped from Molly Weasley’s hands into her porridge. Arthur swore softly under his breath. Fred and George read aloud every line as though narrating a Quidditch match, their grins fading the further they went. Ron stared at the photograph, Black’s gaunt face, hollow eyes. A chill crawled up his spine. “That’s.. you’d have to be mental to look at him and not run,” he muttered, voice thin.

Scabbers who was curled in Ron’s robe pocket, let out a faint, frantic squeak no one paid mind to. The rat bolted. He shot from Ron’s lap to the floor with a blur of grey fur and disappeared under the dresser before anyone realised he was gone.

“Scabbers?” Ron said weakly, startled out of his stupor. He didn’t move to follow. His eyes were still on the photograph.

In the drawing room at Malfoy Manor, morning light spilled across obsidian floors and silk settees. Lucius Malfoy broke the wax seal on the Daily Prophet with a practiced flick of his cane, intending only to scan the headlines. He didn’t get past the first page.

 Sirius Black Escapes Azkaban.

His eyes stilled, then narrowed. The page crackled as his grip tightened.

Across from him, Narcissa looked up lazily from her tea, until she saw the name. Her expression twisted, not with fear, but with venomous disdain. “He should have died in that cell,” she said coolly. “All those years wasted and he still manages to be a disgrace. If he’d had the decency to perish, Draco would have inherited the Black estate by now.”

Lucius didn’t correct her. His mind was already racing through implications: trials, testimonies, allegiances buried under silence and gold. Sirius Black alive and out of Azkaban was an unpredictable variable, one that needed to be controlled.

Narcissa rose and crossed to him, snatching the paper from his hand to read the article herself. Her lip curled in disgust. “Blood traitor vermin. My mother should have burned him out of the family properly when she had the chance.”

Lucius watched her, thoughtful. “If he resurfaces, the Ministry will descend on every pure blood household with a ‘connection’ to him. Our name is still tied to his by marriage law.”

“Then cut it,” Narcissa said sharply. “We should have done it years ago. I won’t have that filth’s name touching Draco’s.”

Lucius smoothed his cuffs, voice low. “I’ll speak with Fudge before this turns into hysteria. The Minister will want assurances.”

“And if Black starts talking?” Narcissa asked, eyes glinting coldly. “About the Dark Lord. About who stood where.” Lucius paused. Just long enough for the silence to mean something.

“Then,” he said, “we’ll make sure he doesn’t.” They left the Prophet crumpled on the table Sirius Black’s hollow-eyed photograph sneering up at the ceiling.

Amelia Bones, the head of the DMLE, sat behind her desk for the first time that morning, a cup of tea gone cold at her elbow and half a dozen reports scattered across the blotter. She had been awoken that morning by a Patronus message from the Azkaban guards. Sirius Black has escaped.

The words had echoed through every briefing, every frantic report, every Auror memo shoved under her door. Now, as she finally paused long enough to sit, the official documentation lay in front of her, ward breach logs, guard statements, Ministry dispatch records. None of it sat cleanly in her mind.

No trial. No interrogation. Just a cell and silence for twelve years.. and now this.

She remembered him at twenty. He was sharp, reckless, irritatingly charming, stubborn about justice in a way that made people underestimate how dangerous he could really be. She had never forgotten how he’d spoken about the Potters, about the boy they’d asked him to be godfather to. The man she knew would have died before he betrayed James and Lily.

But that was twelve years ago. And now he had broken out of Azkaban. Something no one in recorded history had done.

Duty didn’t leave room for ghosts. A knock at the doorframe drew her from her thoughts. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood there, expression taut.

“Madam Bones, the Minister wants hourly updates. Aurors Dawlish and Proudfoot are assembling teams to sweep the mainland ports. Scrimgeour’s demanding full Auror deployment by afternoon.”

Amelia nodded once. “Pull back Dawlish, he’ll bungle it and spook half the population before lunch. I want my best trackers on this, quietly. If Black’s survived this long in that pit, he won’t get caught by brute force.”

Kingsley hesitated, voice dropping. “Do you believe he did it?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the Azkaban report, then to the map of Britain marked with apparition points and ferry routes.

“What I believe,” she said at last, carefully, “doesn’t change the fact that he escaped a high-security prison. That makes him a threat until proven otherwise.”

She straightened the Prophet and closed the file with a decisive thud.

“Find him. We’ll bring him in. Once he’s caught, he’ll have his day in court. If he’s guilty, he’ll return to Azkaban, no question. He will be kissed if found guilty. He can’t be trusted not to escape again.”

Kingsley nodded, taking the new orders and leaving with quiet efficiency.

When the door closed, Amelia let herself a single, lingering breath. A memory surfaced unbidden: Sirius leaning against the staircase banister, sunlight catching the gold in his eyes, his hand brushing hers as he whispered some reckless, teasing remark about rules neither of them wanted to follow. Then, without thinking, he had leaned closer, and their lips had met in a familiar, tender kiss.

She pushed it aside. Duty came first. The hunt had already begun.

Minerva McGonagall stood at the window of her office, the Daily Prophet clutched loosely in one hand. Outside, the Forbidden Forest loomed dark and restless beneath the stars.

“He’s escaped,” she whispered, though the headline already said as much.

Behind her, the door creaked. Dumbledore entered, his face unreadable. “You’ve seen the news, then.”

“Of course I’ve seen it,” she snapped, turning on him. “And I imagine you expected it before anyone else.”

He smiled faintly, weary but calm. “Sirius was never one for confinement.”

McGonagall’s lips tightened. “And what of Harry? What will you tell him this time?”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful, cool, almost pitying. “Only what he needs to know.”

When he left, Minerva’s eyes followed him into the dark corridor, a cold twist of unease growing in her chest. Only what he needs to know.

She folded the paper and set it aside. Somehow, she knew that was precisely what frightened her most.

Chapter Text

Harry lay flat on his bed in the small bedroom at Number Four, the thin blanket pulled up to his chin. The Dursleys had made it clear he was to behave. No fuss, no noise. Harry was keeping his promise, he was making no noise and pretending like he didn’t exist. His trunk and wand had been locked up like usual as soon as he returned from Hogwarts, but at least he wasn’t locked up this time.

The Surrey Comet newspaper lay on the chair by the window, the kind of muggle newspaper he usually ignored. Tonight, curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had stealthily snatched it out of the recycling bin in the kitchen. He peeked at the headlines without moving a muscle, his green eyes scanning the words.

“Mass murderer escapes high-security prison. Authorities warn public: Armed and extremely dangerous.”

The article gave no name, no location, only stark warnings. Harry’s heart thudded in his chest, though he forced himself to stay still, silent. The words pricked at the back of his mind.  He had seen that person before. Somewhere deep within his consciousness he knew. The memory hovered on the edge, but he couldn’t fully grasp it.

Tomorrow, Aunt Marge would be arriving. He had made a promise to the Dursleys. No magic, no outbursts, and no freakiness. The smallest misstep might give Vernon an excuse to withhold his Hogsmeade permission form. And that form was his only chance to visit the village with his friends. It hung like a fragile thread between him and freedom.

Harry hugged the blanket tighter, willing himself to relax and sleep. He could be “normal” tomorrow. He could be small, quiet, unmagical… a ghost if he needed to. It was a performance, but a necessary one.

The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the living room windows as Harry hovered near the foot of the stairs, stomach tight with nerves. Vernon had just got back from collecting Marge and was ushering her inside the house. Her handbag swung violently against her hip, and Ripper, the monstrous bulldog, trotted behind her, slobbering and snapping at the furniture.

“Harry!” Vernon barked, jerking a thumb toward the trunks and boxes piled by the hall. “Take her things up to the guest room. Quick about it.”

Harry swallowed hard, keeping one wary eye on Ripper as he stepped forward. The dog growled low, its claws scraping the floor, teeth flashing whenever Harry shifted. He edged around the beast, hands trembling as he lifted a heavy bag, careful not to jostle it too much. Marge’s sharp voice followed him every step of the way.

“Don’t just stand there, boy, move it!” Her perfume hit him like a wall, and the wet dog smell clung to the air, mixing into a nauseating cloud. Harry forced himself to ignore both.

Every careful step was an exercise in patience. One wrong move and Ripper would snap, or Marge would find another insult to hurl. Harry’s stomach twisted at the thought, but he kept moving, determined not to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Ten minutes later, Harry was back downstairs and sat on the end of the dining table where the rest of his relatives sat. He took a deep breathe, and tried to focus on the thought of being able to go to Hogsmede.

“Well, well, look at you,” she spat, her eyes narrowing as they swept over Harry’s thin frame and untidy hair. “Still scrawny, still filthy, and still sitting there like some pathetic little orphan. Honestly, Vernon, I don’t know how you’ve managed to keep a child like this alive. I hate to think of you spending all that money, keeping him fed and clothed… and for what? Look at him! He’s a drain, every bit as useless as his wretched parents!”

Harry gritted his teeth, hands tight around his knife and fork. No magic. No outburst. Keep calm. Don’t be a freak. Just behave. The words bit deep. Harry felt the familiar pulse of anger thrumming behind his temples, his chest burning, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, holding back the magic, holding back the roar he wanted to unleash.

Marge leaned forward, voice sharp and venomous. “And your parents, what a pair of drunks! No wonder he turned out like this. That pitiful little face, that scruffy hair, those sallow cheeks! He should be grateful he’s even alive!” She slammed her hand down on the table, rattling the plates and silverware. “Honestly, I can’t believe I have to sit here with this… thing! I’ve never seen such a hopeless little boy!”

Her wine glass wobbled in her hand as she gestured wildly, and then, as if the tension in the room had finally peaked, it shattered, splinters biting into her palm. Marge yelped, flinging her hand back, the shards tinkling across the table.

It was not a plan. It was not even a thought. It was a surge, hot and sudden that rolled through him and out into the room.

The napkin at Marge’s elbow puffed up like a little grey cloud. The food on her plate quivered. For a second nobody realised what was happening; Marge’s mouth was open mid-sentence, then her sleeve ballooned, then her shoulders, then her whole person began to fill with a ridiculous, obscene inflation, as if she was being inflated like a balloon.

“Vernon!” she squealed, voice becoming high and thin, as the back of her chair scraped and tipped. Ripper backed away, ears flat, barking in a smaller, panic-stricken register. Plates slid and clattered. Harry’s fork toppled from his fingers.

He sat very still, limbs suddenly useless, breath catching in his throat. The world narrowed to the sight of his aunt swelling like a grotesque, living pillow, her blouse straining, the buttons popping. The ceiling loomed. The chandelier brushed the top of her hair. She bumped the ceiling with a dull, obscene thud. For an instant everything held ,  the clatter, the barking, Vernon’s astringent shout and Harry’s stomach dropped with the knowledge of what he’d done.

“No.. no.. no.. ” The thought ricocheted through him, panic taste sharp as glass. He had promised. He had broken the law. Magic outside of school was forbidden, punishable by expulsion, and now.. now he’d blown his aunt like a balloon, and there was no hiding it.

Vernon’s face went red and purple, veins standing out at his temple. “You. What have you done? You fix her now!!” His voice broke into a scream of rage. He grabbed at Marge’s inflated sleeve, shaking it, shouting for help.

Harry bolted. He didn’t think about anything but leaving. Leaving right now.

He shoved the cupboard door open and fumbled in the half-dark. His hands found the trunk by feel first, leather cold and familiar, his fingers fumbling the buckles as if they were a lifeline. He tore the lid up, heart a drum in his throat.

He grabbed his wand out  and slammed the trunk shut and dragged it out he ran. He did not stop to collect Hedwig’s cage, she was out hunting. He was sure she would be able to find him, wherever he ended up. He just took his trunk and his wand and ran.

Down the hall Vernon was between him and the front door, face red, spit bright on his moustache. “You little.. ” Uncle Vernon lunged, hands about to close around his neck. Harry jerked aside instinctively and raised his wand. Vernon cowered and ran back into the kitchen.

He ran out of the house into the fading sunlight, the house behind him burst into a chorus of Uncle Vernon’s furious shouting, Marge’s high screams mixed with the thuds of her body against the ceiling, and Ripper’s frantic barking.

Harry did not look back. He sprinted toward the edge of Privet Drive. His fingers ached around his trunk and wand, but he refused to loosen his grip. He had to get away. He had to hide. Magic outside school was a serious offense, he was going to be expelled, and what if this breach of the law was so severe they sent him to prison? A wave of nausea rolled through him, twisting his stomach with panic.

London. Gringotts. He could get his money there, enough to hide and survive until he could figure out his next move. But how to get there without being seen? His mind raced, weighing the streets. He had no muggle money to call a cab or get on a bus. He had his broom? He could wait until the dead of night and fly towards London.

He was crouched over his trunk, trying to pull himself together, when a sharp, echoing bark cut through the street. He stumbled back over his own trunk, and in the sudden panic, the world shimmered for a heartbeat. And then, as if the universe had answered his need, a bright purple shape materialized in front of him, solid and humming with purpose. It’s windows gleaming and its engine idling, waiting. Harry’s heart thudded in disbelief. The impossible, the magical solution he didn’t even know he could summon, was here, just a few feet away.

The door swung open with a creak, and a lean figure in a sharp purple uniform stepped onto the pavement. “Good evening, sir,” he said, tipping a smart little hat. “Name’s Stan Shunpike, conductor of the Knight Bus. I’m here to get you safely to your destination. If you’ll just step aboard, sir, we’ll be off in a jiffy.” Harry’s jaw went slack for a moment, still clinging to the trunk. He nodded, voice caught somewhere between awe and panic. “Uh… yeah… right… thank you.”

The purple bus hummed and shuddered beneath him, the city streets folding and twisting as if the world itself were bending around its impossible route. Harry clutched his wand to his chest, heart still hammering, as the scenery outside became a blur of streetlamps, midnight, and puddles reflecting fractured lights.

“Easy there, sir,” Stan Shunpike said from the front seat, glancing back at Harry with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. “We’re almost at your stop.”

Harry’s stomach did a flip. Almost at his stop? His mind ran a mile a minute. Where were they going? What would happen when he got there? Could he even face the wizarding authorities after what he’d done? He’d broken the law. He’d done magic outside school. He was going to be expelled… or worse.

The bus screeched to a halt in a narrow, cobbled street that Harry recognized instantly. The Leaky Cauldron loomed in the shadows, its warm amber windows cutting through the chill of the London night. With a clatter of steps and a slight jolt of the bus, they arrived, and Harry tumbled off, still clutching his wand and dragging his trunk.

Cornelius Fudge was waiting by the door, hands behind his back, staring at Harry with an unreadable expression. Panic clawed at Harry’s chest. The Minister for Magic, here, now.. he must know. He must know what happened!

“Potter,” Fudge said, and Harry flinched at the sternness of the greeting. He braced himself. Fudge laughed, a short, unexpectedly warm sound that made Harry blink. “I’ve heard the story. Accidental magic, hmm?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Your aunt is fine, yes, quite unharmed and won’t remember a thing boy, no need for the Aurors.”

Harry’s chest unclenched so suddenly he nearly toppled backward. “I… I’m not… in trouble?” he stammered.

“Not for this,” Fudge said with a chuckle. “This is… unfortunate, yes. Terribly rude, yes. But accidents happen. We’ll consider it a lesson in control, hm?”

Harry blinked, stunned. His relief was almost dizzying. “But… the Knight Bus… the..”

“Ah, yes, the bus is an expedient,” Fudge said with a shrug. “Best get you out of the Muggle world, Potter. It’s not safe at the moment. Black is on the loose, and we can’t risk you stumbling into trouble. You’ll stay here, in Diagon Alley, until I arrange for someone to escort you to the Hogwarts Express. Tom has already arranged a room for you, and you can settle the bill before you leave like last time.”

Harry nodded, a mix of nerves and relief washing over him. He hadn’t expected kindness. The calm, measured authority in the Minister’s voice carried reassurance.

“Good,” Fudge said. “Take a room at the Leaky Cauldron. Eat, rest, and do not wander away from the Alley. We’ll keep an eye on things. You will be safe here.”

Harry followed Tom the Landlord through the pub, the warm air of the inn smelling of stew and firewood. He set his trunk down in the small room assigned to him, heart still thrumming, and allowed himself a deep, shaky breath. Hedwig appeared at the small window, and Harry smiled in relief.

A patronus, pale silver and shaped like a raven, swooped through the open window and landed on McGonagall’s desk. Fudge’s voice echoed faintly from it: “Potter’s safe. Leaky Cauldron. No charges.”

Relief washed through her, but it was short-lived.

Dumbledore, seated across the table, only nodded. “As I expected,” he murmured.

“As you arranged, more likely,” McGonagall said quietly, unable to keep the edge from her tone. “You always know how to make the Ministry dance when it suits your purposes.”

His head lifted sharply, a flicker of alarm breaking through his usual calm. “Minerva..” he began, but she met his gaze squarely, her eyes bright with restrained fury. For the briefest moment, the air between them felt charged, the headmaster’s composure cracking just enough to show the man beneath , tired, defensive, and suddenly uncertain of his control.

“Would you rather the boy had been expelled?” he asked, the smoothness of his voice stretched too thin.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she looked away, down toward the darkening grounds where the lights of Hagrid’s hut flickered faintly in the mist.

“No,” she said at last. “I’d rather he were safe, not merely protected by your idea of it.”

Dumbledore’s fingers tightened around his teacup. A faint crack sounded, the china splintering before he quietly set it down. His eyes followed her to the window, the calm mask sliding back into place, but not quite quickly enough.

In the silence that followed, the rift between them widened just a little more.

Chapter Text

Remus moved quietly along the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, his eyes scanning the crowd with a careful, wolfish alertness. The sun glinted off shop windows and broomsticks whizzed overhead, but his attention was elsewhere. There, by the fountain outside Florean Fortescue’s, he spotted a familiar silhouette, the same stubborn set of the jaw, the same wild untamed black hair. Harry. The resemblance to James, his friend, his brother in everything but blood, hit Remus like a physical blow.

Remus slid onto the bench beside him, careful not to startle him. Harry looked up, startled. “Hello,” Remus said softly, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I’m Remus Lupin. I… I knew your parents very well. James was a good friend, and Lily… well, she was extraordinary. You take after him,” he added, letting a faint smile touch his lips, “but you’ve got your mother’s eyes.”

Harry blinked, barely nodding, and Remus’s gaze swept over him more carefully. “How are you here… on your own, in Diagon Alley?” he asked gently.

Harry hesitated, then murmured, “…My relatives… they… Fudge said I could stay here for a while.”

Remus’s eyes softened, but he couldn’t help the flicker of concern. Harry was small, smaller than he remembered James at that age and thin.. too thin, the gaunt line of his cheeks standing out beneath dark shadows.

Remus smiled softly, leaning back on the bench. “You know,” he began, “your dad… James, he was brilliant at getting into trouble. Always thinking he was cleverer than everyone else. But he loved people and he’d do anything for his friends.” He chuckled faintly, and Harry’s lips twitched in the faintest smile.

“And your mother,” Remus continued, voice gentle, “Lily… she was clever too, but in a different way. Kind, fierce, always knowing just what to say. She’d have loved seeing you now, you’ve got her eyes, like I said. Bright, sharp… and stubborn.”

Harry leaned forward, curious despite himself. “I… I don’t remember them,” he admitted quietly.

Remus nodded. “I know, I know… but I can tell you stories. You were a brave little thing, even as a baby. I remember the first time I held you, tiny, all fingers and toes, and somehow, even then, you had this… determination about you. You’d wriggle and squirm like you were already planning your next adventure.”

Harry’s green eyes softened, a little colour returning to his pale cheeks. “You knew them… really knew them?”

“I did,” Remus said, voice steady. “And I knew you from the start. Your parents… they trusted you to me, in a way, when they couldn’t be here. I’ve been searching for you ever since.. I couldn’t find you at your relatives’, and I’ve been looking for any way to make sure you’re safe. You’re not alone, Harry. Not really.”

Harry felt the tight knot in his chest loosen a fraction. He wanted to ask more, but for now, he just nodded, letting the comfort of someone who had truly known his parents seep in.

Remus’s gaze flicked toward the shops and the bustling street, still mindful of the world beyond this moment. “How about we get another ice cream? My treat. They sat and chatted for a while, sun beaming down and ice creams eaten before they could melt.

“There’s something I think you should do,” Remus said gently, resting a hand lightly on the back of the chair. “We should go to Gringotts. Your parents… they left a will there, and the goblins can make sure everything’s in place for you. It’s nothing to be worried about, it’s just… practical. So you know exactly what’s yours, and we can make sure there aren’t any surprises waiting for you.”

Harry’s green eyes widened. “My parents’ vault?”

Remus smiled softly. “Yes. I’ll be with you the whole time. It’ll be quick, and you won’t have to do anything alone. Think of it as checking a treasure chest, only this one belonged to your mum and dad.”

They walked side by side down the cobbled streets, Remus keeping close to the shadows, a quiet guardian guiding Harry toward the towering doors of Gringotts.

The heavy doors of Gringotts loomed over them, gleaming like polished ivory in the morning light. Inside, Harry followed Remus through the winding corridors, past silent goblins counting endless rows of gold, they asked the teller for Griphook, and were soon ushered into his familiar office.

The office smelled of polished stone and metal. Harry perched on the edge of the high-backed chair, hands sweaty in his lap. Across the room, Griphook’s sharp eyes scanned him with a mixture of curiosity and sadness.

“You wish to see your parents’ will?” Griphook asked, voice clipped, precise, his long fingers tapping against the desk in measured, metallic rhythm.

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir. I… I was told that the Ministry version was sealed the night, well, when my parents…” His throat tightened. “…when they died. But I was told you might have a copy.”

Griphook’s ears twitched sharply, and he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “The Ministry sealed the official copy the night your parents… died,” he said, voice clipped. “But you should have received this copy, the one your parents entrusted to us, on your eleventh birthday. It was never meant to be withheld. You have received nothing?”

“No,” Harry said quickly, the words tight. “Nothing at all. I never got anything from Gringotts.”

The goblin’s expression darkened, a flicker of indignation crossing his face. “This is… unacceptable,” he hissed, tapping a long clawed finger against the desk. “A matter of law, of trust! Your parents left this with us precisely so that it would reach you. You should have had it years ago.”

Harry swallowed, heart hammering. He had no idea what to expect.

Griphook’s thin lips curled into a grim line. “Very well. If this is to be done properly, a witness is required. A goblin, present and sworn to record, to ensure nothing is tampered with. Tododon!”

A second figure, a goblin called Tododon appeared in the doorway, eyes glittering with careful scrutiny. Griphook gestured toward a drawer in his desk. “The will your parents left… Lily and James Potter. Properly sealed, delivered into our keeping. It has never been read aloud. Until now, by your request, you have the right to hear it.”

Harry’s green eyes were wide, every nerve on edge. He had imagined this moment countless times, but nothing had prepared him for the weight of the silence in the room, the authority in the goblins’ voices, and the metallic chill of the office pressing against him. “Begin,” Griphook said finally, and the second goblin stepped forward, quill in hand, ready to witness history being unfurled.

Harry’s fingers gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles white. Griphook read out loud

Last Will and Testament of Lily Evans Potter and James Fleamont Potter

A Magical Binding Contract witnessed by:

TinKnife – Senior Account Manager

Griphook – Account Manager

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump

Completed and Authenticated on 2nd August 1981

We, Lily Evans Potter and James Fleamont Potter, being of sound mind and under no compulsion, do hereby set forth our Last Will and Testament.

Secret Keeper

It is herein declared that the Secret Keeper of our Fidelius Charm at Godric’s Hollow is Peter Pettigrew. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump serves as witness and protection binder to this fact. Should our location be betrayed, it is to be understood by all that it was the fault of Peter Pettigrew.

Custody of Harry James Potter

In the event of our deaths, custody of our son Harry James Potter is to pass, in the following order, to:

• Sirius Orion Black, his Godfather.
• Alice Longbottom, his Godmother.
• Remus John Lupin, family friend (we state clearly that the Ministry’s archaic restrictions on werewolves fostering children are ridiculous; Harry would be so loved by Remus).
• Minerva McGonagall, family friend.
• Amelia Bones, family friend.

Under no circumstances is Harry to be placed with Petunia Evans Dursley, the sister of Lily Evans Potter. We would rather Harry be placed with any light-aligned family or find a ministry approved foster home if all other options are exhausted.

Funds and Gifts

• The sum of 10,000,000 Galleons to be given to Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin (DO NOT give to Peter Pettigrew if he has betrayed us).
• The sum of 50,000 Galleons to be given to Alice and Frank Longbottom.
• The sum of 50,000 Galleons, plus Lily’s personal journals and potion notes, to Severus Snape.

The guardian of Harry (as long as they are one of the above-named) shall receive 5,000 Galleons per month, as well as full use of Potter Manor and its resident house-elves.

All remaining funds, properties, heirlooms, jewels, portraits, and personal belongings are bequeathed to our beloved son, Harry James Potter.

We love you more than anything. If you are reading this, it means we are gone. Know that we are so proud of you, no matter what. Until we meet again, our son.

Signed,

Lily Evans Potter

James Fleamont Potter

Harry sat rigid in the goblin’s office, hands gripping the edge of the chair. Griphook’s sharp eyes flicked between him and the parchment, and he passed it to Harry. Remus stood behind him, silent but present, his gaze fixed on Harry.

Harry’s hands shook as he read the first line: “Sirius Orion Black.. my godfather?”

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Godfather? He had a godfather? That name… the face he’d seen on the Daily Prophet, always in the worst of circumstances… a convicted murderer, escaped from Azkaban… the man everyone was terrified of. Harry’s stomach churned. He felt the words blur before his eyes, the ink swimming into incomprehensibility.

“Harry?” Remus’ voice was soft, steady, grounding him. He had seen this look before, the look of disbelief, the look of someone trying to reconcile impossible truths. “It’s alright. Take your time. Read it slowly.” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper. “My… my godfather… he’s… he’s…” He shook his head, unable to finish.

Remus cleared his throat and gave a small, grim smile. “Yes. It’s… complicated. But your parents trusted him with you, Harry. He wasn’t the secret keeper, he didn’t betray your parents or commit the crimes he’s been punished for”. Remus’ fingers dug into the chair as he re scanned the parchment at the line naming Dumbledore. “He signed this,” he said, voice thin. “He signed as witness, he knew everything.”

Harry’s eyes moved down the page. He read about the guardianship, the care, the money, the life his parents had intended for him. His chest felt tight, a knot of wonder and confusion. They had thought of everything. They had left him a future, protection, even love written into the law.

“Five thousand Galleons per month… Potter Manor… everything,” Harry murmured, voice trembling. “They… they left it all to me… and they… they wanted me to be with him?” His green eyes darted to Remus, desperate for clarification.

Remus’ jaw tightened. He hated that he could not have been there sooner, hated the betrayal, the years lost, the secrets kept from him by circumstances beyond his control. “They did,” he said softly, voice tight with suppressed anger and grief. “They trusted Sirius with you because they knew he would protect you. And… they trusted me too. You… you were supposed to be safe. We all failed in ways none of us could control.”

Harry’s hands trembled as he laid the parchment down. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the gravity of the decisions his parents had made for him before he could even understand the world. He had a godfather… he had a family who cared, who had planned for his safety, even in death.

Remus put a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle. “We’ll go through everything together, Harry. The money, the house, the will… we’ll make sure you understand it all. I know it’s… a lot.” Harry exhaled shakily, trying to let the weight settle, but the news pressed down on him, heavy and strange. “They… they thought of me… they… they really loved me,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Remus’ lips pressed into a thin line. He felt the old hurt flare again, years of searching for a way to protect Harry, the thought that Sirius’ escape could implicate him somehow, and yet the overwhelming relief that Harry was alive, safe, in front of him, overrode everything. “Yes, Harry. They loved you more than anything. And we’re here now. You’re not alone.”

Harry nodded slowly, still staring at the parchment. Exhaling deeply, tears in his eyes.

Remus’ hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. Anger churned low in his chest, bitter and relentless but he held it back, he didn't want Harry to see it. Dumbledore knew. Knew that Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper. Knew that if Sirius and Alice were unavailable, Harry was meant to come to him. And yet… he had kept Harry from him all these years. Why? Why had the boy been left alone, exposed to the Dursleys, while Dumbledore orchestrated from afar? The thought gnawed at him, a hot, relentless fire. He had trusted the Headmaster, believed in his judgment, and now it felt like betrayal writ in cold logic.

Chapter Text

The air in Griphook’s office still felt heavy from the reading of the will. “There is more to be done,” Griphook said, his voice low. “A vault and a will are one matter. But a child of your standing, Potter, requires a full diagnostic. For safety.”

Harry blinked. “A… what?”

Remus shifted closer, voice soft, reassuring. “A health and magical check, Harry. Goblins have the means to see things wizards can’t. It’s nothing to be afraid of.” Harry swallowed and nodded, though his hands clenched in his lap.

Griphook clapped his clawed hands, and a faint ripple of magic swept over the room. A circular basin of silver rose from the floor, etched with runes that shimmered faintly in blue fire. “Place your hand here, Potter. It will reveal the state of your body, your core, and any… interference.”

Remus rested a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Go on. I’m right here.”

Harry hesitated only a second before pressing his palm to the cool surface. Immediately, a hum filled the room, light rising in a web of green and gold, spreading around Harry’s frame in a ghostly outline.

The two goblins leaned forward. And then their expressions hardened.

“There are blocks,” Griphook growled. “Magical bindings. Several.”

Remus’s head snapped up. “Blocks? What kind of blocks?”

Griphook’s voice was tight, clipped. “One set placed when he was but a year old, severe restrictions to his core. His magic has been capped at half its natural capacity.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Half?” His voice cracked.

“That is not all.” Griphook’s claw traced the glowing sigils floating above Harry’s chest. “A second set, reinforced when you turned eleven. A mental block, limiting thought, memory recall, and processing to fifty percent of potential. Crude, but effective.”

Remus’s hands curled into fists. “Someone did this to him, who?” His voice was low, trembling with controlled rage.

“And here,” the goblin continued grimly ignoring the werewolf, tapping a dark knot of magic swirling over Harry’s heart, “a loyalty block. Compulsion. Designed to direct your trust toward a particular individual or institution.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “So… I’ve been… what? Controlled?”

“Not entirely,” Griphook corrected. “But influenced. Nudged. Bent toward obedience. Dangerous magic, Potter. Illegal in all races to put on anyone, let alone an infant and child”.

Remus’s breath came sharp through his teeth, fury flaring in his eyes. “Someone who had access to Harry when he was 1.. and when he was 11. There can only be a few..” he whispered, almost to himself. "Who could have done this when he was one? Who had access to him?” Remus’ voice dropped. “There are only a handful who could place that sort of binding — someone with access and authority.”

Harry tore his hand away, breathing hard. His chest felt tight, like the air had turned heavy. “I… I didn’t even know. I thought… I thought it was just me. I am doing well at Hogwarts, I’m nearly top of every class. Does this mean I should be even better?”

Remus crouched in front of him, steady hands on Harry’s knees. “Harry, listen to me. None of this is your fault. Do you hear me? You’ve been carrying weight that isn’t yours. Whoever did this..” his voice trembled “they’ve stolen from you. But we’ll fix it. I swear it. Your parents were both very intelligent and powerful, the same clearly applies to you, even with your blocks you are a very impressive and formidable wizard, Harry.”

Griphook cleared his throat sharply, redirecting their attention. “There is more. The physical scan.”

The magic flared again, and this time Harry’s outline turned red in places, bones highlighted in sharp, angry lines, fractures glowing pale yellow.

“Neglect,” one goblin muttered darkly. “Low bone density. Multiple breaks, healed poorly, without potions or proper magical intervention. Malnutrition. Stunted growth. Years and years. Essentially his whole life.”

Remus closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself against the fury threatening to consume him. He willed himself not to react, he could see Harry struggling with this information and didn’t want to make it worse.

“And here…” The goblin pointed toward Harry’s forehead. The scar blazed in the magical outline, a swirl of black threads leaking outward like ink in water. “A foreign presence. Dark magic, deeply embedded.” Harry’s breath hitched, hand instinctively rising to his scar.

“The blocks and this scar require a senior curse breaker,” Griphook said gravely. “Perhaps more than one. What lies in your head, Potter, is not merely a scar.” Remus’s voice was hoarse. “What is it?”

The goblin shook his head, and did not answer. Instead, his eyes flicked to the chest cavity, glowing faint traces of gold and venom-green. “Your body holds basilisk venom… and phoenix tears. Ancient magics both, warring within you. Curious that you survived.”

Harry startled. “The Chamber of Secrets,” he said quickly. “Second year. There was a basilisk. Over sixty feet long. I killed it, with the Sword of Gryffindor. It’s fang pierced my arm, but Fawkes cried on the wound. That’s why I lived.”

The goblins exchanged looks, something like sharp, hungry interest sparking in their eyes.

“The corpse,” one said. “Is it still there?”

Harry frowned, thinking. “I… think so. I mean, I’m the only Parselmouth at Hogwarts, so… only I can open the Chamber. No one else would’ve gone down.”

A low hiss of excitement rippled through the goblins. “A basilisk of that size,” Griphook said slowly, “is beyond rare. No part of such a creature has entered the market for over a century. Harvested correctly, it could be worth upwards of five million galleons.” His sharp eyes glittered. “And by right of conquest, Potter, the beast belongs to you.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. Five million. He shook his head quickly. “I don’t… I don’t care about the money. I just… I just wanted to live.”

But Remus’s face was tight, calculating. Not with greed, but with shock. “Harry,” he said softly, “do you understand? That Chamber… that fight… it gave you rights even beyond what your family left you.”

Griphook’s voice cut through, harsher now. “Which brings us to the matter of lordship.”

Harry blinked. “Lordship?”

The goblin gestured at the still-glowing outline, lines shifting into the shapes of four ancient crests. “By law, Potter, you are heir to four noble lines. Potter, Peverell, Gryffindor, and Black. Your parents are dead. You should be the active Lord of these lines.”

Remus frowned, confusion deep in his gaze. “Then why isn’t he?”

“Because something bars the claim,” Griphook said darkly. “Something deliberate. You should have stood as Lord the moment you turned 11 within the magical world, because you are the last of the lines for all. Your seats would be held by proxy until you came of age, but you would still the Lord.”

The goblin’s claw tapped the dark knot of magic at Harry’s scar again. “And there is more. By right of conquest, you hold claim to Slytherin as well. You defeated the Dark Lord, and the line has accepted you as Lord. The one who had blood rights to the Noble House Of Slytherin, the one you defeated, was rejected. His core was too dark, too fractured. The line rejected Tom Riddle. So you are the active Lord to the Ancient and Noble house of Slytherin, as well as Heir to Potter, Peverell, Gryffindor, and Black. We do not hold the Lordship ring the Slytherin, it has long been lost, but you can claim the seat in the Wizamagot.” 

Harry sat frozen, mind reeling. Lordships, inheritances, millions of galleons, snakes and scars and secrets. It felt like too much, all pressing in at once.

Remus straightened slowly, his hand finding Harry’s shoulder, grounding him. His amber eyes burned with a quiet fury, but his voice when he spoke was steady, gentle. “One step at a time, Harry. We’ll face it all. Together.”

Remus’s grip on Harry’s shoulder tightened, his voice calm but edged with steel as he turned to Griphook.

“When can we have a senior curse breaker examine the scar and blocks?” he asked firmly. “If there’s dark magic bound to him.. if it’s tied to You-Know-Who, it needs to be dealt with immediately, same with the bindings and compulsions.”

Griphook inclined his head slowly, long fingers steepled before him. “This is no simple matter, Lupin. What resides in the boy’s head is… dangerous. It cannot be approached recklessly. We would require our most experienced curse breakers. Those who specialize in parasitic magic and soul fragments. Such individuals are not summoned lightly. I can request one from Egypt, but it will take time, and precautions will need to be made. The blocks on his core have been there for most his life, they also need someone who can separate them safely without damaging his core.”

Remus exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “Then make the request. No delays. I’ll see to his safety until your curse breaker arrives, offer them a higher payment to get them here sooner.. take it from my new vault with the money from the Potter’s will.”

Griphook studied him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in the high-backed chair, eyes darting between them. “Soul fragments?” he whispered, though neither answered directly.

Instead, Remus squeezed his shoulder again. “We’ll let the experts handle it, Harry. You don’t need to worry about the details just yet.” His eyes flicked back to Griphook. “And the basilisk? If it’s still there in the Chamber… would you be able to assist Harry in harvesting it?”

The goblin’s expression sharpened, a glint of greed unmistakable in his dark gaze. “We could,” he said smoothly. “The carcass of a basilisk that size is beyond value. Venom, hide, bones, organs. Every part is priceless. If Potter authorises us, we can dispatch a team to Hogwarts, discreetly, to retrieve and process the remains. We would need him to open the chamber for us. For such a service, there would, of course, be a percentage taken as commission.”

Harry nodded. “A… percentage?”

Griphook’s lips curled in something that was almost a smile. “Five percent of the profit, Potter. A negligible fee for the danger and expertise required. The remainder would be yours. Millions, if harvested correctly.”

Harry’s head spun. Millions of galleons, just sitting under the school. A monster he’d killed. His monster. He looked up at Remus helplessly. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do with all that.”

Remus crouched beside him again, his face softer now, though his eyes still burned. “You don’t have to decide this second, Harry. But yes, you should let the goblins help. It’s your right, your victory. You earned it.”

Harry nodded slowly, the weight of it all settling on his narrow shoulders. “Alright,” he whispered, voice steadier than he felt. “Yes… you can do it. Harvest the basilisk. I don’t need to keep the money, I can donate it or give it to good causes.”

Griphook inclined his head, sharp eyes glittering with something close to satisfaction. “Very well. We will contact you once the school year begins. Our team will require your permission to enter the Chamber, but the matter will be handled discreetly. In the meantime…” He reached into his desk and drew out a small stack of thick, rune-sealed envelopes.

“These,” he said, sliding them across the polished wood, “are for your correspondence with us. Write your letters, seal them inside. No magic, no spell, no person, wizard or otherwise can break them open except myself. Not even the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Your owl will be safe carrying them.”

Harry’s fingers trembled slightly as he gathered the envelopes, as if he were holding a lifeline no one else could tamper with. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Additionally,” Griphook continued crisply, “based on the results of your health scan, we have prepared a regimen of nutrient potions. They will aid in reversing the malnourishment and deficiencies caused by neglect. Bones must be reinforced, blood replenished, organs strengthened. This list ” he handed Harry a parchment covered in neat goblin script “details what must be taken and when. I would advise purchasing them today at Diagon Alley, and not bringing these to Hogwarts attention, I find it highly suspicious that your school healer has not found these ailments and started potions to correct it and bring you to full health.”

Harry stared at the parchment, the words blurring together for a moment before he tucked it carefully into his pocket, determined not to lose it.

“The cost of this consultation and your treatment will be withdrawn directly from the Potter main vault, your parent put in a clause that lets us charge if for anything the heir requires / needs. You just can't take the funds out.” Griphook finished, his tone businesslike. “Do you consent to this?”

Harry glanced at Remus, then back at the goblin. “Yes. That’s fine. Thank you.”

For the first time, Griphook gave a small bow of his head. “You honour your family, Harry Potter. We will be in touch.”

Harry stood, legs shaky beneath him, and managed to say, “Thank you… really,” before following Remus out of the office.

The air outside Gringotts hit him like a wave, cooler, fresher, but heavy with wonder, fear, and confusion. He clutched the envelopes to his chest, the potions list tucked safely away, his mind racing with all he had learned. A godfather. A will. Magic blocks. Basilisk riches. It was too much, too fast, and yet… it was his.

At his side, Remus walked stiffly, his face carefully neutral, but Harry felt the tension radiating from him like heat. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark and dangerous as though each step was an effort to contain what seethed beneath his skin.

Harry glanced up at him, uncertain. “Remus?”

“I know someone who can help you with all of this,” Remus said quietly, firmly. “Someone who will always be on your side. But for us to reach him… you’ll need to be able to leave Diagon Alley without anyone noticing. Can you do that, Harry?”

Harry blinked, heart skipping. “Without anyone noticing?”

Remus gave the faintest smile, but there was nothing light in it. “Exactly. Because if anyone sees… they’ll try to stop you.”

Chapter Text

“I’ll meet you back here in five minutes,” Harry said quietly.

Remus frowned. “Five minutes? Harry.. ” Harry’s lips quirked into the smallest smile as he leaned closer. “Under my invisibility cloak.”

For the first time that day, Remus’s eyes lit up with genuine warmth, something almost joyful breaking through the storm in his face. “James’s cloak,” he murmured, wonder threading through his voice. “You have it. Merlin, of course you do…” His throat worked as though the memories were choking him. “He’d be so proud you kept it safe.”

Harry gave a small nod, then slipped back through the Leaky Cauldron, raising a hand in casual farewell to Tom behind the bar. “Turning in early tonight,” he said, as if nothing at all was unusual. Tom gave him a distracted wave before polishing another glass.

Up in his small room, Harry moved quickly. He grabbed the silvery fabric from his trunk. Slinging it around his shoulders, he vanished from sight. Heart pounding with both nerves and excitement, he slipped back downstairs, careful and silent, and out into the night.

Remus was waiting just beyond the Alley’s mouth, his eyes sharp and searching until Harry whispered, “I’m here.” Remus gave a brief, relieved nod.

Remus walked with Harry to a corner where they would be seen, and got under the cloak with Harry. “Best not to be seen, Harry” He said. He grabbed Harry’s shoulder and twisted on the spot.

The moment Remus’s hand tightened on his shoulder, Harry felt it, like an iron hook catching him just behind the navel. The world yanked forward, crushing him from every side. His lungs compressed, his ribs squeezed, and for a dizzying second he was certain he couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred as though the whole universe had folded in on itself.

And then, release. Harry stumbled, his knees buckling, and only Remus’s grip kept him upright. He sucked in a gasp of cool night air, clutching at his chest as his stomach twisted violently. “That.. ” he croaked, eyes wide, “that was Apparition?”

Remus gave him a sympathetic smile, steadying him. “Side-along. It’s never pleasant the first few times. You’ll get used to it… eventually.”

They had landed with a sharp crack on a dimly lit residential street lined with tall, weathered townhouses. The air smelled of soot and city stone, the streetlamps flickering in the quiet gloom. Remus’s voice was low but firm as he leaned down to Harry. “The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black,” he said, his amber eyes fixed on the row of houses. “Can be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

Harry walked close against Remus under the Invisibility Cloak, the fabric pulled low and tight. Their steps were slow, measured, Harry’s heart thundering with every crunch of gravel and scrape of boot. He had no idea who they were about to see. He trusted Remus he knew, so logically he should be able to trust whoever this was too.

They climbed the cracked stone steps of Number 12, Remus crouching slightly so his ankles wouldn’t show beneath the cloak’s hem. His hand rose, steady despite the taut silence in the air, and he rapped three times on the large black door. For a breathless moment, nothing happened. Then bolts rattled, chains shifted, and the door creaked open with a long, reluctant groan.

Sirius Black stood framed in the doorway, tall and gaunt, his hair falling in wild dark waves around a pale, hollowed face. His grey eyes darted over the steps, sharp, suspicious, searching the shadows. He saw nothing. “Who’s there?” His voice was low, rough, threaded with distrust.

From under the cloak, Remus’s voice came quiet but steady. “It’s me. Moony. I’ve brought Prongslet.” His eyes flicked to Harry briefly, then back to Sirius. “You need to help him through the wards.”

Sirius froze, breath catching. For a heartbeat his face was unreadable, just a flicker of shock in the dim light. Then the tension in his shoulders shifted, and he leaned forward slightly, his gaze fierce, urgent. “Harry?” he rasped, his voice breaking on the name.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Sirius Black.

Not just a picture on the Prophet, not the hollow-eyed fugitive with the word murderer stamped beneath his name. He was real, standing right there, gaunt but alive, and looking straight at him though he couldn’t see.

My godfather.

The word felt foreign and heavy all at once, like it didn’t belong to him and yet it was written into his bones. Beside him, Remus squeezed his arm gently, grounding him. “Harry,” he murmured, “give me your hand.”

Harry hesitated, his chest tight, then slowly slipped his hand out from under the Cloak. Pale against the night, small and scarred, his fingers trembled as Remus guided it forward. Sirius’s sharp intake of breath was audible in the silence. His long, calloused hand closed around Harry’s, rough but careful, as though he might break if gripped too hard. He pulled Harry through the wards. The wards shifted instantly, a shiver of unseen magic that made Harry’s skin prickle. Sirius tugged gently, and in one fluid motion Harry and Remus crossed the threshold.

The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

In the dim hallway of Grimmauld Place, Remus tugged the Cloak back, revealing them both. Harry’s heart hammering in his ears. Sirius staggered back a step, his gaze sweeping over Harry’s face with an intensity that made Harry flush. His lips trembled into a smile, the first in years, raw and disbelieving.

“You’re here,” Sirius whispered, almost to himself. His eyes locked on Harry’s green ones, the same eyes he’d seen in Lily every day at school. “Merlin’s beard, you’re really here.”

Sirius’s eyes darted from Harry’s pale face to Remus’s clenched jaw. He knew that look. Something had happened. Something bad. His heart pounded, but he swallowed down the sharp questions burning his throat. “This way,” he said roughly, leading them down the dim corridor. His wand lit the way with a faint, flickering glow, the wallpaper peeling and the air thick with dust. They descended into the kitchen, cavernous and inviting with the warm fire lit, its heavy table scarred from years of use. Sirius flicked his wrist toward the shadows.

“Kreacher!”

With a sharp crack, the house-elf appeared. His bulbous eyes narrowed, his wrinkled face twisting in contempt the moment he saw Harry. He gave a low hiss, muttering in a stream of bitter curses about “blood-traitors and half-blood filth” under his breath.

Sirius’s lip curled, but he forced his voice through gritted teeth. “Three bottles of butterbeer. Now.” Kreacher sneered but obeyed, vanishing and reappearing with the bottles before clattering them down on the table with deliberate rudeness. His muttering grew louder as he slunk out of the kitchen, glaring daggers at Harry all the while.

Remus didn’t sit right away. His eyes were fixed on Sirius, steady and serious. “What we have to say,” he began, voice low, “is not good. In fact, it’s very bad. But you need to listen to me first.”

Sirius frowned, hand tightening on the neck of a butterbeer. “Moony…”

“No.” Remus cut him off firmly, sharper than Harry had ever heard. “You need to stay calm, Padfoot. Whatever you feel, and I know you’ll feel it, it won’t help to lose your temper. Getting yourself thrown back into Azkaban won’t help Harry.”

Sirius froze, his chest rising and falling quickly, eyes darting to Harry again. The anger that had flared was still there, simmering just under the surface, but he swallowed hard and nodded once. “Alright,” he rasped. “Alright. Tell me.”

Remus took a steadying breath and began, keeping his voice calm but deliberate. “Harry knows,” he said, glancing at Sirius, “that you are his godfather. The will names Peter Pettigrew as the Secret Keeper, and Dumbledore was the witness. It’s all… official. You and I, and a few others, are named as potential caretakers should anything happen to you or Alice.” He paused, letting the weight of it sink in. Sirius’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitching around the neck of his butterbeer, but he said nothing, letting the anger simmer beneath his calm exterior.

Remus continued, choosing his words carefully. “There’s more. Blocks on Harry’s magic, put in place when he was a baby and reinforced when he turned eleven. The blocks and a curse embedded in his scar that needs a senior curse-breaker to check and remove. Nutrient potions to reverse years of malnutrition, low bone density… neglect.” He glanced at Harry, who had shrunk slightly in the chair, hands clasped tight in his lap. “His relatives, despite Lily and James will, didn’t care for him properly. Lily specifically forbade him going to them.. but it was ignored.”

Harry’s green eyes dropped to the table, tracing the scratches in the wood. His chest tightened as an awful thought gnawed at him: Will he want to get rid of me before he even knows me? The fear of rejection, even from the one person who was meant to be his godfather, made him shrink further, a shadow of anxiety across his face.

Sirius’s eyes blazed as Remus finished explaining, every word hitting him like a hammer. His fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment the room seemed to shrink around the intensity of his anger. He growled, voice tight and raw. “All of this… all these years, and I was kept from him? The curse, the blocks, the danger? Lily and James must be regretting the day they entrusted me to him. I have completely failed him”.

The bottles of butterbeer on the kitchen shelf rattled and shattered as an uncontrolled burst of Sirius’s magic unleashed. Harry flinched at the noise.

Remus placed a firm hand on Sirius’s arm, trying to anchor him. “I know, Padfoot. I know,” he said quietly, but his own amber eyes reflected controlled fury. “We have to make a plan, we have to make sure from now on Harry is safe. He is our priority, and we will not let him down again, neither of us.”

Sirius’s chest heaved, the anger in him barely contained. He ground his teeth, pacing a tight circle. “Safe?” he snapped, voice shaking. “Safe? He’s been living in Dursley filth, being controlled, starved, cursed! And Dumbledore…” His voice cracked with rage, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “He should have been in my care! All of this—my godson, my blood, and they kept him from me?!”

Harry shrank back slightly, unsure where to look, but Remus stayed close, his presence a steadying force. “Sirius,” he said firmly, voice cutting through the storm, “freaking out won’t help him. Revenge won’t bring back the time lost. You need to focus on him now, on protecting him, not punishing everyone who failed him.”

Sirius exhaled sharply, muscles still taut, his eyes flicking to Harry. The rage was there, simmering under the surface, but now it was tempered with something else: recognition, fear, and a protective instinct that made him almost vibrate with tension. He leaned back slightly, the kitchen’s dim light catching the sharp planes of his face. “And all of this… the will, the blocks, the curse in his scar, the neglect… you’re telling me all of this at once?” He asked Remus.

Remus nodded, careful to keep his own fury in check. “Yes. Harry’s been carrying years of things he didn’t understand, things no child should ever have had to deal with. That’s why the goblins performed the scan, why we need a curse-breaker, why he has the potions.. everything is to give him a fighting chance. To make sure he isn’t permanently… damaged.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he said nothing, just looked at Harry. The weight of all he had been kept from, the years of secrets and Dumbledore’s decisions, pressed down on him. “He’s… still here. Alive. And mine.. ours to protect,” he said finally, voice low and tight. “No one, not the Ministry, not Dumbledore, no one, will touch him.

Sirius’ eyes, still dark with anger, softened just enough to meet Harry’s gaze. “Harry…” His voice was rough, low, but filled with an urgency that made the boy’s chest tighten. “I should have been there. I should have protected you. I should’ve been the one raising you, keeping you safe from all of it. I… I failed.”

Harry’s green eyes widened, a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to ask questions, to demand why, but the raw emotion in Sirius’s face froze him in place.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius continued, voice cracking just slightly. “For not being there. For every single thing you went through without me. But that ends now. From this moment forward, I will be there for you. You won’t have to face the world alone ever again.”

He took a careful step closer, voice dropping to a gentle rumble. “You can live with me and Moony, as soon as I get my name cleared they won’t be able to stop it” he added, nodding at Remus, “we’ll look after you together. You’re my godson, Harry. My family. No one can take that from you.”

Harry felt a strange warmth in his chest, a mixture of relief and fear, his mind spinning at the thought. “Really?” he whispered, voice trembling. “I… I can live with you?”

Sirius’s lips twitched into a brief, almost uncontainable smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Really. And we’ll fix everything. Your safety, your magic, your life. I’ll clear my name, Harry, so no one can ever come after you for the mistakes they made. From now on… it’s just us. You, me, and Moony.”

Remus’s hand found Harry’s shoulder again, gentle and steady, and he gave a small nod of affirmation. “He means it, Harry. You can trust him. We’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Harry looked up at him, wide-eyed, realizing for the first time just how dangerous and devoted his godfather could be, and how much he would fight to keep him safe.

Sirius paced the kitchen, hands clenching and unclenching, jaw tight. Remus stood nearby, calm but alert, letting him vent before they turned to strategy. Harry lingered close to the table, watching the two men he now called family carefully, trying to absorb every word.

“We need the will,” Remus said firmly, cutting through the tension. “It’s the proof of everything. Custody, the fact you weren’t the secret keeper and who witnessed the Fidelus charm. Since I’m named as a recipient of the will and I’m not a wanted man, I can retrieve it without raising alarms. That should be simple.”

Sirius stopped pacing, eyes flashing. “And once we have it?” he asked, voice low, dangerous, simmering with barely restrained fury.

“We send it to Amelia Bones,” Remus said. “Along with a sworn statement. You, in your own blood, attesting to the truth: that you were never the secret keeper, that you did not betray Lily and James, that you did not murder any Muggles.”

Sirius ran a hand through his dark hair, voice trembling with anger and frustration. “I did escape Azkaban, yes. But that.. ” he slammed a fist onto the table, causing the bottles of butterbeer to rattle slightly, “…was survival! I had no trial, no chance to defend myself. I was thrown into a cell without evidence, without due process. If that’s a crime, then justice has no meaning. I will demand a fair trial so I can clear my name properly!”

Remus’s amber eyes softened but remained sharp. “And you will have it, Sirius. But for now, we need to be strategic. The will, the signed parchment in your blood, and Amelia Bones’ involvement.. this establishes everything clearly. We wait for Amelia to respond.. she will probably request a meeting with you. We do everything calmly, deliberately. No rash moves. You can’t afford to make it about revenge, or we risk losing before we even start.”

Sirius exhaled, letting the tension drain from his body in a slow, rattling breath. His hands were still shaking slightly, but his eyes burned with determination. “Fine,” he said, voice tight but resolute. “I will do it your way. But the moment I stand in a courtroom with the truth, I will finally have justice. And anyone who tried to destroy me… well, they’ll answer for it.”

Remus gave a small, reassuring nod. “We’ll get there, Sirius. Step by step. First, we secure the will, then the sworn statement. Then we clear your name, and protect Harry at the same time.”

Sirius bent slightly toward Harry, voice softer now. “And you, Harry… we’ll make sure you’re safe. No one will ever control you again. That’s my promise.”

Remus crouched beside Harry, voice gentle but firm. “Come on, Harry. Let’s get you back to the Leaky Cauldron. I’ll keep watch over you, I promise. Tomorrow, we get the will, and we start setting everything in motion. You won’t be left alone again.”

Sirius nodded, gaze heavy with unspoken regret. “I’m sorry you have to go back for now, Harry. I need to be free first—before you can come live with us. But I swear, once I am… it’s your home. You’ll be safe. You’ll be with people who love you.”

Sirius glanced at Harry, a faint shadow of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. From a small pocket inside his cloak, he pulled a polished, silver-edged mirror. “Take this,” he said, pressing it into Harry’s hand. “One of a pair. All you have to do is say my name… Padfoot. I’ll be there, instantly. No wards, no delays. Call me any time, about anything.”

Harry’s fingers closed around the cool glass, warmth creeping from the enchantment. “I… I understand,” he said quietly, though a pang of disappointment tugged at him.

Together, he and Remus stepped quietly out of the Black residence, moving slowly under the invisibility cloak. The cool night air brushed his face as they stood on the top step and apparated back to the secluded corner of Diagon Alley.

Chapter Text

Remus returned to Grimmauld Place once he was certain Harry was safe at the Leaky Cauldron. The streets of London were quiet under the early evening sky, and the flickering lamps cast long shadows over the blackened facade of the ancient townhouse. He could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, but he knew they had a plan in motion. Sirius was waiting inside, restless, but the determination in his eyes had only sharpened since their conversation.

“We need to get more house-elves,” Remus said, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. “This place is a mess. Harry can’t live here in its current state. We need it ready for him.”

Sirius’s expression darkened, then softened into a faint smile. “I was hoping you’d say that. Kreacher will need reinforcements, and I’ll admit… I’ve been avoiding this since we got here.”

Sirius lifted his wand, and with a sharp clap of his hands, Kreacher appeared in a swirl of disgruntled energy, his bulbous eyes narrowing immediately at the sight of Remus. “Master Sirius,” he hissed, “you summon me in such a manner?”

“Enough,” Sirius snapped, his tone firm. “Kreacher, listen closely. You have a choice. You can either stay as Head of the House-Elves here and uphold the House of Black, make it a home I can be proud of, or I can give you clothes and release you to go your own way. Your choice.”

Kreacher froze, blinking rapidly. “Stay… as head… of the house?” he whispered, hope and fear twisting his features.

“Yes,” Sirius said, softer now, his voice measured. “But there are conditions. You will speak with respect to all residents of Grimmauld Place. No slurs, no muttering, nothing cruel. You will clean yourself up, and you will lead the house-elves with pride. The house will be cleared of all dark artifacts and once removed of their curses  will be taken to the attic where we stored all the portraits. Anything in this house Remus and I don’t need, or don’t require for the house, is yours.”

Kreacher’s tiny hands trembled, tears forming in his eyes. “Master Sirius… I… I will stay. I will make you proud. I will serve… faithfully. I… I will do everything you ask.” His voice cracked, overwhelmed with joy. “You… you are a good master. I… I will not fail you!”

Sirius allowed himself a faint, almost shy smile. “Good. That’s all I ask.”

Kreacher’s gaze flickered toward Remus, a hint of hesitation in his expression. “There is… something, Master Sirius. Something about Master Regulus. I was forbidden to tell the family… but perhaps I may tell the werewolf?”

Sirius froze, his shoulders sagging slightly as a shadow passed over his face. His eyes darkened, and for the first time, the fury that usually consumed him softened into something raw, almost unbearable. “Regulus…” he murmured, voice tight, laden with pain. “I loved him, you know. My little brother… until he turned… until the Dark Arts consumed him, until he joined the Death Eaters…” His jaw clenched, a shudder passing through him.

Sirius ran a hand through his wild hair, his chest heaving, eyes glistening with a mixture of grief and guilt. “It’s… it’s just too much sometimes. My brother… I couldn’t save him, and now there’s more I don’t know. But… if it must be told, then carefully. To the werewolf. To Moony.”

Kreacher clutched at the folds of his dirty tea towel, knuckles white. “It… it was the Dark Lord. He commanded Regulus… he didn’t tell him what for… only that he needed an elf. Regulus… he came to me. He said… he said I must serve the Dark Lord, do whatever he asks… but I must… return home.”

Sirius’s chest tightened, a sharp intake of breath escaping him. His fingers twitched, but he remained rooted to the spot, unable to move.

Kreacher’s tears began to fall freely now, streaming down his cheeks as his voice shook. “I followed the Dark Lord to a dark cave beside the sea, there was a lake filled with Inferi. We… we rode over it on a boat, to a small island and there, there was a basin carved with runes, filled with poison. The Dark Lord… he forced me to drink it. I… I saw things… terrible things. I thought… I would die it was burning and hurt me all over. The Dark Lord laughed at me while I suffered.”

Kreacher’s voice cracked. “And then… the Dark Lord… he put a locket into the basin… Kreacher could feel the dark magic on the locket.. refilled it with poison and left me there  on that island… he sailed back to the cave entrance. I… I was so thirsty, I reached… to the lake for water… the Inferi… they… they dragged me under. But Master Regulus he ordered me to return home.. He fixed me… healed me… and hid me from the Dark Lord.”

Kreacher’s sobs rattled the air, his tiny frame shivering violently. “Master Regulus came to me again, once I recovered. He ordered me to take him back… to the cave. He… ordered me to make him drink… all of the poison… then replace the locket with the fake one he made… and return home. Destroy the original. Do not… do not tell the family.” Kreacher collapsed onto the floor, gasping, clutching at his chest as if the memory was physically suffocating him.

Sirius staggered back a step, his hand flying to his face as he fought to control the storm of emotion rising in his chest. “My brother…” he whispered, voice breaking. “He… he went against him. He saw… the light. He tried to do what was right…”

Sirius sank to his knees beside him, hand resting lightly on Kreacher’s trembling shoulder, though his own body shook with grief. “Regulus… my brother… he… he defied the Dark Lord. He knew the danger… and he went anyway. He… he did what he thought was right. He sacrificed himself…”

Tears ran freely down Sirius’s face, his chest heaving. Remus knelt beside them both, placing a steadying hand on Sirius’s back, grounding him. “He made the choice to do good… even knowing the cost. That’s bravery, Sirius. That’s everything you could want from him… from anyone.”

Sirius’s voice was quiet at first, but carried a dangerous edge. “Kreacher… the locket… did you destroy it?”

Kreacher froze, his eyes wide, and then a terrible wail tore from his throat. He began hitting himself across his head, his small fists striking with frantic desperation. “I… I failed! I failed Master Regulus… I… I could not! I… I could not destroy it, I tried.. everything. It is too dark, too powerful.. even for elf magic.”

Sirius’s grey eyes flared with sorrow. He knelt down so he was eye level with the shaking house-elf, his hands raised but gentle. “Kreacher! Stop! Stop punishing yourself!” His voice carried absolute authority. “You are not to punish yourself again, that is an order!”

Kreacher’s sobs continued, but he faltered under Sirius’s steady gaze. Sirius took a slow, deliberate breath. “Listen carefully. You will get the locket. I will take responsibility. I will make sure it is destroyed properly, Kreacher. Understand?”

Kreacher’s tiny form quivered, but he gave a sharp, trembling nod. “Y-Yes, Master Sirius… I… I will… I will bring it to you.”

With a small pop of magic, Kreacher disappeared and returned moments later, holding the locket aloft. It was a heavy, gold locket with an S on the front twisted into the shape of a serpent. The strong pulse of dark magic radiated from it, a chilling, almost tangible presence that made both Remus and Sirius instinctively recoil slightly.

Sirius took the locket carefully in his own hands, turning it over with reverent caution. “Slytherin’s locket”. Remus glanced at him, his amber eyes serious. “You can feel it. It’s… heavy. Dangerous. We need experts. Curse breakers.”

Remus nodded, amber eyes steady. “I agree. They have experience with cursed objects and powerful, ancient magic. It’ll be safe, and it’ll be destroyed for good.”

Sirius conjured a iron box, and placed the locket inside. "It will be safe here until we can contact one to destroy it. Whatever is in this locket cannot be good." Sirius gave the box back to Kreacher, and instructed him to keep it safe until Sirius needed it. 

Sirius’s jaw tightened, determination shining in his eyes. “Let’s get some elves. Grimmauld Place is going to be a home again… and we’ll make sure Harry knows he belongs here.”

Sirius lifted his chin, voice carrying a deep, resonant authority that seemed to echo off the walls, he raised his wand skyward. “Hear my call! I, Sirius Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, hereby summon all free house-elves! Present yourselves, so that I may choose those who will serve and restore the House of Black, with loyalty, honour, and pride!”

For a heartbeat, the house was silent, then.. pop! Pop!.. one by one, ten house elves appeared in quick succession, their wide eyes blinking at the dim, dust-filled kitchen. Some straightened nervously, others muttered under their breath. Sirius’s gaze swept over them, sharp and calculating. “Only three of you will serve here. Two who have known only light families… and one who has served a dark family. Step forward.”

Five elves hesitated, then cautiously approached. The first, small and sharp-eyed, bowed low. “Dobby,” he said quickly, voice trembling. “I served the House of Malfoy.”

Two more stepped forward together. “We served the House of Potter,” one said, the other nodding in solemn agreement.

Two more shuffled forward, quieter, saying in tandem, “We used to serve the House of Prewett.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed as they lingered on the two Potter elves. Recognition flared instantly. “Aster… Poppy…” he breathed, his voice cracking. The weight of the realisation hit him so hard that he fell to his knees before them, overwhelmed. These were James’ parents’ elves, loyal servants who must have been freed upon their deaths. The grief, love, and long-buried memories surged through him, leaving him trembling.

Aster and Poppy exchanged startled glances, their own eyes wide at seeing their former master’s sons best friend kneeling before them in awe and reverence. Sirius lifted his hands slightly, unsure if he could speak. Finally, his voice came, low and trembling: “You… you stayed alive. You were… you were freed… and yet here you are. I… I never thought I’d see you again.”

The other elves looked on, silently taking in the intensity of the moment. Sirius slowly rose to his feet, still staring at Aster and Poppy. “You will serve here,” he said firmly, voice steadier now, “because Harry Potter will need a home, and this house… this house will be his sanctuary. And you will guide him as you guided his parents and grandparents.”

Before Sirius could say another word, Dobby’s small frame trembled with excitement. “Master Harry Potter is a kind, wonderful wizard! He freed Dobby from terrible masters! Dobby will serve him too, yes, yes! Dobby will work hard! Dobby will make Harry proud!”

Sirius’s lips twitched, a faint smile breaking through the intensity of the moment. His eyes softened as he looked down at the enthusiastic elf. “You… you will serve here as well, Dobby,” he said firmly, voice steady. “Harry deserves loyal hands and good hearts to help him.” Dobby squealed again, bouncing slightly on the spot. “Oh, yes! Thank you, Master Sirius! Dobby will not fail Harry! Not ever!”

Sirius’s gaze swept the group once more, lingering on Aster and Poppy. “Then it is settled. Aster, Poppy, and Dobby… you will serve in this house. Together, you will help make it a proper home for Harry Potter. A home he can be proud of, and a home where he is safe.”

The other elves bowed deeply, murmuring their thanks and farewells. “Go with my gratitude, and may your next masters be worthy of your loyalty.”

Once the room was cleared, Sirius turned back to the trio. “Kreacher will be the head house elf,” he said, voice commanding. “You will respect him, follow his instructions, and assist him in making this house a proper home. Your first task is to safely collect all the dark artifacts, store them in one room so the curses can be removed, and afterwards, place them in the attic. You will also be fitted with uniforms, any colours that you want and they may bear the Potter and Black crests. You will serve not just me, but Harry and Remus as well.”

One by one, Aster, Poppy, and Dobby stepped forward, heads bowed, as Sirius guided them through the oath. “Please swear loyalty to the House of Black, to protect it, maintain it, and to serve with pride, kindness, and love.” The three voices echoed, firm and clear: “We swear.” The bonds of magic swirled around all in the room and settled gently.

Sirius placed a hand over his heart. “From this day forward, you are forbidden to punish yourselves for mistakes, missteps, or failures. The House of Black will no longer be feared as a house of darkness. It will be a house of light, filled with love, loyalty, and kindness. You are part of this change, and you will make it proud.”

Kreacher’s eyes glimmered with pride, Dobby squeaked in joy, and Aster and Poppy straightened, their heads high. The transformation had begun, not just of the house, but of the family it would shelter.

Chapter Text

The early morning sun streamed through the now sparkling windows of Grimmauld Place as the newly sworn house elves worked. Dressed in their new deep red uniforms stitched with the Potter and Black crests, Aster, Poppy, Dobby, and Kreacher moved with surprising speed and precision, sweeping away years of dust, cobwebs, and neglect. Shelves were polished until the dark wood gleamed, dark artifacts hovered into a secure room ready to await their curse removals, linens washed and damage restored. Light began to seep into the rooms that had long been shrouded in shadow, and the air itself seemed to breathe a little freer.

Remus apparated to Gringotts. He requested a meeting with Griphook and Tododon. Remus confirmed his inheritance in the will of Lily and James. This then allowed him to retrieve the verified copy of James and Lily’s will, every line painstakingly confirmed and verified.

Upon Remus' return to Grimmauld Place, Sirius dipped a blood quill into a vial, signing the carefully worded letter to Amelia Bones. Each stroke carried a weight, a promise: he swore his innocence, declared that he had never betrayed Lily or James, nor harmed Muggles, and formally requested a trial under Veritaserum, as was his legal right. His hand shook slightly, but his determination was unyielding. He put both the letter and the will of Lily and James inside the envelope that was then sealed with runes so only Amelia would be able to open it. He called for Kreacher and instructed Kreacher to deliver it to Amelias office at the DMLE, cautioning him not to be seen, and to return once it was done.

Across the city, Harry sat in the Leaky Cauldron, a hearty meal before him, his mind still whirling from the whirlwind of the previous day. He turned the pages of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, but the words blurred as his thoughts circled everything he had learned , the truth about his godfather, Remus and the complex web of family loyalty, curses, and danger.

The Ministry of Magic teetered on chaos. Cornelius Fudge paced his office, red-faced and nearly incoherent, still furious over the escape of Sirius Black and his avoidance of capture, despite the colossal task force team of aurors and hit wizards searching for him. Hogwarts parents were demanding his resignation after it was leaked he had ordered  Dementors to be stationed around Hogwarts. Dolores Umbridge whispered constantly in Fudge’s ear, pushing for harsher regulations on half-breeds and Muggle-borns, while loosening restrictions that might hold pure-bloods accountable.

Fudge trembling as the walls of control crumbled around him. Losing his grip meant losing everything.. his position as Minister, the power he had clawed and schemed for, the bribes and alliances he’d built with dark wizards, all of it. He would not, could not, allow anything or anyone to threaten what he had fought so ruthlessly to obtain. Panic gnawed at him, and yet he forced his face into a mask of composure, though every thought screamed that it was slipping away.

Lucius Malfoy reclined in his opulent office, fingers steepled beneath his sharp chin as he observed the pandemonium at the Ministers office through his highly illegal and undetected enchanted mirrors. His smirk was thin and calculating. Fudge’s incompetence over Sirius Black’s escape was an opportunity, and he intended to exploit it. “Ah, Cornelius,” he murmured to himself, voice silk over steel, “losing control so easily… predictable as always.”

He summoned his aide, instructing subtle manipulations: whispers to select Ministry officials, rumours of Black’s growing influence, and pressure on those who might oppose harsher regulations. Half-breeds, Muggle-borns, even his rivals in the pure-blood aristocracy, all would bend in the chaos he cultivated.

Lucius’s mind lingered on Harry Potter. The boy had potential, yes, but also dangerous connections. If Sirius reclaimed influence, if the Black family regained prominence… it could interfere with his designs. And Pettigrew… if alive, still a liability. He needed to know where the pieces were, ready to use them to his advantage.

Dumbledore was sitting in the quiet of his office, his fingers steepled over the flickering firelight. His mind was reeling with thoughts about Sirius Black.. he knew he had to have help and his main suspicion was that Remus Lupin was helping him. The mind of a werewolf was a labyrinth he could not navigate, his intuition, honed over decades of observing human and magical behaviour told him that Lupin’s allegiance was no longer with him.

His sharp and impressive mind worked quickly, weighing the possibilities. The most prudent course of action was to keep Remus close under the guise of official business. The Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts presented the perfect opportunity, it would place Lupin in a controlled environment and allow him to observe him closely. It would give him a legitimate reason to monitor his movements. He could lead him to Black.

With deliberate care, he produced two letters. The first was addressed to Remus Lupin, formally offering him the teaching post. He included careful phrasing, the offer both an honour and a necessity designed to appeal to Lupin’s sense of duty and his protective instincts toward the students, particularly Harry.

The second letter, marked with the official seal of the Board of Governors, was addressed to the Hogwarts administrators. It informed them of the appointment, emphasising the integrity of the decision and framing it as a strategic necessity for the school’s safety.

He set down his quill, jaw tight. Sirius Black’s escape was chaos waiting to happen. He needed to get Remus back under his control.. close, monitored, guided, before Black could unravel everything Dumbledore had worked to contain. Every detail of Sirius Black’s escape churned in his mind like a storm he could barely contain. If word of the truth, that Sirius had never been the Secret Keeper,  were to surface, it could unravel everything he had worked to maintain. Chaos in the Ministry, panic at Hogwarts, and exposure of old secrets long buried. Dumbledore’s plan ruined. He couldn’t have that.

Meanwhile, in her office, Amelia Bones carefully opened the letter that was on her desk. It was sealed with the House of Black crest. A letter from Sirius. The subtle pulse of oath magic coursed from the parchment, confirming the sincerity and truth of every word.

To Director Amelia Bones,

Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

I write to you not as a fugitive, but as an innocent man who has been denied the very justice your office is sworn to uphold. For nearly twelve years I have rotted in Azkaban without a trial, convicted not by evidence but by assumption and the Ministry’s law breaking.

I swear upon my magic and my blood that I was NOT the Secret Keeper for James and Lily Potter, nor did I betray them. I did not murder the Muggles for which I was accused. I did not betray my friends. I demand the right to a fair trial, under Veritaserum, before impartial witnesses. Let my own words, bound by truth, speak for themselves.

Enclosed you will find the verified Last Will and Testament of James and Lily Potter, as authenticated by Gringotts. You will also find this letter sealed with oath magic, proof of the sincerity and truth in every line. I am not afraid to stand before the Wizengamot or any inquiry of your choosing.

For twelve years, I have borne the weight of lies, while the true traitor still roams free. Enough is enough. Justice has been denied too long, not only to me, but to James, Lily, and their son, my Godson. I have failed him in his guardian due to the negligence of the ministry and I will not stand for it any longer.

I ask for justice under Wizarding Law. I will submit myself willingly to Veritaserum, to questioning, to any measure that proves my innocence.

Sirius Orion Black

Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

She consulted the verified will from Gringotts and felt her temper flare. Innocent. Sirius was innocent and yet the Ministry had left him to rot without a chance to have a trial and prove his innocence. Without hesitation, she summoned Kingsley Shacklebolt. “We need a plan,” she said sharply. “Fudge will never allow a trial. It would destroy him politically.”

Kingsley, his expression grave, nodded. “You are right,” he said. “The Ministry is too corrupt. If we try to force a trial through normal channels, it will be blocked by Fudge. We’ll have to act outside the standard procedures.. carefully, strategically, and without tipping off Fudge and the ones who locked a Lord from an Ancient and Noble House away without a trial.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed, thinking quickly. “And Pettigrew?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Where is he now? If he’s alive, he’s still dangerous.. and needs to be summoned to a trial.”

Kingsley’s gaze hardened. “That’s part of what we’ll have to uncover. But first, we need to secure Sirius’ claim and his innocence.”

Amelia’s gaze hardened, her resolve mirrored in Kingsley’s steady presence. “Then that is what we will do,” she said. “Sirius will have justice. We will find a way.”

In a dark, windowless chamber, Lily and James Potter lay in suspended stasis. Their bodies, though alive, were broken and bloodied from the night Voldemort struck. Bruises and streaks of dried blood marked their skin, and their clothing hung in tatters. A faint, steady magical hum filled the air, Dumbledore’s protective charms holding them in a delicate, coma-like suspension. Their bodies preserved over the nearly 12 years they had been here. No changes, no improvements or deteriorations.

The air was cold, dense with silence and memory, heavy with the echo of a night that had reshaped the world. Their chests rose and fell in a measured, ghostly rhythm, each breath a fragile wisp of life suspended in a moment outside time. They were shadows of themselves, preserved yet painfully unreachable, a haunting testament to survival against unimaginable darkness.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke to the frantic tapping and pecking of three owls at the window of his bedroom at the Leaky Cauldron.

Each carried a small parcel: Neville had sent a box of Honeydukes chocolates along with a short, cheerful letter; Ron’s package contained a box of chocolate frogs and a playful note filled with updates from Egypt; and Hermione bought him a broom servicing kit accompanied by a neatly written message reminding him to stay out of trouble. After giving each owl a treat, they flew off.

All three mentioned that they planned to meet up during the last week of the holidays. Harry left the gifts safely on the table, his heart swelling with happiness, after all, it was his thirteenth birthday, and he planned to enjoy them later.

Under the Invisibility Cloak, Remus arrived to collect him. With a faint pop, they apparated to Grimmauld Place.

The kitchen was alive with warmth and a cosy bustle. Kreacher and two smaller, sprightlier house elves were bustling about, carefully arranging a small display of gifts. Charmed candles floated above the table, flickering in reds and golds, while a great chocolate cake sat layered high with icing, dotted with glittering sugared snitches. Plates of sugared quills, candied nuts, and tiny treats were laid out with meticulous care, each one clearly chosen with thought and affection.

Dobby appeared, popping in with his usual squeak of excitement. “Master Harry!” the elf exclaimed, bounding forward and wrapping him in a huge, warm hug. Harry froze for a moment, astonished by the sudden embrace. “Dobby! You… you’re here?”

“Dobby could not miss Master Harry’s birthday,” the elf declared proudly, hopping back to admire the cake. In his small hands, he held a crudely painted portrait of Harry and Dobby together, bright colours, lopsided features, and squiggly outlines. Harry’s eyes lit up, and he hugged the painting tightly, genuinely loving the odd, heartfelt gift. He thanked Dobby with a heartfelt smile.

Sirius chuckled from the doorway, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I thought it was time you met the rest of the family, pup. These two, Aster and Poppy,” he gestured to the smaller elves, “served your parents and your grandparents. They’ve been keeping an eye on things here, quietly. They wanted to make sure someone celebrated today.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He knelt slightly, looking at the two elves, their eyes bright and devoted. “You… you knew my parents?” His voice caught. “And my grandparents?”

The elves nodded, smiling shyly. “Yes, Master Harry. Always remembered. Always loved.”

Aster and Poppy stepped forward, holding out a small velvet-wrapped package. Harry took it gently, his fingers brushing the soft fabric, and carefully unwrapped it. Inside lay a delicate silver pocket watch, engraved with the Potter family crest, its craftsmanship exquisite. A lump rose in his throat, and his eyes widened, misting over. A quiet, awed smile spread across his face as he realised that even now, through this simple, thoughtful gift, the love of his parents, and the memory of his family, still reached him.

“Happy birthday, pup,” Sirius said, sweeping him into a hug so tight it knocked the breath out of him. He dropped a long, thin package on the table with a flourish. “Open it.”

Harry’s fingers trembled as he tore the paper away. His jaw dropped at the sleek, black broomstick, silver letters glinting in the candlelight. “A Firebolt?”

Sirius grinned, mischief in his eyes. “Fastest broom in the world. Only the best for my godson.” Harry let out a short, breathless laugh, unable to stop his grin, and clutched the gift as though it might vanish.

Harry gaped, utterly speechless. “But.. this.. Sirius.. I..”

“No arguments,” Sirius added, cutting him off with a teasing grin. “You deserve it. I’ve got twelve years of birthdays and Christmases to make up for. Besides… I want to see McGonagall faint when she sees you fly.”

Remus chuckled softly and stepped forward with his own wrapped parcel. Smaller, heavier. “Mine isn’t quite so flashy,” he said gently. “But I thought you might like it.”

Inside was a worn but beautiful book, Intermediate Study of Ancient Runes, bound in soft leather, its edges marked with neat annotations.

“Runes are more useful than you might think,” Remus said with a smile. “Wards, protections, spellwork… it’s old magic, Harry. Strong magic. I thought… maybe you’d like to learn.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He nodded and expressed his thanks, clutching the book as though it might vanish.

Kreacher shuffled forward then, muttering something about “wasteful birthday nonsense,” but Harry noticed the old elf had placed a plate of sugared quills at the table, almost shyly.

They lit the candles on the cake together, Sirius insisting Harry make a wish, Remus clapping him on the back. Then, in unison, they all sang Happy Birthday, Sirius’ deep voice, Remus’ gentle tones, and even the three elves joining in with cheerful squeaks and claps. Dobby bounced on the spot, waving his arms with boundless excitement, nearly toppling a candlestick in his enthusiasm. Even Kreacher had a small smile on his face.

The cake had been eaten, the laughter still lingering in the air as Harry leaned back in his chair. His stomach was warm and heavy with food, but it was more than that; his heart was full, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

After returning Harry, under the invisibility cloak, safely back to the Leaky Cauldron for the night, Remus apparated back to Grimmauld Place. The house was quieter without Harry’s laughter echoing through it. Kreacher had cleaned away the remnants of the evening, and Sirius had retired to the study.

Remus joined him and lingered by the fire, a folded letter in his hand, the flames casting sharp shadows across his tired face. Sirius sat upon the large mahogany desk, a glass of fire whisky in hand, watching him with narrowed eyes. “You’ve been staring at that parchment all evening,” Sirius said at last, his voice low. “Out with it, Moony.”

Remus exhaled slowly and handed him the letter. “It arrived at my cottage this morning. From Dumbledore.”

Sirius took the letter from Remus, scanning the neat, careful script. “A teaching post at Hogwarts,” he said flatly. “On the surface, it’s an honour, a position of respect… but it’s a leash, Moony. A way to keep you close, under his eye.”

Remus sank into the armchair, rubbing his temples. “I know. He’s counting on the fact that I’d do anything for Harry. If I step inside Hogwarts… he’ll watch my every move. He’ll know when I falter, when I slip. He’ll use it against us.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “He wants you loyal, but loyal to him, not to anyone else. To him. You take this post, and he’s got you on a chain. Every action, every word… all of it under his control.”

“Perhaps,” Remus admitted, voice low, “but staying outside isn’t safer. If Dumbledore thinks he’s holding the strings, he won’t see us cutting them quietly, one by one. We can protect Harry and undermine him from within.”

Sirius slammed down his glass of fire whiskey and paced in front of the fire, firelight throwing restless shadows across the walls. “You’d be walking straight into his trap, and he’d see it coming. I hate that he thinks he owns you.”

The room was silent for a moment, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Sirius’s fists clenched, then released. Slowly, he sank into the chair opposite Remus, the weight of their unspoken fears pressing between them.

Finally, Sirius said, his voice grim but steady, “Then we’ll play it carefully. You take the post. Keep him believing he’s got you leashed. But your loyalty is here, with Harry. With me.”

Remus nodded once. “Always.”

Outside, the night deepened over London. Within Grimmauld Place, Sirius and Remus sat side by side, silent guardians of a boy who had no idea how many games of power and control were being played in his name.

The next morning, as Sirius sipped his coffee, Remus’ expression grew thoughtful. “Amelia won’t be able to contact the house directly,” he said, frowning. “The protections are too strong. No owl will get through to you”.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “So she can’t reply?”

Remus leaned back in the armchair, running a hand through his hair. “I could go myself,” he said quietly. “Deliver a message to Amelia… she could reply to me at the cottage.”

Sirius cut him off with a sharp glance, voice low and tense. “No. Absolutely not. You stepping foot in the Ministry right now? Albus would notice. Every move you make would be watched, every word recorded. He’ll know we’re coordinating.”

Remus exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly, though worry still darkened his eyes. “Then… we need another way.”

Sirius’s gaze flicked to Kreacher, who shuffled near the fireplace. “Kreacher,” he said simply. “Can you handle this again? Same as before. Carry the letter to Amelia Bones and make sure no one sees you. Wait for her reply, then bring it back here safely. No tracking spells, no interference.”

Kreacher blinked, then gave a faint nod of recognition. “Yes… yes, Master Sirius. Kreacher will serve again. Kreacher bring back message.”

Sirius allowed a small, approving smile. “Good. Same plan, same rules. Let’s make sure it reaches her safely this time too.”

Amelia sat at her polished desk, quill poised over parchment. She had written a careful reply to Sirius Black, each word measured for clarity and urgency. Her mind raced, this letter could not fall into the wrong hands. If anyone at the Ministry intercepted it, if Fudge, Umbridge, or even lesser eyes suspected she was communicating with Black, her career could be over, and she might be forced out entirely. All to conceal the Ministry’s failures and preserve the tangled web of deceit that protected the corrupt from scrutiny.

A sudden pop made her start. Before her stood a small, wrinkled figure, unnervingly still, holding a folded letter in gnarled hands. “W-who?” she whispered, startled.

The elf’s dark eyes met hers, unwavering. Without a word, he extended the letter toward her, waiting. Amelia’s fingers brushed the thick parchment as she unfolded it, scanning the contents quickly, heart pounding.

Satisfied, she reached for the reply she had already prepared and held it out to the elf.

His lips quivered as he accepted it. A faint, silvery glow pulsed along the edges of the parchment for a heartbeat, scanning for any tracking spells or hidden enchantments. Then, bowing so low that his head nearly touched the floor, he intoned, voice trembling slightly, “Kreacher… will deliver.”

With a sudden pop, he was gone, leaving Amelia alone, the faint echo of his departure lingering, and her pulse still racing at the dangerous gamble she had just entrusted to a house elf.

Chapter Text

A faint pop echoed through the kitchen, and Kreacher reappeared, a letter clutched tightly in his hands. Sirius and Remus looked at each other, disbelief etched on their faces. “That fast?” Sirius whispered, astonished. “She couldn’t have even left the Ministry…”

Remus shook his head, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “Amelia moves fast when she knows the stakes. Let’s see what she’s uncovered.”

Kreacher stepped forward, lowering the letter onto the table with a trembling hand before bowing deeply. He vanished with a small pop.

Sirius tore the seal, and the parchment unfolded easily in his hands. His eyes scanned the neat, careful script:

Dear Sirius,

Thank you for coming to me. I am glad that I still have your confidence, even if I was your only option. I now know you were innocent, and have suffered a grave miscarriage of justice. I have managed to access several internal records, testimony, and reports concerning the handling of your case. There are discrepancies in procedure, missing documentation, and testimony from people I now know to be inauthentic. If these errors are exposed, they demonstrate that the Ministry did not follow proper legal protocol.

I must apologise. For too long, I believed the official narrative. I did not question the inconsistencies or what I knew of your character. I allowed you to remain imprisoned unjustly. I regret my inaction deeply, and I am determined to do what I can to help you now.

Every minute counts. A single mistake or misstep could reveal my involvement and endanger my position. I am taking every precaution to remain undetected while gathering what we need to finally secure a trial and the justice you deserve.

I have compiled a list of potential witnesses I can approach whose statements could support your defence, and I am preparing copies of documents and reports that will be critical in establishing your innocence. Timing and secrecy are essential. The Ministry have ordered the Dementors to perform the Kiss on sight if you are found.

You need to retain a solicitor who is willing to take your case and fight the Ministry’s overreach. I recommend using Peverell Stroud of Stroud, Fletchley & Co., based between Diagon Alley and Knockturn. He is discreet and trustworthy. You should also consider controlling the narrative in the press: acquiring shares in the Daily Prophet will allow you to influence public perception. Gringotts can assist with this.

Be cautious, but act decisively. The truth is on our side, but the clock is relentless. I know I cannot undo the past, but this is a chance to right some of the wrongs. I am sorry it took me so long to act. With regrets, and with hope for your redemption, I remain,

Faithfully yours,

Amelia.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, gripping the edges of the table, eyes wide. His voice was a mixture of awe and disbelief. “She’s risking herself to dig through Ministry files, looking for anything that can save me.”

Remus nodded gravely. “She’s exposing herself to every scrutiny, every prying eye in the Ministry. One slip and it could ruin her career, or worse. And yet, she’s already identified witnesses, documents, and procedural flaws. She’s moving faster than anyone could have imagined.”

Sirius ran a hand over his face, tension coiling in his jaw. “We need to act on this immediately. A solicitor, someone who can actually challenge the Ministry, and controlling the press. She’s thinking ten steps ahead of us. Amelia’s brilliant… fearless, even.”

Remus leaned closer, his tone quiet but firm. “The goal is clear. We move before the Ministry can lock anything down. The trial’s ticking like a time bomb. Every hour we wait, they solidify their lies. Every decision we delay increases the risk that a single misstep exposes us, or her. But if we follow her plan, we can turn the tide.”

Sirius slammed a fist lightly on the table, determination flaring in his eyes. “Then we don’t waste another second. Get that solicitor, start investigating the Daily Prophet shares. Amelia’s laid out the path. We just have to walk it.”

Not even sixty minutes later, Remus and Padfoot moved swiftly through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, keeping to the shadows where they could. They arrived at a nondescript building tucked between a second hand book store and a small apothecary. The brass lettering above the door read “Stroud, Fletchley & Co., .”

Remus knocked firmly. The door swung open to reveal a young receptionist, clipboard in hand. “Can I help you?” she asked, peering at them with polite curiosity.

Remus stepped forward, voice low but firm. “I need to speak to Peverell. Money is no concern. It’s urgent, he must see me immediately.”

The receptionist hesitated, looking down at the large black dog, then gave a quick nod. “Please wait.” She disappeared through a side door and returned a few minutes later. The waiting was tense and silent. “Mr. Peverell will see you now. Right this way.”

Remus and Padfoot followed her into a well-appointed office. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a faint scent of parchment and ink hung in the air. At the far end of the room, a tall man with sharp eyes and an attentive expression rose from behind a polished desk.

“Mr. Peverell,” Remus began, closing the door behind them, “I am Remus Lupin, and I need to speak to you about Sirius Black.”

Peverell’s brow furrowed slightly. “Sirius Black, the fugitive?”

“Yes,” Remus said firmly, voice low, “he is innocent. The Ministry, Dumbledore included, covered up the truth. Evidence was concealed, procedures ignored, testimonies fabricated. He has suffered years of wrongful imprisonment. We need you to take his case. He didn’t even receive a trial.”

Peverell leaned back, studying Remus carefully. “That is… a serious accusation. Do you have anything to substantiate this?”

Remus reached into his robes and produced a thick folder. He handed it to the solicitor. “This is a copy of the Potter family will, naming Peter Pettigrew as secret keeper, and here is a blood-signed oath declaration from Sirius himself. They demonstrate his innocence and his integrity.”

Peverell flipped through the documents, eyes widening slightly at the oath. He tapped a finger on the will. “I see. This is compelling, certainly… enough for me to take it seriously. I will represent him, but I must meet him in person. I will need him to sign the paperwork, and I must be legally instructed before any action can be taken.”

Remus nodded. He glanced toward Padfoot. With a fluid motion, the dog shifted, elongating and stretching, until Sirius Black stood before Peverell, his expression calm but resolute.

Peverell’s eyes met Sirius’s, sharp and assessing, then softened slightly. “Well… it seems we have some work to do,” he said, already reaching for parchment and quills.

Sirius inclined his head, voice steady. “I trust you’ll be discreet. And thorough.”

“Of course,” Peverell replied. “We begin immediately. The Ministry will not know what hit them.”

Remus exhaled lightly, exchanging a glance with Sirius. The first step had been taken, the legal path toward clearing Sirius’s name was now open, and time was the only thing standing between them and the Ministry’s ticking clock.

Chapter Text

Two weeks passed in relative quiet at Grimmauld Place. Sirius remained in hiding whilst Remus continued quietly passing information of character witnesses and his own and Sirius’ memory recollections to Amelia through Kreacher. Harry was brought back and forth to the house, and was getting to know both men. He regaled tales of his first two years at Hogwarts, further infuriating them and leaving them both disturbed at the chaos and incompetence that had reigned under Dumbledore’s watch.

An owl sent word to Harry that the curse breakers had arrived at Gringotts, and would see him that day. He waited until Remus came to pick him up after breakfast, and gave both Sirius and Remus the letter once they were safely ensconced in Grimmauld place.

The specialists curse breakers had been summoned from Egypt to carefully remove the dark magic that resided in Harry’ forehead, a painful, delicate and time consuming task. The letter also said that they would remove the blocks that had been placed on Harry.

They decided that if Remus went with him, Dumbledore might find out through spies in the alley, and it wasn’t worth the risk. Sirius decided to go with as padfoot. He would then change back into human form once safely in the goblins office. He could deal with his matters at the bank at the same time.

Under the cover of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, the two apparated to an alley beside Gringotts. There, Sirius transformed into Padfoot and Harry removed the cloak and placed it in his satchel. The shaggy black dog padded alongside Harry, his vigilant ears twitching at every sound as they walked into the bank.

Harry requested to see Griphook and followed the goblin through the labyrinth of corridors toward his office. Once they were inside the private chambers, Sirius shifted from his Animagus form back into his human shape, careful to remain unobtrusive. Griphook regarded him with mild interest, but no surprise crossed the goblin’s face, goblins could sense an Animagus, and to them, such transformations held no scandal.

Wizards were only culpable in their eyes if they broke goblin law, and neither Sirius nor Harry had done so. The goblin gestured for them to sit, re confirming that the object Harry carried in his head had been cursed with powerful dark magic. Its removal would require meticulous magical technique and precise attention at every step. He added that the Curse-Breakers would arrive shortly to perform the work and explain exactly what the enchantment entailed.

Harry nodded, his nerves steadied by Sirius’ presence. “I wouldn’t want to do this without you,” he admitted quietly.

Sirius gave him a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t let them touch you alone. Not a chance.”

The curse breakers arrived and the goblin ushered them into a private chamber, the heavy iron door swinging closed with a deep, resonant thud. Only Harry, Sirius, Griphook and the curse breakers were present, the secrecy necessary for both magical safety and  discretion.

The team introduced themselves in careful, measured tones. Two senior Curse-Breakers stepped forward first, their robes marked with subtle Egyptian symbols. One gave his name as Omar Selim, his dark eyes assessing Harry closely. Beside him, the other, Rami Farid, nodded curtly, already moving to organize the instruments. A younger apprentice, who introduced himself as Bill Weasley, followed, carrying a small set of tools with a mixture of eagerness and nervous respect. Bill eyed Sirius with caution, but looked away focusing on gathering the instruments.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the young Curse-Breaker with red hair carrying the instruments. “Wait,” he said, eyes furrowing. “Bill Weasley? Are you… Ron’s older brother?”

Bill glanced up and gave a small smile. “Ah… yes, that’s me,” he said cautiously. “I didn’t know… I mean, I didn’t expect to meet you here, or that you’d be the one needing help. Gringotts work keeps us busy. I have just left Ron and the family in Egypt, I am staying here for a few months to work on some projects within the bank.”

Harry nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Right.. small world.” Even in the midst of this tense, secretive situation, it was reassuring to recognize a familiar name, someone he could at least trust by association.

They led Harry to a secluded chamber just off the first room, its stone floor etched with a large pentagon, runes glowing faintly at each corner. At each point of the pentagon, a rune stone pulsed softly with protective magic. A narrow bed had been placed at the centre.

“You’ll need to lie here with just your undergarments on please,” Omar, one of the senior Curse-Breakers instructed in a calm, measured tone. “The stones will help us monitor and contain the dark enchantment. The pentagon is secured that nothing can escape. Just lie still and relax.”

Harry’s stomach tightened as he nodded. Carefully, he removed his outer layers until he was in his boxers, revealing the thin, scarred frame that had carried him through so much. Sirius and Griphook were ushered back into a nearby alcove, close enough to watch, but away from the pentagram and out of the way of the curse breakers. Their eyes followed every careful movement, their vigilance a silent comfort to Harry.

Omar stood at the head of the pentagon. “I will scan you first, Harry, to gauge the nature of the enchantment. Then Rami will perform his scan, and finally, Bill. We will compare notes before taking any further steps. There is no rush. You only need to lie still and let the magic do the work.”

Harry swallowed, the weight of the moment pressing down, but he trusted them. He lay down on the bed, trying to steady his breathing. Omar’s wand moved lightly over his body, a soft golden glow spreading across it, starting at his feet. At first, it remained pale, almost comforting, but as it moved higher, Omar’s expression grew taut, his brows knitting in concern.

The glow shifted from gold to red, deepening as it passed over Harry’s chest, his arms, his shoulders. Harry felt a rising heat beneath the wand, prickling and sharp, until the red darkened further, almost black, Omar’s eyes widened in alarm when the light reached Harry’s head. Harry let out a sudden, sharp scream, clutching his head as the black glow seemed to pulse in rhythm with his pain.

“I’m so sorry, Harry!” Omar exclaimed, lowering his wand. “That was not supposed to hurt.. it’s just… the dark magic is… more resistant than anticipated. Where does it hurt?”

Harry pointed weakly to the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. Omar nodded gravely, lips pressing into a thin line.

Rami stepped forward next, repeating the scan with gentle care, his hands and wand radiating caution. The glow again pulsed along Harry’s body, turning red over the more sensitive areas. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Rami said quietly as Harry winced. “I have to take a full reading. It will sting a little.”

Finally, Bill moved in, slower, steadier, repeating the procedure. His movements were deliberate, professional, but Harry could feel the heat and tension along his scar. “I apologise, lad,” Bill murmured.

In the alcove, Sirius’s hands clenched, nails puncturing his palms, held fast by Griphook’s restraining magic. Tears ran unchecked down his face as he watched the pain inflicted on the boy he loved more than anything.

At last, the scans were complete. The three Curse-Breakers stepped back, exchanging solemn glances. Omar muttered a quiet sigh, rubbing his temple, while Rami and Bill nodded in agreement.

“Take a pain potion,” Omar instructed, producing a small vial. Harry drank it, the liquid bitter but soothing. “Lie here for a moment,” Omar added gently. “We need to discuss our findings before we proceed. You’ve been brave, Harry.”

Harry exhaled shakily, the pain fading away, and lay back on the bed. Sirius, still held by Griphook, whispered his reassurance, voice thick with emotion.

Omar, Rami, and Bill huddled briefly, whispering in low tones, their faces taut with concern. Finally, Omar stepped forward, turning to Harry and Sirius with a grave expression.

“Harry, what we discovered during the scans… it is more serious than typical dark enchantments,” Omar began carefully. “The object of this curse is not just dark magic. It is a Horcrux, a fragment of a soul.”

Harry froze, confusion and fear tightening his chest. Sirius’s eyes darkened instantly, his jaw clenched.

“This fragment,” Rami continued, “originates from Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort. It is not the only fragment he created, but it is the last one, the final piece of his soul. The scans indicate that the remainder of his soul, what is left inside him, is less than one percent of its original strength. We estimate that including this fragment, and the soul left inside the original vessel, there are 4 more”. Sirius yelled out in fright.

Bill stepped closer, speaking in a softer tone for Harry’s benefit. “We can remove it. It is possible. But it must be done carefully. The soul fragment must be contained, and for that it needs a temporary host.” Harry blinked, swallowing hard. “A host? Like… an animal?”

“Yes,” Omar said solemnly. “We will need to house the fragment temporarily in a living creature, which will then be destroyed to prevent any further corruption or return. We have considered several options and… a rat is suitable.”

Griphook’s sharp fingers snapped, and within moments, a goblin appeared at the doorway, a small, sleek rat in hand. “This will do?” the goblin asked. Griphook nodded, and the goblin left as quickly as he had appeared.

Omar turned back to Harry. “Once we contain the soul fragment to the host, we will also be able to remove the blocks placed on your magic. The magical signature of the person who created these blocks will be collected and preserved in a vial. This ensures that you can press charges on the person responsible. They have wronged you greatly”.

Rami added, “We will also be available to give testimony ourselves, should it be required. You are protected, Harry. Everything is being done with extreme care.”

Harry’s throat tightened, but he managed a small nod. “Will it… hurt?”

Omar exchanged a look with Rami and Bill, then met Harry’s eyes. “There will be discomfort, Harry. I think we can estimate that this soul fragment is going to put up a fight. It has been feeding off your core and magic since it embedded in your head. It will not be painless, but it must be removed. You will have potions to ease the pain, and we will proceed slowly, step by step. The important thing is that this ends the connection entirely. You’ll be free of it.”

Sirius, still restrained in the alcove, let out a low, relieved breath. “Harry,” he murmured, voice thick, “they know what they’re doing. Trust them. Trust me.”

Harry clenched his fists briefly, then relaxed, steeling himself. “Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s do it.”

Omar nodded, moving to prepare the instruments, the rat waiting nearby. “We begin in a moment. Just stay calm and follow our instructions. You’re in safe hands.”

The three Curse-Breakers surrounded harry and raised their wands in unison, their movements precise, synchronised, and deliberate. “Focus on the soul fragment,” Omar instructed, voice steady but taut. “Pull it slowly, do not let it hold on to Harry.”

Harry gritted his teeth, gripping the edges of the bed. As the dark magic began to stir, a searing, unnatural pain shot through his scar. His body lifted involuntarily from the bed, muscles straining against the invisible pull, his back arching as though something inside him were clawing its way free. He screamed, a high, raw sound that echoed through the chamber, his voice mixing with the crackle of the runes at the pentagon’s points.

Thick, black tendrils of magic oozed from his scar, black and viscous, writhing like serpents as the wands drew the fragment upward. Blood streaked the edges of the wound where the enchantment had embedded itself into his skin.

Sirius, held fast by Griphook’s restraining magic, barked out a strangled sound, tears streaking his face, his anger and helplessness palpable.

“Steady!” Omar hissed. “Almost there!”

Suddenly, like a snapped rubber band, Harry collapsed back onto the bed. A wisp of black, malevolent energy erupted upward, pressing against the protective runes of the pentagon. The very air seemed to shiver with its evil. The three Curse-Breakers’ brows glistened with sweat, their wands flicking in perfect coordination to contain it, guiding the fragment toward the waiting rat.

The dark essence twisted, trying to escape, shrieking with rage, but Rami’s precise movements, combined with Omar and Bill’s counter-spells, forced it back. Finally, the fragment surged into the rat’s body with a violent, snapping motion. Bill conjured a large, sturdy metal box with a flick of his wand and hurled the squirming, black-infused rat inside, sealing it with multiple wards and runes.

The Horcrux had been removed.

Harry lay on the bed, utterly spent, body trembling, limbs splayed, unconscious. His chest rose and fell shallowly, his skin pale but gradually regaining some colour. The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the uncontrolled sobs of Sirius.

Bill stepped forward, wand at the ready. “I need to scan him again,” he murmured. The light from his wand traced along Harry’s body, highlighting the fatigue of his core. “His magical reserves are nearly depleted. He’ll need restorative potions immediately.”

Omar produced several vials, their contents shimmering with deep blues and golds. Bill forced them into Harry’s mouth. Slowly, Harry’s body relaxed, the tension easing slightly as the potent restorative magic and pain potions began to take effect.

Omar exhaled, a weary smile tugging at his lips. “It’s done. He’s free of it. We need to keep monitoring him. That Horcrux was… powerful.”

Sirius, finally able to move rushed to Harry’s side. He knelt, brushing damp hair from the boy’s face, voice trembling. “Harry… you’re safe. It’s gone”.

Harry remained unconscious, but his lips twitched in a faint, pained smile. Sirius gripped his shoulder, silently vowing that he would never let anything like that happen again.

Omar nodded grimly. “We need to remove the magical blocks now, before his core stabilises in this weakened state. If we wait, the damage could become permanent.”

Rami knelt, inspecting the runes at the pentagon’s corners. “It won’t be like the Horcrux removal,” he said softly, glancing at Sirius. “No screaming. No tearing. He’s unconscious, and we can do this work while he sleeps. It’s delicate, but far less invasive.”

Sirius still hovered at Harry’s side, one hand on his godson’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on the Curse-Breakers. “Do it,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Whatever you have to. Just… don’t hurt him more than you have to.”

Bill set down his wand and retrieved a small, glass vial etched with intricate runes. “This will hold the magical signature of whoever placed the blocks,” he explained. “Once we’ve extracted them, you’ll have proof, proof strong enough to press charges or demand testimony in the Wizengamot.”

Sirius let out a humourless laugh. “Evidence. They said it didn’t matter when they locked me up. Must be a new policy. Go on, then.”

Omar positioned himself at Harry’s head while Rami took his left side and Bill his right. Together, they raised their wands once more, their motions smoother now, a slow, practiced weaving of magic. Pale blue light seeped from their wands, encircling Harry’s body like a halo, far softer than the angry red and black glow from before.

“Here we go,” Omar murmured. “One by one…”

Threads of faint, shimmering magic began to rise from Harry’s chest, wrists, and temples, like strands of spider silk glowing faintly in the dim chamber. Each strand hummed softly as it detached, winding itself toward the runed vial Bill held. The glass glowed faintly as it filled, sealing each strand with a quiet click.

Harry stirred faintly but did not wake. His breathing deepened, his face smoothing into an almost peaceful expression as the oppressive weight of the blocks lifted, piece by piece.

Rami exhaled slowly. “He’s responding well. Whoever put these blocks in place knew what they were doing, but they didn’t count on three of us working together and we aren’t the best at what we do for nothing.”

Finally, the last shimmering thread floated into the vial, and Bill sealed it with a flick of his wand. “Done,” he said softly. “All blocks removed. Signature preserved.” He held up the vial for Sirius to see. “This alone could bring down anyone who tampered with him.”

Omar checked Harry’s vitals with a soft diagnostic charm, nodding in approval. “His magical core will start replenishing itself now. We’ll give him another potion before we move him, but for the first time since he was a baby, he’s unbound and free of foreign magic.”

Sirius stared at Harry’s sleeping face, his throat tight. He brushed the boy’s hair back again, his hand trembling. “Thank you,” he whispered to the Curse-Breakers, his voice rough. “For everything.”

Bill glanced up at Sirius, his expression unreadable but respectful. “It’s what we do,” he said quietly. “But you should know, the magic in that boy… it’s going to take time for him to adjust. He’s going to be stronger than you realise, once he heals. It will be explosive, he will need to be retrained. His core is extraordinarily strong, the most powerful I have ever seen”

Sirius stared at Harry’s sleeping face, chest swelling with pride. “How could he not be powerful?” he murmured, brushing the boy’s hair back with a trembling hand. “James and Lily… it’s in him. There’s no way it wouldn’t be.”

Omar added, turning to both of them, “If you intend to press charges, I strongly advise getting an official scan at St Mungo’s now that he’s free of all foreign magic. That way, you have documented proof. They can also prescribe him a potion regimen to help his core stabilise.”

He gestured toward the exit. “Go to the Long-Term Spell Damage Ward. Speak to Healer Mirabeth Tahl, she specialises in restorative care for children and young adults affected by persistent dark magic, and she knows how to be discreet. She’ll ensure he recovers safely and fully, and might be able to make sure the wound heals without the scar.”

Sirius nodded, determination and relief warring on his face. “We’ll do whatever it takes. He’s worth it.”

Harry stirred, eyelids fluttering as he came back to himself. The warmth of the bed and the faint hum of protective wards around him felt strange but comforting. His body ached, but there was a lightness now, something had shifted, freed.

Sirius, still sitting close by, let out a quiet sigh of relief when he saw Harry’s eyes open. “Hey, pup,” he said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re safe now. Everything’s… gone.”

Harry blinked slowly, taking in the room, the gentle glow of the runes, and the exhausted but satisfied faces of the Curse-Breakers. He tried to speak, but only a small croak escaped. Sirius chuckled and ruffled his hair gently, pride and relief written all over him.

“When you’re feeling up to it,” Omar said carefully, “we can arrange transport to St Mungo’s. You need to be seen as soon as possible”.

Sirius’s eyes lit with his usual mischievous glint. “I can go with you, pup, Padfoot style. No one will see us coming or going.”

Harry shook his head weakly, wincing. “No… that’s too risky. If anyone spots you… it could compromise everything. Maybe… we could call Kreacher to ask Remus to take me instead?”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, but he gave a resigned nod. “All right. Moony it is, then. Just… be careful, pup. We don’t need more surprises today.”

Harry gave a small, tired smile, feeling the strange mixture of exhaustion and relief settle over him. For the first time in years, he could breathe.

Chapter Text

Harry stumbled slightly as Sirius guided him through the winding corridors of Gringotts, his legs shaky but his core steady enough to walk. Sirius’s hand pressed lightly at his back, steadying him. “Easy now, pup,” he murmured. “Just a few more steps.”

They reached Griphook’s office, and Sirius stepped inside first, letting Harry lean against him for support. Once they were all seated, Sirius called sharply, “Kreacher!”

The elf appeared almost instantly, bowing low. “Master Sirius?”

“Bring Moony,” Sirius instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Kreacher vanished with a small pop, and seconds later reappeared with a frazzled Remus, mid-bite of a half-eaten sandwich. His eyes widened as he took in the scene. “What.. Harry? What’s happening, are you okay?”.

Sirius raised a hand. “Sit, Moony. I didn’t exactly warn you, did I?”

Remus shook his head, still chewing, but moved quickly to Harry, giving him a concerned hug. “Are you alright, Harry? Tell me it’s done.”

Harry nodded weakly, leaning against him. “It’s done. Both… both procedures.”

Griphook cleared his throat, addressing Remus. “Both procedures were a success. The dark magic afflicting Master Harry… it was a Horcrux. A fragment of a soul. Completely removed and safely contained.”

Remus froze, his jaw tightening. “A Horcrux?” His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “You mean… Voldemort?”

Sirius’ hand tightened briefly on Harry’s shoulder. “Yes. And there’s more. Harry needs to go to St Mungo’s next. We need an official check, and we need to make sure everything is recorded so we can press charges against whoever put these blocks on him… Dumbledore included.”

Harry blinked, still pale but steadying himself. “Charges… really?”

Sirius gave him a faint smile. “Really, pup. You’ve been wronged. We’re not letting that go.”

Rubbing his eyes and adjusting his coat, Sirius asked, “Griphook… who can determine whose magical signature created these blocks?”

“The goblins,” Griphook replied matter-of-factly. “We can trace and identify the source… for a fee, naturally.”

Sirius didn’t flinch. “Take it. All of it. From my vaults. Whatever is owed for today’s services, it’s yours. No arguments. Add a 5% tip on top, for you and the curse-breakers.”

Griphook inclined his head. “It will be done, Lord Black.”.

Sirius nodded, turning to Remus. “When you take Harry to St Mungo’s, Griphook can bring the Black vault manager along. I have some business to attend to while you’re gone.”

Remus looked from Harry to Sirius, a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Business… right. You don’t rest either, do you?”

Sirius chuckled faintly, running a hand through his hair. “Rest? Ha. Not when there’s work to be done, Harry. Come on, you need to get him checked before the Ministry or anyone else finds out. We have to make sure every last bit of this mess is documented.”

Remus and Harry stood together as the goblin created a portkey. It was a small, metal teaspoon that pulsed under Griphook’s careful touch. “Hold onto it tight,” the goblin instructed. “You’ll arrive directly at St Mungo’s.”

Harry swallowed, glancing at Remus. “You sure this is safe?”

Remus gave a firm nod, resting a hand on his shoulder. “As safe as we can make it. Keep still, Harry. We’ll be there in a moment.”

With a soft pop and a rush of air, the portkey activated, flinging them through space and depositing them in the calm, polished atrium of St Mungo’s. Harry blinked, unsteady but unharmed, leaning on Remus as they moved toward the reception.

Sirius remained with Griphook. He crossed his arms, jaw tight, mind racing even in the relative quiet of the goblin office. “Griphook,” he said finally, voice low and purposeful, “I want you to identify the magical signature from the blocks. Let me know the moment the Horcrux is destroyed.”

Griphook inclined his head, expression impassive. “Understood, Lord Black. You will be informed immediately.”

Sirius continued, tone sharp but controlled. “And while you’re at it… if you can, share any information with Remus and me about the other soul fragments. We need to know where they are, what we’re dealing with. No surprises. They all need to be destroyed”.

“Very well,” Griphook replied, his fingers steepled. “That can be arranged.”

Sirius exhaled through his nose, running a hand across his face. “Good. And the charges for today’s work, have the Black account manager handle it. I want this done properly.”

Griphook nodded. “I will go summon Thrangor. He will handle the financial arrangements and ensure the appropriate charges are processed. We will move to his office, come.”

A moment later, Sirius followed the goblin down a series of narrow corridors, the weight of recent events pressing on him. Thrangor’s office was austere, lined with ledgers, large impressive swords, and small, intricately carved safes. The air smelled faintly of parchment and polished metal.

Sirius rubbed his face, drawing a deep, slow breath. He seated himself heavily in the high-backed chair, fingers drumming on the armrest. Griphook reappeared moments later, this time with Thrangor in tow. With a curt nod, Griphook excused himself, leaving Sirius alone with the Black account manager. Thrangor’s sharp eyes took him in, the faint glint of curiosity and caution flickering behind them.

Sirius leaned back, exhaling slowly, letting the weight of recent events settle for a moment before he spoke. “Thrangor,” he began, voice deliberate, “I need a full report on the Black accounts. Have any of them been accessed while I was… indisposed? I need to know exactly who’s been meddling.”

Thrangor’s eyes flickered briefly, acknowledging the gravity. “No unauthorised access has occurred, Lord Black. Your uncle was quite clear on that no one was allowed access but you, before he passed and left you the Lordship. Everything has been maintained under the usual goblin oversight.”

“Good,” Sirius said, voice tight with controlled irritation. “That line needs to change. I want to make some adjustments immediately. First,” he added, lifting a hand, “the Lordship ring. I want it safely on my hand”.

Thrangor inclined his head respectfully. “Understood, Lord Black. The ring is in our possession, but as is customary, we must confirm your claim.” He produced a small, jewel-encrusted dagger, its edge gleaming. “If you would, please provide your hand.”

Sirius extended his hand without hesitation. The goblin made a precise, shallow cut on his fingertip and pressed it to a parchment lying on the desk. “All in order,” Thrangor confirmed, his voice firm. From an ornate box in the desk drawer, Thrangor carefully lifted the Black Lordship ring and set it before Sirius. “Here we go,” he said.

Sirius slid the ring onto his finger. Instantly, a familiar surge of magic enveloped him, protective spells and ancient enchantments radiating outward. He could feel the power of the Black line settle around him like a second skin, a weight of authority.

Sirius’s gaze hardened. “I also want the payments to my  solicitor arranged, immediately. And while you’re at it, stop any donations, charitable or otherwise, going to dark families, known Death Eaters, or their affiliates. No exceptions. Every knut under my control is going to stay clean. I will of course look over any ideas you have for investments or donations next time I am here. I hope I can make myself clear with this. I also need to acquire as many shares in the Daily Prophet as fast as possible, I don't care how much you spend or who you have to bribe to get it done.

Thrangor scribbled a quick series of runes in the air, sealing Sirius’s instructions magically. “It will be done exactly as you command.”

Sirius leaned forward, voice dropping slightly, more contemplative now. “And as I told Griphook, I want notifications the moment the Horcrux is destroyed, and any information on the remaining fragments, if the goblins can provide it. I’ll handle it from here, but I need every detail. Nothing hidden.”

“Of course, Lord Black,” Thrangor replied smoothly. “You will have complete oversight. Every action will be reported directly to you, Let’s go visit the Black vault”.

Sirius nodded, satisfied, and followed Thrangor to a sturdy, enchanted cart waiting at the edge of the corridor. He stepped in carefully, taking a seat as the goblin expertly secured him and adjusted the magical restraints that ensured a smooth, safe ride. With a quiet hum, the cart lurched forward, rattling slightly as it descended into the deeper tunnels of Gringotts. The walls pressed in with the weight of ancient stone, the air cooler and thick with the scent of old magic.

As they passed what Sirius assumed was the dragon guarding the entrance to the lower vaults, he caught glimpses of flickering flames through the gaps in the tunnel. The roar of a dragon was muffled but resonated through the tunnel, a low vibration under the cart.

“Be mindful,” Thrangor said, his voice echoing slightly in the stone shaft. “We are entering one of the oldest vaults in the bank. The protections here date back centuries. Careless movements could trigger alarms or worse.”

Sirius’s eyes gleamed, a mix of anticipation and that familiar recklessness in them. “I’ve never been this far into the vaults,” he admitted, voice low. “When I left home at sixteen for the Potters, I only ever accessed my own inheritance vault which was a lot newer and higher.”

After what felt like an eternity winding through the subterranean passageways, the cart rolled to a stop before a massive iron door, set into the stone like a sentinel. Intricate runes shimmered faintly across its surface, layered in spells meant to repel intruders, detect unauthorised access, and protect the vault’s ancient contents.

“This,” Thrangor said reverently, “is the Black family vault, there is no key. Only an approved goblin can open. I am one of those. I will wait here until you are done, and then we will return”.

Thrangor’s hands moved over the intricate runes etched into the iron door, muttering words in Gobbledygook. The runes shimmered, pulsing with a dark, patient magic, like the heartbeat of the vault itself. Then, with a deep, resonant click, the door shuddered and groaned, ancient hinges protesting after years of stillness. A thin, cold mist seeped out, carrying the scent of aged parchment, dust, and something older, power, legacy, and warning all at once.

Sirius stepped forward, the torchlight flickering across his face, catching the glint of determination in his eyes. As the door swung fully open, the darkness inside seemed to stretch and breathe, swallowing the light from the hall. The enchanted glow of floating wards illuminated vast, endless stacks of treasure: mountains of gold spilling from gilded chests, gemstones set into obsidian and ivory, and books piled like towers. The air shimmered with residual magic, an almost palpable energy that made his skin prickle.

Portraits of long-dead Black ancestors hung along the walls, eyes glinting with scrutiny and silent judgment. Some whispered faintly. The vault seemed alive in its own way, a repository not only of wealth but of centuries of ambition, cruelty, and dark intent.

Sirius’s gaze was drawn to the centre of the vault, where a pedestal rose from the stone floor. Atop it lay the family ledger, a massive black tome with a spine thick with generations of inked entries. On top of the ledger as the Black Lordship Ring. Sirius put it on his ring finger, and the magic swirled around him as it claimed him. Sirius felt raw power shoot through his body, warm and inviting. The book seemed to pulse faintly, as if it recognised him, or perhaps, as if it waited, patient and knowing, for him to claim his place in the lineage it contained.

He reached the pedestal and hesitated for a heartbeat, letting his hand hover above the ledger’s worn leather cover. Then, with a deep inhale, he pressed down, opening it.

The pages whispered like dry leaves in a storm, the ink shimmering faintly in response to his touch. Names, spells, properties, and debts sprawled across the paper in sprawling, almost living script. Sirius felt the weight of centuries press on him, a heady mix of awe, fear, and exhilaration.

He leaned closer, running his fingers along the ledger, tracing the entries connected to his own line. Here, he could see who had been added, who had been removed, and which parts of the family fortune had been hoarded or hidden. The magic in the room hummed, almost whispering encouragement, guiding him as he prepared to reclaim control over the Black legacy and ensure that no corruption or Death Eater influence could continue unchecked.

Sirius’s eyes flickered over the thick, weighty page until his eyes caught the name that made his blood burn.

Bellatrix Druella Black.

Her name gleamed darkly across the page, entwined with another in cruel, curling script, Rodolphus Lestrange. The very sight of it made his jaw clench.
Sirius’s hand hovered above the entry, fingers trembling not with fear, but with the rage of justice long denied. The family ledger thrummed beneath his touch, sensitive to his will, waiting for his command. “Bellatrix,” he murmured, voice low and cold. “By right of Lordship, I sever you from this House. Your marriage, annulled. Your blood, unworthy. Your crimes, unforgiven.”

The parchment glowed faintly as the ledger stirred to life, threads of ancient Black magic coiling out from the page like smoke. The golden line binding her name to Rodolphus Lestrange writhed violently before disintegrating into nothingness, leaving the two unconnected, as though the bond had never been.
Sirius pressed his palm flat against the ledger, invoking the final judgment. “By the authority of the Black line, I call upon the magic of our ancestors to pass sentence. Bellatrix Black is cast out. Let her punishment be written.”

The air trembled around him, a low, resonant hum vibrating through the vault’s ancient stone. On the ledger, Bellatrix’s name began to bleed, the elegant script twisting and darkening until it collapsed into a black, lifeless blot upon the page. Then, with chilling precision, the parchment stirred once more. Fresh ink etched itself beneath the ruined name, each stroke deliberate and final, marking the date of her death—today.

Sirius’s gaze drifted back across the ledger, lingering on the familiar names of Narcissa, Lucius, and their son, Draco. His lips pressed into a thin line. There were judgments to be made there as well, but not today. Not without speaking to his once beloved cousin first. Some battles required words before steel.
With deliberate care, he closed the massive tome, its weighty cover settling shut with a quiet finality. His eyes turned to the vault’s towering shelves, scanning the endless piles of heirlooms, scrolls, and enchanted relics. Somewhere among them lay what he sought.

The Black Family Grimoire.

Not at Grimmauld Place, he and Kreacher had searched over and over. No, it must have been locked away here, hidden among the family’s most precious hoard. He found it at last, wedged between two brittle stacks of spellbooks, its cover thick with dust but humming faintly with restrained power. Sirius pulled it free and set it carefully by the door, a prize he would not leave without.

Turning back to the glittering sea of gold, he grimaced. The sheer excess of it was nauseating. The Black family had hoarded more than anyone could ever need, yet how often had it been used for cruelty instead of good? With a shake of his head, Sirius filled a heavy bag with galleons and sickles, the coins clinking dully as they spilled inside. Then, with a moment’s hesitation, he filled a second.
“For Moony,” he muttered under his breath, shoving it closed. Pride could go hang, Remus needed it, and Sirius had more than enough to spare.

Satisfied at last, he gathered the Grimoire and with filled money bags in hand, he strode back to the vault door, where Thrangor stood waiting with patient solemnity.

“Seal it,” Sirius ordered firmly. “And while you’re at it, I want a full inventory drawn up. Every item catalogued. Can you arrange that?”
Thrangor inclined his head. “It will be done. I shall assign a trusted associate with access to this vault. The inventory will be ready for your next visit, Lord Black.”
“Good,” Sirius replied curtly, his voice edged with something halfway between weariness and resolve. “Thank you.”

Without another glance at the vault’s treasures, he stepped into the cart once more, the Grimoire secure under his arm and the Black Lorship ring glowing on his finger, crest visible to all. The goblin released the restraints with efficient precision, and the cart lurched forward, carrying him back through the winding tunnels of Gringotts, back toward the surface, and the battles still waiting.

Chapter Text

The portkey deposited Harry and Remus in the designated portkey arrival section of the  gleaming reception of St Mungo’s with a soft pop. The shift of space left Harry momentarily unsteady, and Remus tightened his grip on his shoulder, steadying him before he could stumble.

“Easy, Harry,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning the room for the nearest Healer. “You’re safe now.”

The cool, polished floors reflected the steady glow of floating lanterns overhead. Witches and wizards moved briskly through the atrium, some carrying parchment charts, others pushing patients in wheeled chairs charmed to move smoothly without jolting.

At the reception desk, a plump witch in lime green robes glanced up, quill pausing mid scratch. Her eyes widened at the sight of Harry Potter leaning heavily on Remus Lupin.

“Merlin’s beard,” she breathed. “Mr Potter—”

Remus raised a hand, his voice firm but polite. “We need a private room. Discretion is vital. He’s undergone… significant magical procedures, and he needs a full diagnostic. Immediately. We need to see Mirabeth Tahl, at the Long-Term Spell Damage Ward.”

The witch blinked, then nodded, her professional mask slipping quickly back into place. “Of course. One moment.” She tapped her quill against the parchment ledger, and a moment later, a young Healer in crisp white robes appeared, eyes alert.

“This way, please,” the Healer said briskly, gesturing down a side corridor. “We’ll take you straight up to floor four to Healer Tahl.”

Harry shuffled alongside Remus, grateful for the support. His body still felt unsteady, as though his magic itself had been shaken loose and was only now settling back into place.

Once inside the quiet ward, the Healer motioned for Harry to sit upon the nearest bed. Wards glowed faintly across the walls, designed to contain magic and shield against prying eyes. There were curtains pulled around other occupied beds. “Sit here and I will let Healer Tahl know that there is an urgent patient waiting”.  The healer instructed.

Remus sat at Harry’s side, his hand never straying far from the boy’s shoulder. No more than five minutes later, the door opened and a plump, fair-haired witch stepped inside, her pristine robes marked with the emblem of St Mungo’s. She carried herself with brisk confidence, her wand already in hand.

“I’m Healer Mirabeth Tahl,” she introduced herself warmly, though her eyes were sharp and assessing as they flicked between Harry and Remus. “I understand we have something urgent to address?”

Remus rose briefly to shake her hand before gesturing back towards Harry. “Yes. He’s just undergone complex magical procedures at Gringotts. The goblins advised a full diagnostic here, and we need the results formally documented.”

Healer Tahl’s gaze settled on Harry, her expression softening slightly. “Mr Potter, is that correct? You look pale. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands. We’ll go slowly.”

Harry gave a faint nod, his throat dry. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good lad,” she said gently, drawing her wand. “Now, this may feel strange, but it won’t hurt. I’m going to run a full series of scans, magical core, bloodline resonance, curse detection, the works. If there’s anything unusual left behind, we’ll find it. Just la down for me there so you are more comfortable.”

She waited for Harry to lay down, then flicked her wand in a precise arc, murmuring the incantations. Soft ribbons of light unfurled from the tip, wrapping around Harry like threads of silk. They shimmered faintly, pulsing with his heartbeat before settling over him in a glowing lattice.

Tahl’s eyes narrowed as she studied the patterns forming in the air. “Mm. Yes… residual traces of dark magic here, faint, but old, entwined with his core. Recently extracted, I’d wager.” She glanced at Remus for confirmation.

“Removed today,” Remus confirmed firmly. “It was a Horcrux. The goblins contained it.”

The Healer froze, her quill pausing over her parchment. “A Horcrux?” she whispered, her voice low with horror. “Sweet Merlin…” She recovered quickly, scribbling down notes with brisk precision. “Well, thank the stars it’s gone. I’ll make certain that’s recorded properly.”

Her wand moved again, tracing sharper runes into the air. This time the light turned red in several places across Harry’s chest and temples. Tahl’s expression darkened.

“Layered blocks,” she said grimly. “Powerful ones. Someone deliberately restricted your magical development. These were cast long ago… likely when you were very small.”

Harry swallowed hard, his hands clenching in his lap. “Can… can you tell who did it?”

Tahl’s wand circled once more, drawing out strands of golden light that hung in the air like threads. They shimmered, each bearing faint signatures, magical imprints of the caster.

The Healer’s brows knit as she leaned closer, her wand tracing another careful arc through the air. “These aren’t random fluctuations,” she said, voice low and precise. “They’re deliberate suppressions, layered, calculated, and cast by witches or wizards of considerable skill. Whoever placed them intended to keep you restrained… controlled. It is possible to identify the signatures, but for the sake of accuracy, I would strongly advise that both St Mungo’s and Gringotts conduct their own examinations. Independent confirmation will prevent any dispute.”

Remus’s jaw tightened, his voice firm. “Then we’ll have both. Every detail must be recorded and sealed, names, signatures, the extent of the damage, everything you can confirm.”

“Of course,” Healer Tahl replied crisply, her quill scratching rapidly across the floating parchment. “And rest assured, this will be secured under the strictest protocols. The record will be sealed to you alone, Mr Potter. Only you may open it, or authorise another to view it.”

She turned back to Harry, her expression softening slightly. “For now, we stabilise. Your magical core must be reinforced to ensure the extraction hasn’t left you vulnerable. Then, we begin repair.” With another deft flick of her wand, threads of blue light coiled gently around Harry’s chest, seeping into his skin with a soothing warmth.

“You’ll require a strict regimen of restorative draughts and at least a week of proper bedrest,” she continued, her tone slipping into the firm cadence of long habit. “No strain, no reckless exertion and no magic. Once your strength has returned, we’ll proceed to the full documentation and formal identification of the casters responsible.”

With a courteous nod to Remus, she swept from the room, leaving a faint trail of shimmering protective wards behind her. The quiet of the ward settled around Harry once more, punctuated only by the soft hum of the enchantments.

As the healer departed, she left the ward’s curtains open, allowing the soft, pale light to spill across the room. Harry lay back against the bed, exhaustion still evident. No sooner had he closed his eyes, than a familiar voice called his name.

He opened them to see Neville Longbottom standing in the gap of hospital curtains, and beside him, a dignified older woman he guessed must be his grandmother. Neville looked concerned to see him in a hospital bed, and asked alarmingly “are you okay, Harry? What happened?”.

“I’m fine,” he said, sitting up.  “I exhausted my core, and my scar hurt, That’s all.”

Neville’s eyes widened with concern. He stepped closer, glancing nervously at Augusta, who remained at his side, her presence calm but watchful. “What are you doing here, Neville?” Harry asked, his curiosity faintly cutting through the fatigue.

Neville swallowed, his fingers curling slightly together. “I… I came to see my parents,” he said softly. “They’ve been in this ward for years, long-term spell damage. It’s… it’s been like this ever since that night… the same night your parents.. your parents were killed.”

Harry’s stomach tightened. “What… what happened to them?”

“They were tortured,” Neville said quietly, voice low, almost as if speaking it aloud might make it worse. “Bellatrix Lestrange, along with Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Barty Crouch Jr… they used the Cruciatus Curse on my mum and dad until their minds were broken. They’ve been here ever since, in Janis Thickney Ward. They don’t know who I am”.

A heavy silence fell between the boys, both staring at the floor, the weight of such cruelty pressing down on the room. Augusta, sensing the tension, offered a polite nod to Remus. “It is good to see you, Mr Lupin. You have visited Frank and Alice many times over the years; your care has been appreciated.”

Remus inclined his head, his expression softening. “Of course, Mrs Longbottom. I always try to see them whenever I can.”

Neville’s voice broke slightly as he turned back to Harry. “If you feel up to it… I’d like you to meet them. You can… see them with me. Only if you want to, of course.”

Harry met Neville’s gaze, exhaustion fading slightly under the sincerity of the offer. He nodded. “I’d like that,” he said quietly. “I’d like to meet your parents.”

Augusta smiled faintly, a touch of warmth in her eyes. Neville’s hand brushed against Harry’s shoulder in gratitude, and for the first time in a long while, the room felt less lonely, bound together by shared loss, and the quiet hope of connection.

Visiting complete, back in the quiet of the ward, Harry settled once more against the bed, waiting for Healer Tahl to return. His heart hurting for Neville and his family. When she returned, she brought with her a week’s worth of restorative potions, each vial labelled with careful precision.

“You have a choice,” she said gently, placing the potions on the bedside table. “You can remain here under observation, or you can return home and rest. The potions will help either way, but no activity, no exertion, your body and magic need time to recover.”

Harry picked up one of the vials, giving it a faint shake, and said quietly, “I’ll stay home.” He didn’t correct her assumption, his ‘home’ was, at the moment, the Leaky Cauldron.

“You’ll need someone to stay with you and monitor you,” the healer reminded him.

“I’ll be looked after,” Harry replied, nodding. He had to stifle a quiet chuckle at the thought of telling the healer that it would be his godfather, a wanted fugitive, who would be keeping an eye on him.

Remus caught the slight deception with a quiet smile, his eyes twinkling. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s get you back ‘home’.”

With gentle guidance, he helped Harry to his feet. They moved carefully under the Invisibility Cloak and left St Mungo’s through the visitors entrance, apparating seamlessly to the corridor outside Harry’s room at the Leaky. Remus called softly for Dobby, instructing the house elf to let Sirius know where they were.

It wasn’t long before Sirius arrived, sleek and fluid in his Animagus form. Once safely inside the room, he reverted to human form, his eyes immediately settling on Harry. “Dobby,” he called and waited for the enthusiastic elf to appear, “bring dinner and drinks, for all of us”. Sirius nudged the potions towards Harry and lifted one eyebrow in his direction. Harry caught on.

He lifted the first vial to his lips, while Sirius sank into a chair beside the bed. “I’ll stay here with him,” he said to Remus, voice low. “Dobby can pop in as needed.”

Remus took a seat across from them, recounting the events at St Mungo’s, what Healer Tahl had discovered, the lingering traces of dark magic, and the careful documentation that had been secured. Sirius listened intently, then leaned back, voice calm but firm as he filled in the gaps from Gringotts. He told them of the Horcrux removal, the Ledger’s judgments, and, finally, the fate of Bellatrix.

Remus’s eyes widened briefly at the revelation, but there was no dismay, only a sober acknowledgment. “Not surprised,” he murmured, “but… well, justice, at last. If I had known, I could have given Augusta that great news myself today. I am sure someone will get that great honour tonight or tomorrow.” He stood, nodding at both of them. “I’ll check on you in the morning. Get some rest.”

Harry took the next vial of potion and climbed back into bed, muscles heavy with exhaustion. Sirius shifted, transforming into Padfoot with ease, landing silently at the foot of the bed. Within seconds, the room was filled with the quiet rhythm of soft, even breathing, both boy and dog drifting into much-needed sleep.

Chapter Text

Room Six, Leaky Cauldron, London,

The Leaky Cauldron had become a quiet haven for recovery. Harry lay propped against pillows, the remainder of his week-long course of potions lined up beside him, slowly regaining strength. His magical core stabilised a little more each day, the remnants of the Horcrux extraction fading. Sirius stayed close, reading, talking, or simply keeping watch, while Remus slipped in daily under the borrowed Invisibility Cloak, offering guidance and quiet support. Dobby, Kreacher, Poppy, and Aster all took turns checking in, bringing food, books, or companionship, each determined that Harry knew he was cared for.

As his strength returned, Harry’s bond with Sirius deepened through shared routines, quiet conversation, and the steady rhythm of daily life. Even simple moments, taking potions or lying in bed reading together, brought a faint, easy smile to his face. Sirius, too, realised he needed a potion regime of his own, to counter the lingering effects of over a decade in Azkaban. He needed to be at his peak, ready for a fight that was still to come.

Remus Lupin, Grimmauld Place, London.

With the full moon only a week away, Remus knew he had to move quickly to get everything ready before heading to Hogwarts. August 31st was the full moon, and Dumbledore had agreed he could catch the train with the students up to Hogwarts the following day, at least allowing him some uninterrupted sleep on the journey. He had gathered and sent everything he could think would be of help to Amelia, and now he was tidying and securing the wards on his little cottage in Wales. He had a quiet suspicion he wouldn’t need to return anytime soon.

Sirius, naturally, had insisted that Remus use the Black Family Vault money bag he’d been given to buy new robes, shoes, a briefcase, and whatever else Hogwarts might demand. Remus had tried to argue, to recycle or patch what he had, but experience had long taught him that arguing with a Black was as productive as arguing with a thestral: pointless and slightly terrifying. In the end, he came away with a neat pile of shiny new robes, wardrobe essentials and a reluctant grin. Sirius had also ensured he bought countless new books, a wand holster, and Sirius even gave Remus his own, very worn copy of the Marauder’s Map, replacing the one Remus had lost years ago.

The last week had been a blend of preparation and recovery. Harry was steadily regaining strength at the Leaky Cauldron, Sirius hovered somewhere between guardian and friend, and Remus found himself quietly enjoying the chaos of caring for both. The house elves Kreacher and Dobby, alongside Poppy and Aster, had established a rotating support system, cooking meals, books, and occasional levity, making the large house feel like a safe, chaotic home. Remus allowed himself a small smile, remembering the last time he had felt this content: running through the grounds with his Animagus friends under the full moon, long before Britain had fallen to the whims of a madman calling himself a Lord.

Augusta Longbottom, Longbottom Manor, Birsay in the Orkney Island.

Augusta held the sealed parchment in her trembling hand, the Azkaban seal stark against the cream paper. She hesitated, a flicker of fear crossing her mind.. what if this meant one of her sons’ or daughters-in-law’s attackers was being released?

Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a stern pep talk and used the glistening dagger to slit open the envelope. Her eyes scanned the words, and she couldn’t contain a very unladylike whoop. Bellatrix was dead. Relief and joy surged through her chest. She would have to tell Neville. Two down, two to go. Bellatrix could join Barty Crouch Jr. in the depths of hell, she thought with grim satisfaction.

Narcissa Malfoy (Nee Black) Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Narcissa held the missive from Azkaban, her face carefully neutral, betraying nothing. Her sister was dead, her magical core drained, she had died a Squib. Narcissa couldn’t summon even a shred of sympathy. She had long since given up on Bellatrix; the madness that had consumed her could never be removed. For a moment, she wondered what could have drained her magic… and then froze. Sirius. He must have called for judgment through the Black Family magic. Her heart quickened. Why hadn’t he done it to her? He had every right…he could even annul her marriage to Lucius.

She would have to contact him. Pulling herself together, Narcissa resolved to draft a letter. Perhaps Sirius could free her from her marriage, and, more importantly, allow her to take Draco and shield him from the clutches of her deranged husband. The role she had been forced to play all these years was exhausting, draining her spirit. She missed her sister, Andromeda, terribly. She feared Draco might grow up like his father, and even more, she was terrified that the Dark Lord’s warnings might prove true, leaving her and this time her son,  in mortal peril.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmasters Office, Hogwarts

Albus had worn the mask of patience these past weeks, but it was cracking. Whispers had reached him from the Minister, someone was probing the sealed files of Sirius Black and the Potters. Every attempt to trace them led only to dead ends. Whoever Sirius had working for him was clever, too clever. It was not Remus; the werewolf had too many loose ties within the Ministry to move undetected. Albus sucked on a lemon drop, letting the sharp sweetness mask the rising tension in his chest as his mind churned.

In a week’s time, he would see Harry again. The boy would be under his sway, as always, but first he would prune interference. Lupin had to be contained. Severus Snape would be the perfect instrument, so eager to obey, so easily guided by old grudges and simmering hatred. The werewolf would have no idea that every step, every whisper, every breath he took could be watched and twisted. Albus allowed himself the faintest curl of a smile. Control, after all, was the finest magic of all.

Peter Pettigrew, Karnak Quarter, Luxor, Egypt

Peter Pettigrew huddled in the hotel bedroom, mind racing. The chaos of recent events had left him raw and exposed. He needed safety, a place where he could blend, where no one would notice his trembling presence. Hogwarts seemed the only option. The Gryffindor dormitories, familiar and bustling, would offer the perfect cover, a sanctuary amidst the storm that was Sirius Black.

Sirius Black was out there, unpredictable and relentless. Pettigrew had no illusions about the danger he posed. He knew Black was out for revenge, and needed Pettigrew to clear his name. He would have to be careful, invisible, ghostlike. For now, survival demanded the familiar corridors of Hogwarts. He allowed himself a shiver and a silent vow: stay unseen, in his animagus form, stay alive, and perhaps, just perhaps, wait for the perfect moment to disappear entirely.

Deep in the forest, Albania

Voldemort drifted through the forests of Albania, his form little more than smoke and shadows, sliding through the undergrowth like mist curling around twisted roots. For over a year, he had survived by inhabiting snakes, feeding off their instincts and senses, but always smaller, weaker, and fragmented. His patience was endless; he knew that time was his ally.

A sudden flick of movement caught him, and he froze. Before him lay a massive serpent, her scales glinting faintly in the dappled light filtering through the trees. Her eyes, intelligent and ancient, met his gaze. “I know you,” she hissed, a voice both soft and commanding in his mind. “I can feel your hunger, your shadow. You seek a host.”

Voldemort’s smoke-shape coiled slightly, anticipation tightening his essence. “I do,” he thought back. “I need… power. I need a form.”

The serpent circled him, her eyes never leaving his. “I offer it,” she said, her voice like wind over dry leaves, caressing his mind. “You may inhabit me, but know this: I will not be a prisoner.”

The shadow of a smile flickered through Voldemort’s insubstantial form. “I will be patient,” he replied, his voice colder than the soil beneath their coils. “I always am.”

The game of shadows, patience, and eventual domination was only beginning. Voldemort knew it was only a matter of time before one of his loyal followers traced the faintest whispers he had left, finding him and paving the way for his return to power.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the faint sound of Sirius humming off-key. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, catching the gleam of potion bottles lined neatly on the bedside table. His course was finished. His magic felt stronger each day, steadier, no longer wild and unpredictable. The scar on his forehead had faded and was now barely noticeable.

Sirius was restless. He paced the room with the twitchy energy of a man who had spent too long waiting for things to happen. He was clean shaven now, dressed in proper robes for the first time in years, though his hair refused to behave. Dobby appeared with breakfast, tea, eggs, toast, and a steaming bowl of something suspiciously healthy.

An owl pecked at the window, holding a sealed parchment embossed in green wax. Harry took it, glancing at the intricate crest.

To Heir Harry James Potter.

You are requested to attend Gringotts at your earliest convenience regarding urgent family and financial matters. You may bring your guardian or companion.

Ragnok, Director of Gringotts

Sirius’ grin spread slow and wolfish. “Finally. Someone who remembers their manners. Come on, pup, let’s go see what our favourite bankers have unearthed.”

The marble halls of Gringotts felt colder than usual. Harry and Padfoot walked to the teller and Harry produced the letter that showed he had been summoned by the Director of Gringotts, Ragnok. The goblin led them down a series of windy corridors until they came to an ornate iron door. He knocked twice and a loud sharp voice instructed them to enter. Sharp eyes stared at both Harry and Padfoot. “Heir Potter. We are pleased to see you restored. Lord Black”. Padfoot shifted back into Sirius, nodded his head towards Ragnok.

Ancient tomes, iron-bound ledgers, and faintly glowing wards filled the space with quiet power.

Ragnok told them to sit, then began. “The Horcrux embedded within you Heir Potter has been destroyed. We confirmed through residue trace, the destruction was absolute.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “Destroyed how?”

“Only two known substances can burn through soul magic,” Ragnok replied. “Basilisk venom, or the sacred flames of Fiendfyre. The curse-breakers used a controlled box of the cursed fire, it worked. However…” His eyes narrowed. “The magical signature of Albus Dumbledore was present within the original blocks.”

Sirius’ jaw tightened. “Of course it bloody was.”

Ragnok ignored the comment and unrolled a parchment. “Next, your financial holdings. The Potter family retains fifty percent of the Daily Prophet. The Black family, twenty. However, through consolidation, and by Heir Potter’s authorisation, you may designate control. Your family account manager Thrangor has procured you a further 10% in shares.”

Harry met Sirius’ gaze and nodded. “They’re yours, you can have the Potter shares. I trust you.”

For a moment, Sirius looked utterly speechless. Then he laughed, a bright, sharp sound that bounced off the marble walls. “Eighty percent of the Prophet? Merlin’s beard. I can finally make them print something other than Ministry propaganda.”

Ragnok’s smile was thin. “We assumed you would be pleased.” He paused, then tapped a ledger bound in dragon hide. “There is one more matter. Traces of the remaining four Horcruxes have been detected. The wards distort location but we can arrange for you to have the map. One resonates beneath this very bank, in a vault formerly belonging to Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Formerly?”

“When you cast her from the House of Black,” Ragnok said, “all property and assets reverted to you as Head of House. The vault is legally yours.” A slow, dangerous smile crossed Sirius’ face. “Then it’s time I reclaimed what’s mine.”

Sirius pressed his hands against the edge of Ragnok’s desk, still catching his breath from the weight of the revelations. His dark eyes were sharp, edged with the determination that had survived years of Azkaban and betrayal.

Ragnok leaned back slightly, producing a small, golden cup from beneath the desk. “This is what you seek,” he said, voice smooth and formal, carrying the weight of centuries. “A cup. Once the possession of Helga Hufflepuff. A badger is engraved upon it. Powerful, rare… and dangerous.” Sirius and Harry both felt a shiver run through them as the cup’s presence pressed into their minds. Dark magic radiated from it, cold and suffocating, leaving a sour taste in the air and a weight in their chests. It was deeply unsettling, and neither could linger near it for long without a sense of dread creeping through their veins.

Sirius studied it for a long moment, letting the knowledge settle in his mind. Then he met the goblin’s calculating gaze, voice low and firm. “Destroy it. Every trace. Leave nothing behind.”

Ragnok’s eyes narrowed slightly, a gleam of both understanding and interest passing over them. “It shall be done,” he replied. “The cup will be placed into the box of Fiendfyre and both the cup and the soul fragment will be no more”

Sirius stared at it for a moment, stunned, the pieces clicking into place in his mind. And then his thoughts darted to the locket Kreacher had given him. His heart skipped. He knew then, with a certainty that chilled and emboldened him at once, that the locket was a horcrux too.

“I think I know of one more,” he said quietly, the words deliberate, measured. The goblin nodded once, sharply, without surprise.

With a swift motion, Ragnok produced a parchment, and unfolded it, revealing a map of the remaining Horcruxes. Sirius’ eyes scanned it quickly, trained and focused, and his pulse quickened. One of the locations… one was in the rough vicinity of Grimmauld Place. He felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. “I’ll bring it to you,” he said, rolling the map with careful hands. “And you can charge me for the destruction, the same as the Hufflepuff cup.” He tucked the map carefully into Harry’s satchel, feeling its weight, tangible and yet dangerous.

“Kreacher,” Sirius called. Almost immediately, a faint pop of displaced air announced the elf’s arrival. Kreacher bowed low, ears twitching nervously, his dark eyes fixed on Sirius. “Master,” he squeaked, voice trembling with anticipation.

“Bring me Regulus’ locket,” Sirius instructed, voice low but firm. “It is going to be destroyed  today”.

Kreacher’s eyes widened, and a flicker of joy passed across his face. “Yes… yes, Master Sirius, I will bring Master Regulus’ locket”.

Kreacher vanished. Seconds later, he returned, holding the locket carefully in both hands. His tiny chest rose and fell rapidly, and his eyes shone with uncontainable pride. “Regulus’ last order… fulfilled at last!”

Sirius took the locket, examining it briefly, and felt the dark magic emanating faintly from it. He put it on the goblins desk next to the cup.   Ragnok inclined his head, eyes glittering with interest. “The path is set,” he murmured, voice low. “Bring the others. We shall ensure their destruction, we will let you know when these two have been destroyed”.

Ragnok inclined his head, eyes glittering with interest. He reached out and picked up the locket, turning it slowly in his hands. “Yes… it is indeed a Horcrux,” he confirmed, voice low, reverent almost, as if acknowledging the fragment of soul contained within. “Both these objects carry the remnants of a soul. The darkness within them is potent.”

Harry felt it too, a cold wave pressing against the edges of his mind. The room seemed smaller, heavier, saturated with an oppressive weight that clung to the air. So much evil… so much malevolence emanating from just these two fragments of a soul. The dark magic in the room was thick enough to taste, and he felt the tiniest flicker of fear mingle with the resolve building inside him.

He straightened, his shoulders squared, and looked down at Ragnok. “I will find the rest,” he said, voice low and firm. “And I will bring them to you. Every last one.”

The goblin regarded him for a long moment, calculating, assessing the truth in Sirius’ eyes, then finally inclined his head. “Very well,” he said, his tone smooth, almost conspiratorial. “Bring them, and we shall see to their destruction. The charges will be fair, naturally.”

Sirius turned, rolling his shoulders, and allowed himself a quiet moment of satisfaction.. He would find them all. He would make sure every last one was destroyed.  And nothing, not Voldemort, not the past, not even Dumbledore’s shadowed designs, would stop him.

Ragnok’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward slightly, the torches flickering across the sharp angles of his face. “And the Basilisk,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with anticipation. “Tell me again. It is… slain?”

Harry nodded quickly, “Yes,” he said firmly. “It is dead.”

The goblin’s sharp features split into a faint, calculating smile. “Excellent,” he said. “You understand, then, why this pleases us so greatly. The harvesting of a creature such as this… the scales, the venom… priceless. Our crafters will pay handsomely for this. A rare opportunity, indeed. We goblins are… let us say, exceptionally eager to see this material put to use.”

Harry could almost feel the gleam of coin and magic humming in the air around the vault. But Ragnok was not finished. He drew a small, folded sheet of parchment from beneath the desk and placed it carefully before him. “You will require instructions,” he said. “Contact us using the Gringotts’ imperceptible envelopes. A secure date and time can be arranged. You can let us know when you are available to let us in the chamber”.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “How are you to get there without Dumbledore knowing? If he realises..”

Ragnok’s smile widened, a thin, knowing curl that made his teeth flash briefly in the torchlight. “Ah, young Potter,” he said, the words rolling smoothly like liquid silver. “You forget one vital point. By right of conquest, once you have hired us, we answer only to you. Dumbledore cannot stop our coming, cannot forbid entry, nor halt our work. The Basilisk is yours to manage. We merely follow your command. It is an arrangement of power and obligation. Even the Headmaster’s reach does not extend here.”

Harry let out a small, tense breath, relief washing over him. “So… you can come in safely, handle the Basilisk… and Dumbledore can’t stop you?”

Ragnok inclined his head once, sharply. “Precisely. We are bound by your contract. Your hiring, your authority. The creature has been slain, yes, but the harvesting… that is a service we provide under your guidance. Fear not. Dumbledore’s influence does not touch the rights of conquest. Nor the obligations of a hired goblin.”

Harry swallowed, the enormity of the arrangement settling heavily in his chest. The goblins’ excitement, the gleaming promise of coin, and the security of their magical protocols all fell into place.

Ragnok’s eyes glinted, noting the certainty in Harry’s posture. “You can look over and sign the contract, and then we will await your owl”.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley was alive with the bustle of shoppers, the soft chatter of witches and wizards haggling over goods spreading down the cobbled street. Harry’s eyes darted around as he sat outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, waiting for his friends.

Hermione’s bushy hair caught the sunlight first, then Ron’s freckled face turned toward him, eyes wide with happiness and behind them, Neville’s cautious, almost shy grin.

“Harry!” Hermione called, running over to him, her voice lifting above the morning hum. She was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Blimey, mate, it’s good to see you”. Ron breathed heavily as he followed. Neville hung back slightly, nodding shyly, but his eyes sparkled with excitement.

Harry smiled and stood up to give them all a brief hug.  “I've been staying around here, doing homework and looking around Diagon Alley since I left the Dursleys.” He kept his voice casual, careful. No mention of Sirius, no mention of Lupin, not yet.

Hermione let go of Harry. “I can’t believe it! You’re here! And you’re… fine?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, forcing a grin. “Really. I’ve been… keeping busy.”

Ron grinned. He held up Scabbers and suggested they all go start their shopping.

The group of friends walked towards Magical Menagerie, one of the pet and familiar shops on Diagon Alley, a host of creatures in the window stared back at them eyes bright and curious. Hermione said breathlessly, “I want a cat. My parents gave me extra money for my birthday to buy an owl.. but I can always use a school owl. A cat will keep me company in the dormitory”.

“ I need some tonic for Scabbers,” Ron said, glancing nervously at the small, nervous rat in his pocket. “He’s been scratching himself something rotten and has lost so much weight.”

The four of them stepped through the shop’s door together, the bell jingling softly behind them. Harry and Neville followed quietly, letting Hermione and Ron take the lead.

Ron hurried to the counter “Excuse me,” he said, “Can you help my rat? He isn’t acting himself lately.”

The shop assistant leaned forward, her eyes sharp and practiced as she examined the little creature Ron placed on the counter. “Hmm… I see,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s lost a bit of weight… and his fur isn’t as thick as it should be.” She looked up at Ron. “How old is he?”

Ron hesitated. “I… I don’t know exactly. He’s been in the family for about twelve years, and he used to belong to my brother. He’d already lost a toe before we got him.”

The assistant’s eyes widened slightly. “Twelve years? That’s very unusual for a common rat. They rarely live that long. You must have taken excellent care of him.”

She reached under the counter and brought out a small amber bottle. “This should help,” she said, placing it carefully in front of him. “Just a few drops each day. It will keep him comfortable and ease any irritation.”

Ron picked up the bottle and put it in his pocket, a mix of relief and worry crossing his freckled face. He paid the shopkeeper. “Thanks… I’ll make sure he gets it properly.” Scabbers twitched nervously on the counter, squeaking softly at all the attention.

Hermione’s attention was fully absorbed by a squat, ginger cat with tufts of fur sticking out at impossible angles. It moved with an intelligence that made her stop mid-step. “Oh, he’s perfect,” she whispered, kneeling down. The cat’s amber eyes studied her carefully, then twitched its ears at the sound of Scabbers’ squeak.

Before anyone could react, the cat leapt from the counter with a speed that made Harry catch his breath. It landed on Scabbers with surprising force. The little rat squeaked in panic, tumbling off the counter, and bolted out the shop in a blur of fur and frantic legs.

“Scabbers!” Ron shouted, chasing after him, out the shop “Get back here!”

Harry ducked instinctively as Hermione reached for the ginger cat, who hissed softly but allowed her to stroke its thick, wild fur. “He’s… amazing,” she breathed. “I’ll call him Crookshanks.”

Ron finally cornered Scabbers underneath a table outside, scooping him up and tucking him safely back into his pocket. “Blimey,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That cat was mental”.

Harry laughed quietly, relief flooding through him. “Everything okay?” he asked Hermione. “Yes,” she said firmly, cradling Crookshanks. “Perfect.”

The four friends spent the afternoon wandering through Diagon Alley, browsing the shops for school supplies and marvelling at the magical trinkets and gadgets on display. By the time they paused for a late lunch at a small café tucked away on a side street, the conversation had turned to catching up on the time they’d been apart, laughter and stories flowing easily as if no time had passed at all. Harry let the conversation flow around him, keeping his secrets tucked safely away until the moment came to share them.. not until they were safely aboard the train to Hogwarts, the countryside blurring past the windows, would Harry let his story spill.

By the time the group returned to the Leaky Cauldron, the sky had deepened into a soft, dusky violet. Lanterns glimmered in the windows, casting warm light over the worn cobbles. Neville tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, his eyes bright but heavy with fatigue. “I’d better get going,” Neville said quietly, glancing towards the fireplace that would floo him home. “Gran’ll be expecting me.”

“Of course,” Harry said with a small smile. “Take care” Hermione added. “Bye, Neville,” Ron said, ruffling his hair.

Neville smiled faintly before disappearing into the fireplace. “See you on the train in a couple of days,” Harry called after him.

Harry turned to his friends. “How are you two getting home?” he asked.

“Mum’s coming to pick us up at five,” Ron explained. He hesitated, then added, “Hermione’s going to stay at the Burrow until school starts. Mum wrote to Dumbledore to ask if you could stay too, but she hasn’t heard back yet.”

“We’ll come get you once he replies,” Ron finished, a faint note of disappointment in his voice.

After they had departed and Harry had a simple meal in the pub, he went up to his bedroom. Harry pulled out his two-way mirror and called for Padfoot. Within a minute Sirius appeared, smile wide. Remus sat next to him.  

“Padfoot,” Harry said quietly, “I have missed you today. I’ve had fun with my friends, though. Hermione got a cat, who almost ate Scabbers…”

Sirius’ brow shot up. “Scabbers?

“Yeah, Ron’s Rat” Harry said, “He’s been in Ron’s family for years, nearly twelve years. Crookshanks jumped on him and he just ran away this afternoon. Ron found him, though.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed instantly. “Harry… twelve years..  is he—wait… is he missing a toe?”

Harry froze, then nodded slightly. “Yeah. He’s missing one. How did you know?”

Sirius’ expression hardened. “That’s gotta be Wormtail. I thought so. I want to come right now, get him. We can’t risk.. ”

“Padfoot,” Remus’ measured voice interrupted, “hold on.” His expression was serious but patient. “Rushing in now will only make it worse. You are still a wanted man! We’ll need a plan, and we’ll have to involve Amelia. It’s the only way to do this safely, without alerting anyone.

Harry asked confused “what has Ron’s rat got to do with anything?”

Sirius’ eyes softened a fraction, though the tension in his jaw remained. “If I am correct.. then that isn’t a rat. It is Peter Pettigrew.. in his rat Animagus form. Twelve years.. he must have found the first wizarding family he could to take him in.. that way he could keep an ear out for news of his master”.

Harry felt a cold shock crawl through him. No… If this was true, he had shared a dormitory with him. Ron had shared his bed. The implications pressed on him, horrifying and immediate.

Remus leaned closer. “I’ll get Kreacher to fetch Amelia straight away. She can be brought through the wards at Grimmauld Place. This is urgent.. we cannot wait.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed, the sharp edge of worry creeping back in. “Is Ron coming back to the Leaky?”

Harry shook his head. “Dumbledore hasn’t given permission yet for me to go to the Burrow. His mum wrote to him, but there’s no reply, so I’m staying here for now.”

Sirius’ jaw tightened, and his dark eyes flashed with irritation. “Permission? Permission? He’s not your guardian, Harry. You don’t need his permission. Again he has overstepped”

Harry swallowed and nodded. “Something has to be done about him, Padfoot.”

Sirius’ dark eyes hardened. “As soon as I’m free, he’s finished. He won’t be able to meddle with you, or anyone else, ever again, pup.” They said goodnight, and Sirius promised Harry that Remus would collect him in the morning and bring him over.

A faint pop sounded, and Amelia and Kreacher landed in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Amelia looked around, taking in the dim, shadows. Her attention was immediately drawn to the figure waiting at the end of the kitchen. Sirius Black.

She froze, breath catching in her throat. Twelve years had passed since she had last seen him, since he had been sent to Azkaban, and yet here he was, alive, leaning casually yet sharply against the wall, dark eyes flicking toward her.. waiting.

“Amelia,” Remus said softly, stepping forward, “I am sorry to have Kreacher bring you like this.. but it couldn’t wait”.

Sirius’ voice cut through the quiet, low and edged with both wariness and warmth. “You’ve grown, Amelia. It’s… good to see you.”

Amelia finally blinked, finding her voice. “I..I.. Hello, Sirius.”

Then his gaze flicked past her to Remus. “We don’t have time for greetings. We need a plan.. and you’re part of it.”

The air tightened with urgency. Amelia drew in a steadying breath, awareness of the gravity pressing on her. This was no ordinary visit. The two men explained their suspicion that the Weasley’s little rat  was not a rat, all of it demanded careful, immediate action.

Together, they devised a careful plan. Amelia, accompanied by Shacklebolt, the only Auror she had trusted with the news of Sirius. They would go directly to the Burrow under the pretence of a complaint at the pet shop, they would ask to see Ron and request that he bring his rat, claiming they needed his account of the cat incident.

They would bring a specially charmed cage, designed to suppress all magic. Any Animagus would be unable to transform, leaving Pettigrew trapped in his rat form. Once Ron presented the rat, they would stun it, force it to reveal its human form, and confirm it was Pettigrew. If it really was just a rat, then it would be unaffected..  If it was Pettigrew, they would secure him in the cage and take him directly to the Ministry holding cells.

Arthur Weasley would be present for this, and they planned on letting him follow them to the Ministry. He would serve as a witness both to the transformation and to the fact that the rat had lived with them for nearly twelve years.

With the plan in place, Amelia sent a Patronus to Kingsley, requesting that he meet her outside the ward boundary of the Burrow straight away. Sirius and Remus would stay behind, awaiting updates. Though unhappy about not being directly involved, they understood.

They guided Amelia to the door, instructing her to remain unseen from the top step and explaining that she could apparate from there, now that she had been welcomed by the house. She could also apparate directly onto the top step and knock on the door.

With a final nod, they parted ways, the weight of the mission pressing heavily on Amelia as she prepared to set it into motion.

Chapter Text

Amelia apparated directly boundary of the Burrow’s wards. The night air was cool and still, shadows stretching across the garden under a pale moon. Kingsley Shacklebolt was already waiting, tall and serious, his expression a calm contrast to the tension coiling in Amelia’s chest.

“I have just come from Black’s,” she began as soon as they met. “Apparently the Weasleys have a pet rat.. that Sirius thinks is Peter Pettgirew. The real secret keeper and death eater. We have a plan.”

Kingsley nodded, listening closely as Amelia told him the plan then conjured a small charmed cage. The mesh of magical bindings shimmered faintly, ready to suppress any Animagus transformation. “This will keep him from turning back if it is indeed Pettigrew,” she said. “We’ll need to act quickly, and ensure no one else interferes.”

Together, they approached the Burrow and knocked on the door. Molly Weasley opened it immediately, her warm smile softening the tension. “Amelia! Kingsley! Come in, come in!” Amelia returned the smile politely. “Mrs Weasley, we need to speak to Ron briefly. Arthur can accompany him, and I promise, he isn’t in any trouble.”

Molly’s brow furrowed slightly with curiosity, but she nodded. “Ron, come down here!” she called up the stairs, her voice carrying through the house. Then she popped her head into the room off the kitchen. “Arthur, Amelia, Kingsley are here!” The children were already preparing for bed upstairs, the cosy chaos of bedtime filling the house with heavy footsteps and banging. Molly bustled off to make tea, directing the adults to wait in the lounge.

Ron appeared a few moments later, wearing pyjamas far too short for him, his ankles exposed as he shuffled into the lounge. His freckled face lit with curiosity.

“Right,” Amelia said softly, trying to keep her tone reassuring. “Ron, we need you to bring your rat for a moment. It’s just a formality, we need to file a report about what happened at the pet shop today.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, a faintly cynical expression crossing his face, but Kingsley shook his head with a small grin. “Go on, son. It’ll be quick.” He said to his son.

Ron scowled but nodded, and soon returned holding Scabbers. The rat twitched nervously, squeaking as he sensed the tension in the room. Kingsley moved first, casting a brief stunning charm. The rat froze in mid-motion, claws splayed.

“Oi! That’s my bloody rat!” Ron shouted, his voice high with surprise as Scabbers toppled from his hands onto the floor.

Amelia stepped forward, her wand raised with precision. Her voice loud and clear.

“Amato Animo Animato Animagu!”   

The rat began to writhe, shimmering with a sudden, unnatural light. Within moments, Scabbers transformed into an extremely short man. His frame was frail, eyes small and watery, and a pointed nose dominated his face. His hair, once a mousy brown in youth, had thinned and lost most of its colour, leaving a large bald patch across the crown of his head.

The room went silent. Horror painted everyone’s faces. Arthur paled, gripping the back of a chair for support. Ron staggered backward, speechless. Kingsley’s eyes narrowed; he muttered a brief incantation and stunned Pettigrew again, just in case.

Amelia stepped aside as Kingsley forced the transformation back into a rat. With a practiced flick of his wand, he stuffed the struggling creature into the charmed cage and locked it securely, the mesh shimmering faintly.

“This,” Amelia said, her voice steady despite the tension, “is Peter Pettigrew. A man believed to be dead for years.” Kingsley glanced at Arthur. “We need to take him to the Ministry to the holding cells. You’re welcome to accompany us, Mr Weasley, to see this through.”

Arthur nodded, still pale but resolute. “Of course. I’ll come.”

Amelia turned to Ron, who was still staring at the cage in shock. “You’ll have to stay here,” she said gently. “We can’t risk you being involved directly.”

Ron’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight, but he nodded slowly, understanding. Arthur went out to the kitchen to inform Molly of what had happened, the others soon followed.

Amelia, Kingsley, and Arthur moved to the hearth. The fire crackled faintly as Amelia threw down the floo powder, the green flames lighting up.  

Arthur leaned down quickly to Molly, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and whispering, “I’ll be back soon… keep an eye on Ron, he’s in shock”.

Ron sat rigidly on a dining table chair, white and trembling, his hands gripping the edges as if the wood might anchor him to reality.

Molly bustled over, carrying a steaming mug of tea. She placed it carefully in front of him and, without a word, wrapped him in a gentle, concerned hug. “Drink this, Ron,” she murmured, her voice warm and steady. “It’ll help calm you.”

Ron clutched the tea, his wide eyes still fixed on the spot where the adults had just disappeared into the swirling green flames of the Floo. Horror twisted in his chest as the reality hit him.. he had shared years, memories, and even his bed with that rat. Every careless moment, every secret it had observed… all by a grown man pretending to be a rat.

The three adults arrived at the Ministry, stepping into the Atrium. The grand reception hall had dark wood floors, a peacock-blue ceiling adorned with moving golden symbols, and gilded fireplaces lining each wall for Floo travel. Without pause, they moved swiftly through the corridors, heading straight down to the holding cells located in a secure Detention Area on Level Ten, directly beneath the Wizengamot Court Chambers.

In the dim, tightly controlled space, they placed Pettigrew within his charmed cage inside one of the cells. Amelia turned to Kingsley, her voice firm and precise. “Place the anti-Animagus charms on the cell and stay with him, just in case. We cannot risk anything happening to him. There’s too much at stake.”

Kingsley nodded, moving quickly to enchant the cell with wards and anti-transformation charms, his eyes vigilant as he ensured the spells took hold. The faint shimmer of protective magic surrounded cell. They weren’t taking any changes on the slippery rat escaping.

Amelia and Arthur left the holding cells and made their way directly to the DMLE offices, where Amelia could assemble her Aurors on duty to assist and serve as witnesses. Once inside, she quickly briefed the team on Pettigrew’s capture.

“I received an anonymous tip that led to this operation,” she explained, her tone measured but urgent. “We have secured the suspect. I need all Aurors on duty to be ready as witnesses. Prepare the Veritaserum immediately.”

The Aurors exchanged stunned glances. Shock rippled through the room, everyone had believed Pettigrew long dead, killed years ago by Sirius Black. The revelation left a heavy silence hanging over the office, a few glanced at Arthur Weasley with sympathetic grimaces.

Amelia led the six Aurors, with Arthur close behind, back down to the holding cells. The air was thick with tension as they approached, the faint hum of wards echoing off the walls. Inside, Kingsley sat vigil beside the cage, wand at the ready. The Aurors quickly took positions around the cell. Kingsley stood and moved toward the cage, his wand steady. With a quiet flick, he unlocked the door.

The rat bolted immediately, skittering across the floor, but the cell’s wards held it firmly in place. Kingsley’s eyes hardened. “Enough,” he said, muttering the Animagus transformation spell. “Amato Animo Animato Animagu!”

The rat froze, quivering under the magical force. Its small body began to twist and stretch unnaturally. Peter Pettigrew lay upon the stone hard floor of the cell.  His small, watery eyes darted frantically between Amelia, Kingsley, and the Aurors. He croaked out a voice barely above a whisper, trembling with genuine fear.

“I… I only stayed as a rat…” he stammered, voice high and quivering. “I was so scared… of Sirius Black… of the Dark Lord… of his followers… I couldn’t… I couldn’t risk—please, I’m not strong… I was only.. protecting myself”.

He cowered further, curling slightly, hands raised in a feeble attempt to protect himself. Each word was punctuated with frantic, almost pleading glances, his entire body radiating panic. Amelia’s wand remained steady, her eyes unwavering. “You’ve been in hiding far too long, Pettigrew,” she said quietly, her tone firm but calm. “We have some questions to ask you.”

Kingsley’s gaze tightened slightly as he surveyed the quivering man. “Every movement, every step, every secret you’ve kept, none of it will help now. The Ministry will decide your fate.”

Pettigrew whimpered, voice cracking. “Please… no.. I haven’t done anything…”

Amelia’s eyes swept over the room, settling on one of the Aurors. “Robards,” she said, her tone calm but commanding, “prepare the Veritaserum. Administer it to him immediately.”

Gawain Robards stepped forward, wand in hand, and carefully drew the potion from its vial. Pettigrew shrank back instinctively, whimpering, trying to twist and crawl away, but there was nowhere to hide. The wards of the cell confined him completely, and he was utterly wandless, powerless against the highly trained wizards surrounding him.

“Please… no! I—” he gasped, his voice cracking with terror.

The Auror  forced the potion between Pettigrew’s lips with his wand. The man choked and gagged, trying to resist, but his struggle was feeble. His limbs trembled, his eyes wide with panic. Within moments, the magical draught took hold, seeping into his senses, stripping away his defences.

Amelia crouched slightly, her wand still ready, and fixed him with a calm, piercing stare. “Very well… to test that the potion is working,” she said quietly, “tell me… what is your name?”

Pettigrew’s small, quivering lips parted, and the words spilled out before he could stop them: “Peter… Peter Pettigrew…”

Amelia’s voice was calm, precise, and unyielding as she leaned slightly closer to Pettigrew, who sat trembling in the cage under the influence of the Veritaserum.

“Are you an unregistered Animagus?” she asked.

“Yes,” Pettigrew croaked, his small voice barely audible.

“Were you Lily and James’ Secret Keeper?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his eyes wide with fear.

“Did you betray their location to Lord Voldemort?”

“Yes,” he said again, the words tumbling out almost mechanically, as though the potion left him no choice. All the Aurors gasped collectively.

“Are you a Death Eater?”

“Yes,” he whispered, shivering. Robards snarled at Pettigrew, anger simmering in his eyes.

Amelia’s gaze shifted slightly, her eyes sharp. “To your knowledge, is Sirius Black a Death Eater?”

“No,” he replied quickly, almost pleading, as if hoping this answer might save him from some imagined reprisal.

“Did you frame Peter Black for the murder of the Muggles, and for betraying James and Lily Potter?”

“Yes,” Pettigrew admitted, head lowered, voice barely above a squeak.

The room fell into stunned silence. Every Auror present froze, wands still raised, eyes wide with disbelief. Arthur Weasley’s jaw dropped, his hands gripping the edge of a desk as if the truth itself might topple him.

“No… no…” Arthur muttered, shaking his head slowly, pale and speechless. “He… he betrayed them? All those years…”

Kingsley’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes scanning Pettigrew carefully, incredulous but controlled. Even the most hardened Aurors exchanged looks, disbelief etched on every face. The man they had all believed to be dead, the small, pathetic figure crouched before them, it was almost impossible to reconcile his weakness with the sheer treachery of his crimes. They all wondered what this meant for Sirius Black.

Amelia stepped back slightly, her eyes still fixed on Pettigrew, loathing in her eyes. The truth of his confessions weighed heavily in the room, the gravity of the situation pressing down on everyone. She knew instantly that this could not wait.

"The Wizengamot will need to be convened for an emergency session", she told the room. her mind racing through the implications. "This must be dealt with urgently..there’s no time to lose."

A plan began to form in her mind. I can call Sirius in as a witness… discreetly. No one else needs to know, and it will also allow him to be cleared at the same time. The thought steadied her resolve.

Turning her gaze to Pettigrew, she spoke firmly but measuredly: “A Ministry solicitor will be made available to you. You will have proper representation, as required by law, before any proceedings begin. But for now, you remain under guard, and your cooperation is expected.”

Pettigrew whimpered, cowering further, but made no attempt to speak. Amelia allowed herself a moment’s satisfaction. The next steps were clear: the emergency meeting, the witnesses, and the securing of justice. Every precaution would be taken, but the wheels of accountability were now in motion.

She stood, spine straight, wand in hand, as her Aurors gathered in silence before her. Their faces were pale with the weight of what they had just witnessed .

“You all know what is at stake,” Amelia said, her voice calm but edged with authority. “The truth you’ve heard tonight does not leave this room. You are to swear an oath of secrecy, no discussion, no hint, no whisper until the Wizengamot convenes tomorrow morning. Do you understand?”

Each Auror raised their wand, voices joining together in solemn unison as they swore the secrecy oath. A faint shimmer of magic sealed the promise, hanging in the air for a heartbeat before fading away.

She dismissed the Aurors with a firm nod and left them in the holding cells, stepping out into the corridor, Kingsley and Arthur close behind.

“Arthur,” she said, turning to him, her tone softening slightly, “go home and get some rest. You and Ron will need to be back here by nine for the session. Bring your family if you wish, they deserve to see the truth revealed.”

Arthur nodded, still pale but steadier now. “Thank you, Amelia,” he said quietly. “For all of this.” He gave a weary smile before disappearing down the corridor towards the Atrium Floo stations.

Once he was gone, Kingsley folded his arms, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll start gathering all the evidence we’ve collected,” he said. “Every report from that night, the Potter’s Will, the lack of a trial paper trail we uncovered..  we’ll need it ready for the Wizengamot. I’ll also contact Black’s solicitor to bring him up to speed. Finding Pettigrew…” He allowed himself a faint smile. “Well, that’s made our lives a great deal easier.”

Amelia’s eyes flicked briefly toward the secure cells below. “Easier perhaps,” she murmured, “but far from over.”

Chapter Text

Amelia Bones went straight to her office in the  Department of Magical Law Enforcement, The lamps burned low, casting long shadows across stacks of parchment and the faintly glowing seal of the Ministry crest upon her desk.

To the Editor, The Daily Prophet.

A closed emergency session of the Wizengamot has been called for tomorrow morning. Details remain classified, but the matter concerns a grave miscarriage of justice soon to be corrected.

Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Amelia Bones

She sealed the letter with her wand, pressing the red wax firmly with her official insignia. A discreet tap of her wand sent it spiralling away to the owl post room.

Leaning back, Amelia allowed herself a brief, tired sigh. “Sirius Black,” she murmured quietly to the empty room. “Tomorrow, the truth will finally set you free.”

Without wasting another minute, she turned to the fireplace and threw down a pinch of Floo powder. “Longbottom Manor,” she said clearly.

The flames flared green, and moments later, Augusta Longbottom’s stern face appeared in the fire. “Amelia Bones,” she greeted, voice sharp but curious. “It’s far too late for social calls.”

“This isn’t social,” Amelia replied firmly. “I need you to come through. Now, if you please.”

Augusta hesitated only a moment before stepping through, her long robes sweeping across the floor as she straightened her hat. “This had better be worth waking the house elves,” she said briskly.

“It is,” Amelia replied. “Please, sit.”

Augusta settled into the chair opposite the desk, her piercing eyes narrowing as she took in Amelia’s drawn but determined expression. “Well? Out with it.”

Amelia didn’t waste time. She explained everything, how Sirius Black had never been the Secret Keeper, how Albus Dumbledore had known, how James and Lily Potter’s will had been ignored, and how Peter Pettigrew had confessed under Veritaserum only hours earlier. Augusta didn’t interrupt, but her eyes widened with every revelation.

By the time she finished, Augusta’s face had gone pale beneath her elegant hat. “Good heavens,” she breathed. “All these years… Dumbledore knew?”

Amelia’s expression hardened. “He did. And now, that ends. Pettigrew is in custody, the truth has been spoken under Veritaserum, and I will call for an emergency Wizengamot session at dawn. But I’ll need your support, Augusta. I need you to second my motion to open the trial immediately and to protect the proceedings from interference.”

Augusta nodded slowly, her jaw set with iron determination. “You’ll have it. Merlin help anyone who tries to stop this.”

“One more thing,” Amelia added, her voice dropping lower. “Albus Dumbledore is not to know what this meeting concerns. Not a word. If he learns too soon, he could delay or derail the entire session.”

Augusta’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You have my word. He won’t hear it from me.”

“Good,” Amelia said, relief flickering briefly in her eyes. “Then we’ll see this through. Tomorrow morning, justice will finally be served.”

The two women stood, their hands clasping briefly, two formidable witches united by purpose. As Augusta stepped back into the emerald fire, Amelia turned once more to the clock on her wall. The hands edged toward midnight, it was going to be a long night, Amelia thought.

With a soft crack, Amelia Apparated directly onto the top step of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The night air was cool and still. She took a steadying breath and knocked sharply on the heavy black door.

It opened almost at once. Remus Lupin stood there, looking tired but alert, the faintest flicker of hope in his eyes. “Amelia,” he said quietly, stepping aside to let her in. “Come through.”

She followed him down the dim corridor and into the kitchen, where Sirius stood at the end of the long wooden table, still in his robes from earlier, his dark hair untamed and his eyes shadowed from sleeplessness.

“Well?” he demanded, voice low but tight with barely contained urgency. “Did you find him?”

Amelia nodded once. “We did.”

Remus froze mid-step, his eyes snapping to hers. “It was him, then?”

“It was,” Amelia confirmed. “Peter Pettigrew. He’s in Ministry custody as we speak, under guard. He confessed to everything under Veritaserum, the betrayal, the murders, the framing. The lot.”

For a heartbeat, the room was utterly silent. Then Sirius staggered back, his hand gripping the edge of the table as though to steady himself. The colour drained from his face, disbelief warring with something deeper, relief so sharp it almost hurt.

“He confessed…” he repeated, his voice breaking on the word. “Under Veritaserum…?”

Amelia nodded again, her expression softening. “It’s nearly over, Sirius. I’ve called an emergency Wizengamot session for the morning. You’ll be cleared, properly, officially. No more hiding.”

Sirius let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, sinking heavily into the nearest chair. His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair. “Twelve years…” he whispered hoarsely. “Twelve bloody years… it’s nearly over. Harry.. I can have Harry..”

Remus placed a steady hand on his shoulder, his own eyes glassy with emotion. “It’s about time, Padfoot,” he said quietly. “It’s about time the world saw the truth.”

Amelia gave them both a small, firm nod. “Get some rest, the pair of you. Your solicitor has been informed and will be in touch. The session is at nine. I suggest you find a way to come incognito to the ministry, early. I will save two seats for you”

Sirius swallowed hard, his voice little more than a whisper. “Thank you, Amelia. For believing.. for fighting for me”.

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile. “I believe in proof, Sirius,” she said simply. “And now we have it.”

Sirius sat at the long table, hope thrumming in his heart, elbows resting on the wood, while Remus leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful.

“Do you think we should tell him?” Sirius asked quietly, his voice rough from exhaustion but alive with nervous energy. “Harry deserves to know. After everything…”

Remus nodded slowly. “He’ll want to be there,” he said simply. “You know him, he wouldn’t forgive us if we kept it from him.”

Sirius gave a small, crooked smile. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

He pulled the two-way mirror from his pocket, the familiar weight grounding him. “Harry,” he called softly into it.

There was a faint rustle, then Harry’s sleepy voice came through. “Padfoot?”

“Yeah, it’s us, pup,” Sirius said, his tone lighter now. “Sorry to wake you, but we’ve got news, big news.”

Harry sat up immediately on the other end, his hair sticking up in all directions. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

Remus stepped closer so he was in view of the mirror. “We’re fine, Harry. But you’ll want to hear this, it’s about Pettigrew.”

Harry blinked, still half in disbelief. “Pettigrew?.. Scabbers?”

Sirius nodded, eyes gleaming. “The very same. They caught him tonight. He confessed under Veritaserum. The whole truth, Harry, everything. I will have my trial tomorrow morning.”

For a heartbeat, Harry said nothing. Then his eyes widened, his voice breaking with shock and joy. “what.. you’re going to be free?”

Sirius laughed softly, the sound rough but full of life. “Looks that way, pup. Amelia called an emergency Wizengamot session for first thing in the morning.”

Harry’s grin spread until it hurt. “Can I come? Please, I want to be there.”

Remus glanced at Sirius, then nodded. “If you promise to stay quiet and keep your cloak on. I’ll pick you up at seven, we need to be there early.”

“Understood,” Harry said quickly, already reaching for his invisibility cloak.

Sirius leaned closer to the mirror, eyes soft. “And once it’s all official, once this is behind us… you’ll come live with us, Harry. Me and Moony. No more Dursleys. No more summers locked away.”

Harry froze, the words sinking in like warmth spreading through his chest. His voice wavered when he spoke. “Really?”

Sirius smiled, a real, unguarded smile. “Really. We’ll make a home of our own. You deserve that, pup.” For the first time in years, Harry couldn’t stop smiling. “I can’t wait.”

“Get some rest,” Remus said gently. “It’s going to be a big day.”

Harry nodded, still grinning. “Goodnight, Padfoot. Goodnight, Moony.”

“Goodnight, kiddo,” Sirius replied softly. The mirror dimmed, leaving the two men alone in the quiet kitchen once more.

Sirius exhaled slowly, a faint tremor of disbelief in his laugh. “Tomorrow, Moony,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, everything changes.”

Remus smiled faintly, his eyes warm. “And about time too.”

Chapter Text

The Ministry of Magic was still half-asleep when Remus, Harry and Padfoot arrived.

A thin fog clung to the marble steps, ghostly and pale in the cold morning air. The great golden doors loomed above, reflecting the muted light of dawn. Few people were about, a pair of yawning clerks at the reception, two Aurors on rotation, and the faint echo of footsteps somewhere down the corridor.

Remus kept his head down as he passed through the entrance. Padfoot padded silently at his heel, disguised by the dimness as little more than a shadow that moved with purpose. Beneath his cloak, Harry’s breathing, quick but quiet, a whisper against the stillness.

They took the lift down to the lowest level without a word. The chains and gears rattled softly overhead as they descended. Courtroom Ten waited, sealed and dark.

Remus pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside. The chamber yawned around them, circular, torchlit, the stone walls rising high into shadow. The benches were empty for now, save for the scribe setting quills to ink and the solicitor preparing parchment at the front table.

Harry slipped into the seat beside Remus under the cloak, invisible but near enough that Remus could feel his nervous shifting. He reached out, briefly brushing his fingers across empty air until they met Harry’s hidden hand. Padfoot went immediately to the flagstone floor and settled there, paws crossed, his dark eyes fixed on the door.

“Stay close,” he murmured softly. “No one will know you’re here.”

Harry squeezed his hand once in reply. They waited. The first hour passed in near silence.

Every sound, the soft scratch of quill, the faint echo of footsteps from far off corridors,  seemed to stretch into eternity. The chamber filled slowly with spectators. Murmurs rose from the hall beyond as the first of the Wizengamot members arrived, their robes whispering against stone.

The rich and powerful of the magical world took their places one by one, men and women in deep plum robes, their family crests embroidered in gold thread next to the crest of the Wizamagot. They sat with the air of those accustomed to being obeyed. Some spoke in hushed tones, others merely watched, faces curious and cautious.

At the far end, Augusta Longbottom entered, tall, upright, her vulture-feathered hat casting a sharp silhouette in the torchlight. She moved with quiet dignity to the Longbottom seat, her presence enough to silence two gossiping members nearby.

Then Amelia Bones arrived.

The atmosphere shifted with her entry. She strode down the aisle in her crisp navy robes, her square jaw set, monocle glinting as she surveyed the room. There was purpose in every step, and something in her expression told Remus that this morning had been carefully arranged. She greeted no one but the scribe and the solicitor before taking her place at the front dais, the presiding judge of the Council of Magical Law.

The doors slammed open again with sudden force.

Cornelius Fudge’s voice filled the chamber before his figure appeared.

“What is the meaning of this?” His bowler hat was askew, his face flushed with outrage. Behind him, Dolores Umbridge fluttered like a pink toad in a too-tight suit, clutching a stack of folders to her chest. “This is highly irregular!” she squeaked. “The Minister was not informed, no notice, no decree, nothing!”

Fudge’s cane struck the floor with each step. “I demand to know who authorised this session! I am the Minister for Magic! I have a right to know..”

Amelia did not look up from her papers. “You will have your answers, Minister, once proceedings begin. Please take your seat.”

Fudge gaped at her, sputtering. “My seat..? I will not be..”

But the murmur from the gathered Wizengamot was rising now, a ripple of whispers and uneasy curiosity. Umbridge leaned in close, hissing into his ear. They conferred in furious whispers, Fudge’s colour deepening to the shade of old wine.

From the back of the courtroom, Remus could almost taste the tension. He leaned forward slightly, whispering toward the air beside him. “Harry… watch. Listen to how they move before they speak. That’s how you learn who holds the real power here.”

Under the cloak, Harry nodded. His heart beat fast against his ribs. Then came the hush.

Albus Dumbledore entered.

He moved like a storm that had decided to disguise itself as calm. His robes were immaculate, silver-threaded, his half-moon glasses glinting with the reflection of torchlight. Yet his face, composed as always, carried a flicker of something sharper. Irritation.

He took his place at the raised platform at the front, the Chief Warlock’s seat, beside the Minister. The two exchanged low, hurried words that carried no warmth. Fudge leaned close, whispering furiously; Dumbledore’s expression tightened further.

Harry watched from beneath the cloak, his stomach twisting. This was the man who had once been untouchable in his eyes. The man whose calm could never crack. And yet, now, he saw it, the stiffness in his shoulders, the quickness of his breathing, the faint edge of panic behind the mask.

For the first time, Harry saw him afraid of losing control.

The Weasley family arrived next. Their presence filled the room with a ripple of colour and humanity, a contrast to the cold marble and stiff formal robes. Molly held Arthur’s arm, her lips pressed tight; the twins whispered quick observations to one another; Ron stared at the floor, pale and anxious; Ginny clutched her mother’s sleeve, eyes wide and uncertain.

Not far behind the Weasleys’, a tall man in charcoal robes slipped in and took a seat near Remus. Sirius’s solicitor, Mr. Peverell, of Peverell & Co Solicitors, his presence calm but sharp, a quiet blade amid the noise.

He greeted Remus with a brief nod. “Everything’s in place,” he murmured. “can’t stop this, no matter how Dumbledore fumes.”

Remus exhaled slowly. “Let’s hope this works”.  “It will,” Peverell said, smoothing his sleeve. “Truth has a way of surviving the dark. Even here.”

The courtroom was full now, the galleries lined with curious onlookers, the press scribbling furiously from the upper benches. Every seat of the Wizengamot was occupied. The scribe’s quill hovered above fresh parchment.  Aurors stood rigid by every door, hands resting on their wands.

Dumbledore’s gaze swept the benches, and when it fell upon Remus beside the seemingly empty seat next to him, understanding flickered in his eyes, sharp and cold with dawning dread. This session must be to do with Sirius.

Amelia Bones stood, her clear voice cutting through the murmur.

“All rise for the Chief Warlock.” The room rose as one.

Dumbledore’s hand trembled just slightly as he reached for the ceremonial staff beside his seat. He struck it once against the marble dais. The sound reverberated through the stone like thunder. “This emergency session of the Wizengamot,” he declared, voice steady but clipped, “is now called to order.”

Silence fell.

Remus straightened.

Padfoot lifted his head.

Under the cloak, Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

The trial of truth had begun.

And in the high, cold chamber of the Ministry, the world itself seemed to wait for who would be caged by it first.

Amelia Bones stood, the scrape of her chair against stone sharp enough to cut through the murmurs. The air itself seemed to pause, waiting. Her voice carried, calm and unyielding. “By the authority of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I move that this body convene a full court trial for the accused.” She purposely did not mention who the trial was for. She needed the secrecy until the very last second.

Fudge opened his mouth, outrage trembling on his lips, but one look from Amelia silenced him mid-breath. She turned slowly, her monocle glinting in the torchlight. “Do I have a second?”

Instantly, Augusta Longbottom rose from her seat with quiet, formidable grace. “The Longbottom seat seconds,” she said.

The words struck like a gavel. A ripple of shock ran through the chamber, soft gasps, whispers breaking loose as the shape of the morning changed.

“Aurors,” Amelia said, her voice cutting through the restless whispers like the edge of a blade. “Bring in the accused.”

The great doors to the chamber swung open with a low groan of ancient hinges. A rush of cold air swept through the courtroom, carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone and iron.

Gasps rippled through the gallery. Quills froze mid-scratch; camera lenses clicked and flashed like lightning. Between two Aurors, Peter Pettigrew shuffled forward, his thin, trembling frame swallowed by shackles at wrist and ankle. The chains clinked with each step, echoing through the chamber in hollow rhythm.

His face was pale and slick with sweat, eyes darting wildly at the sea of faces watching him. Gone was the rat like cunning that had once hidden in the shadows.

The Aurors led him to the high-backed chair at the centre of the floor, the chair reserved for the accused. They unbound his hands only long enough to force him down into the seat. The moment his back touched the wood, heavy chains snaked from the armrests as though alive, coiling around his wrists and chest with a metallic hiss. The sound settled into the silence that followed, and the courtroom seemed to hold its breath.

Fudge lurched to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the marble. His face had gone a mottled shade of red, bowler hat clutched in one shaking hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” he barked, voice booming through the stunned silence. “Why is this man chained like some common criminal? Who authorised this spectacle?”

His outrage echoed off the stone walls, shrill and self-important. “This is highly irregular! The Ministry has received no documentation, no order, no notice of trial, nothing! I demand to know under whose authority this circus has been assembled!”

Amelia Bones did not flinch. She merely adjusted her monocle and turned toward him with quiet, razor-edged calm.

“The authority of the Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement Minister, meaning Me” she said evenly. “And the man before you stands accused of treason, murder, and the framing of an innocent. He will answer for it, today.”

A loud burst of noise rippled through the gallery. Fudge’s mouth opened and closed in disbelief, his bluster faltering for the first time. Dumbledore banged the staff for silence, he looked panicked. His chest was rising and  falling rapidly. He grasped for some reason to cancel this trial, but came up short.

“Peter Pettigrew,” she began, her tone measured and precise, “you stand before this court charged with the following crimes.” She glanced down at the parchment before her, though it was clear she already knew every word by heart.

“Conspiracy with and service to Lord Voldemort as a Death Eater, resulting in the betrayal of James and Lily Potter; the murder of twelve Muggles in a public street; the unlawful framing and attempted execution of Sirius Orion Black and the deliberate evasion of justice for over a decade through the use of illegal Animagus transformation.”

Each word fell heavy as iron, echoing through the chamber. Pettigrew’s breathing grew shallow, his chained hands twitching uselessly against the cold metal.

Amelia’s gaze lifted from the parchment, her monocle glinting like a blade. “How do you plead?”

Pettigrew’s lips trembled. For a heartbeat he said nothing, eyes darting from Amelia to Dumbledore, to the Minister, to the crowd that stared back with shocked faces.

Finally, in a voice thin and cracking, he managed, “Not— not guilty.”

Amelia’s expression did not change. “So noted,” she said coolly, and turned back to the council bench. “Let the record show that the accused pleads not guilty to all charges.”

Amelia Bones rose again, her presence commanding immediate silence. She turned toward the assembled benches.

“The court will now hear testimony from the first witness,” she announced. “Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, please approach the stand.”

Shacklebolt stepped forward from the row of Aurors flanking the chamber doors. His dark robes brushed the stone as he crossed the floor, posture straight and unflinching. When he reached the witness dais, he gave a short oath of truth to Amelia before turning to face the court.

Amelia inclined her head. “State your name and position for the record.”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Senior Auror, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Amelia gestured for the court scribe to note it. “Auror Shacklebolt, you were present during the apprehension and transformation of the accused, Peter Pettigrew. For the record, please describe the events of that evening.”

Shacklebolt nodded once. “Yes, Madam Director Bones. Upon credible intelligence provided by Remus Lupin, we conducted a controlled operation at a secure location in Scotland.”

He paused briefly, then continued. “The accused was discovered in his Animagus form, a common brown rat, in the possession of a school child, named Ronald Weasley.” A ripple went through the courtroom at the name, but Shacklebolt pressed on. “He was restrained and verified through standard detection spells as possessing a human magical signature. At Madam Director Bones’s direction, Auror Gawain Robards administered Veritaserum, three measured drops, in the presence of all attending officers, yourself and Arthur Weasley.”

He inclined his head toward Amelia, who lifted her wand in quiet affirmation. “Once the serum had taken effect,” he continued, “Madam Director Bones asked Peter Pettrigrew questions about all the crimes he has been confirmed of, and he admitted to all. Sirius Black was innocent of all the accused crimes, framed by Peter Pettigrew. He was put in Azkaban instead of Peter Pettigew for crimes he didn’t commit”.

He fell silent. The faint sound of Pettigrew’s chains shifting filled the space between his words.

Amelia gave a single nod. “Thank you, Auror Shacklebolt. Your testimony is entered into the record.”

Umbridge’s face twisted with outrage, her voice shrill. “I will not have the integrity of the Ministry questioned in this courtroom! The Ministry would never,”

“Silence, Dolores!” Amelia Bones’ voice cut through like steel, leaving no room for argument. “Enough. You will let me speak. You are disregarding the testimony under oath of the lead Auror, who had witnesses to everything he told us.”

Fudge shot to his feet, red-faced, waving a hand. “Now see here.. she’s just trying to.. Black was found guilty..”

“Found Guilty, Minister?” Amelia interrupted, her calm smile sharp as a blade. “where was he found guilty?”

Fudge faltered. “His trial.. the trial”

“What trial?” Amelia’s smile widened imperceptibly. “He never had one.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. Dumbledore’s eyes flicked toward Fudge, then Umbridge, and he felt the shift instantly. He knew this was lost. Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly in quiet resignation and let out a deep breath. One of his carefully crafted secrets was about to be exposed.

Amelia Bones turned sharply to the Wizengamot. “We will proceed with a veritaserum test on Peter Pettigrew. All in favour?”

The majority of the Wizengamot members raised their hands. Only the usual suspects, Malfoy, Avery, Nott, and Crabbe, the ones that claimed to be under the imperious curse whilst serving Lord Voldemort, remained still, their faces tight with outrage.

“The motion carries,” Amelia announced. “Bring in the serum.”

A small vial of the silvery liquid was brought forward, glinting under the courtroom lights. Peter Pettigrew’s face went pale as the potion was placed before him. He was forced to take three drops. As the last drop slid down his throat, a hush fell over the chamber. Every eye in the room watched, waiting for the truth to spill.

Amelia Bones stepped forward, her voice steady and commanding. “State your full name for the record.” “Peter Pettigrew,” he whispered, his hands trembling.

“Were you the Secret-Keeper for James and Lily Potter?” Peter’s throat tightened. “Y-yes…”

The crowd shifted uneasily; whispers rippled through the benches, some shocked, some incredulous. “Did you betray James and Lily to Lord Voldemort?”

A pause. Peter’s eyes darted around the chamber. “Yes…”

A collective gasp rose from the crowd. A few witches clutched their robes in horror, murmurs of disbelief bouncing off the high walls.

“Were you an active Death Eater?” Amelia continued, her tone precise.

“Yes,” he admitted, barely audible.

Murmurs turned to audible mutters; anger and shock began to spread through the onlookers. “Did you kill the muggles and frame Sirius Black?”

Peter’s face went pale, beads of sweat forming at his hairline. “Y..yes,” he stammered.

The crowd reacted violently, shouts, gasps, people covering their mouths, and a few leaning forward in disbelief. Even a couple of older wizards shook their heads in stunned silence.

“Finally,” Amelia said, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Who witnessed the Secret-Keeper oath?”

Peter swallowed hard. “Albus Dumbledore”.

The chamber erupted into shouts, some muttering curses under their breath, others whispering rapidly to each other. For a moment, Dumbledore simply sat, his long fingers folded in his lap, his expression unreadable. But all around him, eyes were narrowing. Whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire, heads turning to stare with suspicion, disbelief, and even thinly veiled hatred.

Some wizards leaned forward, muttering under their breath, while others exchanged uneasy glances. The aura of quiet authority he usually commanded seemed to falter under the weight of their judgment. Even a few Wizengamot members shot wary looks his way, as though the presence of the man who had witnessed the Secret-Keeper oath now made them question everything they’d trusted.

Dumbledore’s calm posture remained, but the sharp scrutiny of dozens of pairs of eyes pressed in on him, heavy and accusatory. For the first time in a long while, he was being measured, suspected, and judged, not by his deeds, but by the truth he had kept.

Amelia Bones raised her hand, her voice slicing through the murmur of the chamber. “Silence! This courtroom will come to order.”

The crowd quieted immediately, all eyes turning toward her. She continued, calm but firm:

“We will now proceed with a vote of the Wizengamot on the question of Peter Pettigrew’s guilt. I call upon you to determine whether he is guilty of the crimes of betraying the Potters, serving as a Death Eater, and murdering the muggles he framed on Sirius Black.”

She paused, letting the weight of the question settle over the chamber. Then, her tone sharpened. “All in favour of declaring Peter Pettigrew guilty, raise your hands.”

Almost every hand shot up. Only Malfoy, Avery, Nott, and Crabbe kept their hands down, scowling in defiance. It was clear the motion had passed overwhelmingly.

“The motion carries,” Amelia announced. “Peter Pettigrew is declared guilty. Let the record reflect the unanimous verdict of this chamber, save for the dissenting few. We will now break for deliberation of sentencing. The session will reconvene in thirty minutes, we have one more matter to attend to”.

Remus stayed composed, leaning slightly to stroke Padfoot’s fur and whisper softly, “Nearly over, old friend. You best get going, and wait outside for your turn”. Padfoot got up and stretched his paws, then left the courtroom. Ready to return as Sirius when called.

Within half an hour, the deliberators returned, carrying the official verdict. The chamber held its breath as Amelia Bones read it aloud: guilty on all counts.

The moment the words sank in, Peter Pettigrew whimpered, his face contorting in panic. He tried to wriggle free, claws scraping at the Aurors’ grips.

The Aurors held him firmly, their wands at the ready, as he thrashed and screamed. “No! No! You can’t…!”

Peter was hauled away, struggling all the way to the door, leaving a stunned hush in the courtroom.

Chapter Text

Amelia Bones straightened, her expression unwavering. “Now, the second order of business: the trial of Lord Sirius Orion Black.”

The chamber fell into a tense hush. Then the doors creaked open, and all eyes snapped toward the entrance.

Sirius Black stepped in, tall, composed, and unmistakably defiant. His eyes immediately found Dumbledore’s across the chamber, locked in a silent, piercing stare. Dumbledore’s gaze flickered away, deliberately avoiding him.

The crowd froze, a mixture of shock, awe, and barely concealed fear rippling through the benches. Fudge’s heart sank. They had clearly wrongly incarcerated a Lord, and now he stood in their courtroom. The thought hit him like a thunderbolt: career suicide. Every political manoeuvre, every attempt to save face, teetered on the edge of disaster. The lack of a trial.. it was catastrophic.

Whispers surged through the chamber. “Lord Black…” “Is that…?” “I can’t believe it…” Even the Wizengamot members, usually steady and unflappable, shifted uneasily in their seats, exchanging nervous glances.

Sirius strode calmly to the chair at the centre of the chamber, the very same one Peter Pettigrew had occupied. He lowered himself into the seat with an air of deliberate ease, fingers resting lightly on the arms of the chair.  Unlike Pettigrew, he was unchained. Each step was deliberate, his gaze unwavering as it swept across the room before returning to Dumbledore.

The absence of restraints only amplified his audacity; the crowd leaned forward, murmuring in disbelief. Fudge paled further, feeling the authority he had tried to project crumble under the weight of Sirius’s presence. Amelia Bones raised her hand once more, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “Order! This chamber will come to order. We are here to begin the trial of Sirius Black.”

Sirius raised a hand calmly. “I request to be questioned under veritaserum.”

A wave of murmurs swept through the chamber. Heads turned sharply, whispers bouncing off the high walls. Even the Wizengamot members exchanged startled glances.

By law, pure-blood wizards on trial were not required to submit to veritaserum. The very suggestion was extraordinary, almost unheard of.

“Veritaserum?” one wizened member muttered under his breath. “He’s offering it willingly…”

“Bold, or reckless,” another hissed.

The crowd’s reaction was a mixture of shock and awe. Even some of the younger Aurors blinked in surprise; the audacity of the man who had just walked unchained into the courtroom, now volunteering the potion, seemed to electrify the chamber.

“Very well, Lord Black,” Amelia said, her tone measured. She called an Auror forward. “Bring him the veritaserum.”

The Auror approached, holding the small vial of silvery potion. Sirius opened his mouth willingly, allowing the three drops to slide down his throat. Not a tremor passed over him; his composure remained unshaken.

Amelia waited a moment, letting the potion take effect, then began her questioning.

“State your name for the record,” she commanded.

“Lord Sirius Orion Black,” he replied evenly, his gaze sweeping the chamber before briefly flicking to Dumbledore.

“Are you, or were you ever, a Death Eater?”

“No,” Sirius answered firmly, every word measured, leaving no trace of hesitation.

A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. Some whispered incredulously; others exchanged impressed glances. Even the Wizengamot members leaned forward slightly, intrigued by the audacity and clarity of his answers.

Amelia took a deep breath and leaned slightly forward, her voice steady but precise. “Were you the Secret-Keeper for James and Lily Potter?”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. His eyes glistened, a rare crack in his composure, as memories surged through him. He swallowed hard, then began, his voice shaking slightly despite the veritaserum.

“No, it was Peter Perrigrew. I… I was originally to be their Secret-Keeper,” he admitted, each word measured but heavy with emotion. “But James suspected Remus… suspected he might be compromised, and believed the plan would be less obvious if a less significant wizard held the role. I thought… I thought Voldemort would expect me to be the Secret-Keeper. So we switched to Peter Pettigrew, believing it would mislead him and keep James, Lily and Harry safe.”

A faint murmur rippled through the chamber, but Sirius pressed on, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. “We were wrong. Pettigrew… Pettigrew was a traitor from the start. The moment he had the chance, he betrayed the Potters’ location to Voldemort.”

Remus, seated to the side, clenched his jaw, his own eyes glistening. He leaned slightly forward and murmured under his breath to Harry, “It’s over… nearly over.”

The courtroom remained silent, the weight of his confession, tempered by truth and sorrow, pressing on everyone present. Even the hardened Wizengamot members exchanged uneasy glances, some swallowing audibly at the gravity of the betrayal and the courage it had taken to speak the truth.

Amelia’s tone sharpened slightly. “Did you kill the muggles and attempt to kill Peter Pettigrew?”

Sirius’s hands gripped the arms of the chair tighter. His eyes flickered toward Remus for a brief, steadying glance, then returned to the chamber. “No,” he said firmly, though his voice carried the weight of anguish. “I cornered Peter, I was going to stun him and bring him in. He got the better of me, he blew up a gas tank killing the muggles. He cast a protego to protect himself, then cut off a finger and transformed into his rat form and escaped through the drains”.

Amelia’s expression remained impassive, but her next question sliced through the rising tension. “Were you sent to Azkaban without a trial?”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, and for a moment his composure faltered. His fingers clenched the arms of the chair as a flash of anger and hurt crossed his face. “Yes,” he said, his voice low but carrying through the chamber. “I was imprisoned… without ever being given the chance to defend myself. No trial, no hearing, nothing but accusation and assumption.”

Fudge’s face drained of colour, and Umbridge’s usual smug composure faltered. The weight of the truth pressed down on them all: the Ministry had failed spectacularly.

Amelia Bones raised her hand, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “Order! This chamber will come to order. We shall now proceed to the judgement of the Wizengamot.”

The room fell silent as every member prepared to vote. One by one, hands rose.

For a heartbeat, there was hesitation, then more followed. Every hand was raised in favour of Sirius Black’s innocence. Not a single member dared oppose it. The knowledge of his wealth, his title as a Lord, and the undeniable truth of his testimony left no room for dissent.

Amelia’s expression remained calm, but the weight of the unanimous verdict was unmistakable. “The motion carries,” she announced. “Lord Sirius Orion Black is declared innocent of all charges brought against him.”

Dolores Umbridge sprang to her feet, her face twisted with fury. “INNOCENT?!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Sirius. “HE ESCAPED AZKABAN! HE NEEDS TO BE SENT BACK TO THE DEMENTORS!”

The chamber erupted. Voices shouted over one another, some in disbelief, others in outrage. Members of the crowd leaned forward, pointing and shouting back at her, their anger palpable. “How dare you!” “Enough!” “Sit down, woman!”

Amelia Bones rose slowly, her gaze icy and unwavering, cutting through the tumult like steel. “Dolores,” she said, her tone scathing, each word measured yet dripping with contempt, “you will sit down and remain silent. Your opinion does not override the unanimous judgement of this chamber, nor does it give you licence to insult every member present. This is a courtroom, not a theatre for your tantrums.”

A hush fell over the crowd, the force of Amelia’s words leaving no room for argument. Umbridge’s face flushed crimson, her lips pressed into a tight line as she slumped back into her seat, muttering under her breath. Every attempt at authority she had displayed throughout the trial seemed to crumble in an instant.

Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his chair, pale and sweating. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, words failing him. The room seemed to close in on him; the political disaster of having wrongfully imprisoned a Lord was painfully clear, and every whisper and glance from the Wizengamot reminded him of it.

The crowd, meanwhile, erupted into quiet murmurs of relief and satisfaction. Some clapped softly, others exchanged nods and smiles, all acknowledging that justice had finally been served. Sirius allowed himself a small, controlled exhale, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

Sirius’ green eyes locked onto Fudge, sharp and unflinching. “You will be hearing from my solicitor regarding my wrongful incarceration, this is not over,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the chamber, leaving no doubt that the Minister’s mistakes would have consequences.

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd. Some exchanged astonished glances; others whispered rapidly to each other, recognising the gravity of Sirius publicly confronting the Minister. Fudge paled further, his mouth opening and closing, but no words came.

Sirius turned slowly toward Dumbledore, his expression hardening. “And you, Headmaster,” he said loudly, every word carried weight, “I haven’t even begun with you. Justice will be done, for Lily, James, and Harry.”

Dumbledore’s face remained impassive, but his eyes burned with restrained anger. He said nothing, yet the tension in his gaze spoke volumes, the silent understanding of the stakes clear to all who watched.

The chamber was electric. Every whisper, every shocked glance, was caught by the press, who had been documenting every moment. The story would travel fast: Sirius Black, vindicated, unbound, and boldly confronting both the Ministry and the Headmaster, signalling that the reckoning for past wrongs was only just beginning. Sirius exited the courtroom as a free man. He sat down exhausted in an empty side chamber.

Amelia gently guided Remus and an invisible Harry to Sirius. The moment they saw each other, all three collided in a tight, trembling embrace. Tears streaked faces, shoulders shook, and for a long moment the weight of years apart, the fear, the loss, the injustice, pressed heavily on them. Sirius pressed his forehead to Remus’s, then to Harry, whispering through choked breaths, “I… I’m free.. it’s over.”

Finally pulling back, his green eyes glistened with gratitude and determination. He turned to Amelia, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so grateful to you, Amelia… truly. Please, I beg you, arrange a custody hearing for Harry. He deserves to be with family who will protect him. They will have to uphold my right as his Godfather! I will get my solicitor to sort all the paper work, and for my Animagus registration too.”

Sirius and Remus strode briskly through the Ministry atrium, Harry safely tucked between them under the Cloak. Around them, pandemonium erupted, wizards and witches shouting, pointing, and craning to catch sight of the man finally vindicated. Flashing cameras and jubilant cries filled the air.

Ignoring the chaos, Sirius and Remus moved as one, keeping Harry secure and focused on the path ahead. Their hearts still raced from the courtroom triumph, but now a different thrill surged through them, the exhilaration of freedom, and the knowledge that they were finally heading home.

With a shared glance, Remus gripped Harry and Sirius firmly, and in a shimmer of light, they Apparated to the top step of Grimmauld Place. Sirius’s eyes shone with joy, the first real smile in years spreading across his face. Home. Free. Finally.

Chapter Text

THE DAILY PROPHET

“Britain’s Most Trusted Wizarding News Source”

Now Under New Management

(All Prophet reporters have now taken binding oaths to ensure factual accuracy in every published article at request of new shareholders .)

SIRIUS BLACK CLEARED AT LAST. FRAMED AND BETRAYER FOUND

By Rita Skeeter

In an extraordinary turn of events that has rocked the wizarding world, Lord Sirius Black, long believed to have betrayed the Potters and murdered twelve Muggles, was formally exonerated yesterday following revelations during an emergency Wizengamot session. Read more about Lord Black’s innocence on page 2.

After testimony from Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, Director Amelia Bones, and certified truth serum evidence, the court unanimously declared Lord Black innocent of all charges. Peter Pettigrew, thought dead since 1981, was discovered alive and unregistered as an Animagus. Upon arrest and interrogation under Veritaserum, Pettigrew confessed to betraying James and Lily Potter to Lord Voldemort as well as being a Death Eater.

Within hours, Pettigrew was sentenced and immediately subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss, marking the first such execution in over a decade. You can read more about his crimes on page 3.

DUMBLEDORE UNDER FIRE

By Barnabas Cuffe (Editor-in-Chief)

Perhaps the greatest shock of all comes not from Pettigrew’s confession, but from what it revealed.

Evidence presented by Director Bones and senior Aurors shows that Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot was aware of Pettigrew’s betrayal as he was the witness to the Fidelius charm  created by James and Lil Potter.

Despite this knowledge, he did not exonerate Lord Sirius Black, instead naming him as the secret keeper and supporting the Ministry’s decision to imprison him without a trial.

When questioned, Dumbledore declined to comment, issuing only the statement:

“Age is a cruel companion, and memory not what it once was. If I failed to act, it was through oversight, not intention. I have always sought to serve the Greater Good.”

Public opinion, however, appears less forgiving. Owls to the Prophet have increased tenfold, with many calling for Dumbledore’s resignation from the Wizengamot, the ICW, his post as Headmaster of Hogwarts and a full investigation into his influence over Ministry proceedings. Turn to page 5 for more on Albus Dumbledore.

Harry Potter

The day passed in a golden blur, laughter echoing through Diagon Alley as Sirius and Remus dragged him from shop to shop, insisting on celebrating the kind of childhood he had never been allowed. They bought him sweets and books. Sirius insisted on ice cream before lunch and a trip through every shop window that caught Harry’s wide-eyed fascination. Everywhere they went, people couldn’t help but stare. Whispers followed them down the street, news of Sirius Black’s innocence had spread like wildfire, blasted across every wizarding wireless radio and carried by eager tongues from one end of the Alley to the other. Wizards and witches paused mid-step, some bowing their heads in respect, others exchanging awed murmurs as Sirius grinned at the attention, entirely unbothered.
Dobby appeared that evening with a loud crack, eager to help Harry pack his school trunk. He worked himself into a frenzy of devotion, fussing over socks and polishing every quill until they gleamed. Remus laughed softly as Sirius tried to teach Dobby to fold shirts properly, only to be politely scolded for interfering with “house-elf craft.” Harry couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t a burden, he was loved, he was wanted, and Hogwarts waited for him like a promise. He couldn’t wait to see his friends on the train and update them all, and he was already planning for the first time since he started Hogwarts to come home for Christmas, home to Sirius and Remus.

Sirius Black

Sirius felt the weight of Azkaban lift with every breath he took. St. Mungo’s smelled like antiseptic and life, and he couldn’t get enough of it. The Healers poked and prodded, documenting the lingering damage from a decade of decay. Dementors, scars, malnutrition, tremors, the hollow spaces where hope had withered. But Sirius grinned through it all, because it was his life again. His name was clean. His godson was safe.

After the examination, he met with Amelia Bones. Their old camaraderie sparked instantly, like it had been lying in wait among the ashes of the past. They talked of justice, hearings, and laws, vengeance dressed as reform. but underneath it all, there was something unspoken, a pull neither could ignore. Sirius found himself searching her eyes, remembering every moment he’d never stopped loving her. And when she smiled, just a flicker, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a tentative, tender kiss that held years of longing, relief, and hope.

Even in that warmth, a shadow lingered. Harry was heading back to Hogwarts soon, and Sirius’ heart tightened. Dumbledore’s interference, the constant undercurrent of control, it gnawed at him. But Remus would be there, steady as ever, and somehow that eased the sharp edge of his worry. Sirius knew he needed to sort out his health, reclaim a proper home, and find his footing before he could be the best godfather Harry deserved.

Freedom burned in his veins, fierce and unrelenting. He would tear down every lie Dumbledore had built, layer by layer, until the truth stood raw and undeniable. “No more hiding,” he whispered to the night, silver stars flickering above him. “Not for me. Not for him.”

Remus Lupin

Remus packed in silence, methodical and deliberate. The full moon was only two days away, and though he had taken his Wolfsbane, knowing he would be curled up and harmless, he couldn’t shake the tight coil of vigilance in his chest. Every folded robe, every textbook, felt heavier with purpose than routine.

The invitation letter from Dumbledore lay open on the desk, the ink dried to a polite command. It felt heavier than parchment should. He traced the words with a finger, remembering all the times he had followed that voice, all the quiet betrayals woven into his obedience. Now, he saw it all: Sirius’s imprisonment, Harry’s suffering, the manipulations wrapped in phrases like “trust” and “light.” He folded the letter neatly. A faint, wry smile touched his lips, his heart tight but steady. “Let him try to manipulate me,” he whispered to the empty room. “I’ve made my choice.”

Dolores Umbridge

In her pink and perfumed office, Dolores Umbridge smiled. It was a small, sugar-sweet thing, the kind that curdled before it reached her eyes. The Prophet lay open on her desk, the bold headlines glaring. Her tea had gone cold. She smoothed her frilly sleeve and dipped her quill into the inkpot, the feather trembling with restrained fury. The Black and Potter boys, left unchecked, would unravel everything the Ministry stood for. Chaos, rebellion, filth, all wrapped in a quiet worship from brainless idiots.  Something had to be done. She wrote quickly, her hand precise and venomous. A letter addressed to Lucius Malfoy, the words polite enough to mask the rot beneath them. “We cannot allow such instability to infect our world,” she murmured as she signed it. Her cats purred approvingly. “One must deal with wild things firmly, Lucius, before they start to believe they belong.”

Cornelius Fudge

Cornelius Fudge sat slumped behind his desk, his office a graveyard of parchment and empty glasses. Smoke still curled from the bin where he had consigned all the howlers he had received, a muted testament to the growing unrest. Whispers in the corridors had grown louder by the hour, talk of a vote, of confidence lost, of a Minister too weak to hold the reins. His hands shook as he turned the pages of the Daily Prophet, the ink blurring under his tired eyes. The door opened without a knock.

Lucius Malfoy entered, all poise and precision, his silver cane tapping once against the floor. “Cornelius,” he greeted, smooth as silk. “It seems you are in need of… friends.”

Fudge swallowed. Lucius smiled, patient, predatory. “Let me help you steady your position. Sirius Black is a liability, and liabilities, Minister, must be managed.” The fire flickered low, painting long shadows across the walls.

When Lucius left, Fudge allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. Sirius would finally be dealt with, and his own power remained unchallenged. He didn’t care how much gold had to change hands to secure his position; nothing mattered more than keeping his title of Minister.

Yet even as he exhaled, Fudge knew the game was far from over. Public perception could topple a Minister faster than any Dark wizard. He needed a plan to redirect the brewing storm. His eyes narrowed as he considered convenient scapegoats: Millicent Bagnold, Barty Crouch Senior, their policies, their legacies, could be twisted to explain away the Ministry’s current failings.

He picked up his quill and began drafting a press release, crisp and formal, declaring that the planned deployment of Dementors at Hogwarts would be postponed indefinitely. “For the safety of the students,” he wrote, carefully avoiding any mention of his own indecision. With deft strokes, he shifted the blame onto his predecessors, painting Bagnold and Crouch Senior as the architects of chaos surrounding the innocence of Sirius Black. 

By the time the release went out, Fudge would appear proactive, concerned, decisive. The whispers and doubt circling him like vultures could be redirected, landing squarely on the shoulders of those long gone from the Ministry. Cornelius allowed himself a self-satisfied chuckle. Power, he mused, was as much about perception as reality, and right now, he was controlling the narrative.

Albus Dumbledore

Dumbledore’s office was in ruins, the aftermath of a temper barely contained. Shattered glass crunched beneath his boots as he paced, blue robes scorched and torn where fire had caught. The air stank of smoke and fury. Portraits muttered nervously in the shadows, and Fawkes screamed from his perch, wings flaring with gold and grief. “Silence!” Dumbledore thundered, and even the phoenix faltered.

He swept aside the wreckage of his desk, breathing hard, wild-eyed. The Daily Prophet lay crumpled at his feet. His legend, his decades of careful guidance, were unravelling thread by thread. The trust he had meticulously cultivated, his authority, his image, slipped through his fingers like sand.

His thoughts flickered to James and Lily, and a thin, satisfied smile curved his lips. The world believed they were gone; their deaths were a story he had carefully shaped. The grief, the mourning, they were all his tools, means to bend Harry toward his will. He would of course have to do something about them at some point, he could not risk their survival upsetting his plans.

He turned to the glass cabinet at the far wall, where the faint glow of the memory vial containing the prophecy pulsed. His fingers hovered over it, trembling with anticipation. “He is still the weapon,” he whispered. “He must be guided… or all will be lost.” His mind raced with possibilities: compulsion charms, binding spells, subtle enchantments, anything to keep Harry on the path he dictated. Fawkes cried out again, a sound of heartbreak and condemnation, and Dumbledore ignored it.

“Then he will learn,” he said coldly. “He will follow the light. My light.”

Harry must sacrifice himself when the Dark Lord returned, and only then would Dumbledore swoop in to save the world. A hero. Every lie, every manipulation, every carefully hidden truth, all justified by the end he had envisioned. Failure was unthinkable. No obstacle, not Harry, Sirius, or anyone would stand in his way.

Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall sat in her quarters long after the last candle in the corridors had guttered out. The Prophet lay folded on her desk, its headline burned into her mind like a curse. She had defended Albus Dumbledore for decades, through every questionable decision he made in the name of the so-called Greater Good. But this… this was different.

If he had truly known about Sirius’s innocence, if he had allowed an innocent man to rot in Azkaban, had knowingly left a child in the hands of abusers, then all her faith in him had been nothing more than a fool’s loyalty.

Her eyes drifted to the photograph she had dug out of storage to show Harry. James and Lily on their wedding day. She had stood with them then, proud and tearful, watching two of her brightest students step into a future they had fought so hard to build. She had loved them as if they were her own children. She had promised herself, in the aftermath of Godric’s Hollow, that she would keep their boy safe. And yet, she had failed him, because she had trusted Albus Dumbledore.

She remembered the bruises Harry never spoke of, the way he flinched when praised too loudly, how thin he always was each September. She had known, deep down, that something was wrong. But Dumbledore had assured her it was “for the best.” That phrase now tasted like poison. Minerva rose from her chair, jaw set, grief sharpening into resolve. “I won’t fail him again,” she whispered. “Not Harry. Not another Potter.”

Severus Snape

Severus Snape closed the door to his private chambers with a soft click, the sound bouncing off the stone like a whispered accusation. The Prophet lay open before him, its words burning not with surprise, but with grim recognition. Dumbledore had done it again, moved his pieces with the cold precision of a chess master, willing to sacrifice lives for the sake of his vision. Only this time, it was Sirius Black.

He had despised Sirius Black, had always despised him. Brash, reckless, insufferably arrogant; everything Snape loathed in school days crystallised in that one man. And yet, there was no satisfaction in seeing him wronged. The sting came from deeper than that: Dumbledore had used him, manipulated his life, orchestrated his suffering in ways Snape was only now beginning to fully grasp. For all his hatred of Sirius, Snape hated being a pawn even more.

He thought of the promise that had sealed his fate, the pact Dumbledore made with him after he had turned from Voldemort, leaving the Dark Lord behind. If Snape switched sides, became Dumbledore’s spy, and dedicated himself entirely to the cause, the Potters would be kept safe. Lily and James would live. Harry would be protected. That promise had cost him everything: trust, peace, even the life he could have had. And yet here it was, Lily and James were dead, Sirius had suffered, Harry had been neglected, and the very man who had sworn to safeguard them had manipulated them all along.

A bitter, humourless laugh escaped him. “You truly are incapable of trust, aren’t you, Albus?” he muttered, pacing. Every whispered order, every hidden directive, every command framed as duty replayed in his mind. Dumbledore could justify any cruelty to himself if the outcome matched his plan. And now Snape realized he could not trust him, not for himself, and certainly not for Harry. Could Harry truly be safe under Dumbledore’s orchestrated designs?

For the first time in years, Snape considered action not as duty, but as choice. A part of him wondered if he should reach out, warn, intervene… and another, darker part wondered if he should let Dumbledore’s empire of lies finally crumble from within. Either way, the game had shifted, and he would play it on his own terms, no one else’s.

Chapter Text

A few days after the headlines had swept through the wizarding world, Harry found himself, Remus and Sirius all having a hearty breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was all packed and ready to go to King’s Cross and get back to Hogwarts. They had barely finished breakfast when the door opened with a flourish, and Arthur Weasley bustled in, eyes wide with excitement, Ron following after dragging his school trunk.

“Harry! There you are!” Arthur exclaimed, sweeping him into a firm, fatherly hug. “Dumbledore sent me to fetch you for the train. And..” he paused, blinking “Sirius, Remus. How are you both?”

Sirius stood and offered a grin, clasping Arthur’s hand firmly. “Doing very well, thank you. I imagine you’ve heard the news,” he said, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

Arthur’s face broke into a broad smile, a mixture of relief and disbelief. “Heard it? I nearly fainted in that courtroom. I… I can’t believe you’re really free, Sirius. I am sorry I never realised about scabbers.. I mean.. Peter. I’m just glad you’re back where you belong.”

Sirius chuckled, shaking his head. “You Order folk are too sentimental sometimes. No hard feelings about the rat, he tricked everyone. But yes, free, and very much intending to make up for lost time, starting with Harry here.” He ruffled Harry’s hair playfully.

Ron, who had been fidgeting with his trunk, piped up nervously, “Blimey, um, Hello, Sirius. And, uh… glad you’re out. I’m Ron”. He looked between Harry and Sirius, then added with a grin. Sirius shook Ron’s hand warmly.

Arthur cleared his throat, a gentle reminder. “All right, everyone, we’d better get a move on. Hogwarts won’t wait for us, and I imagine the train is quite impatient as well.”

The group gathered their things, the morning air crisp and full of promise as they stepped out into the streets of London. Conversation flowed easily, laughter punctuated with stories and gentle teasing. The taxi journeys to King’s Cross station passed quickly, filled with small marvels at the bustling station and the sight of families saying their goodbyes.

Harry listened with a grin as Sirius and Arthur traded jokes and stories on the way to the barrier. Sirius laughed, clapping Arthur lightly on the shoulder. “I imagine you might have thought I’d be stuck behind bars forever. Not anymore. Freedom suits me, don’t you agree?”

“It certainly does,” Arthur said, shaking his head with a smile that faltered for just a moment. “Though… I must admit, I never imagined Dumbledore being responsible for putting an innocent behind bars.” He frowned to himself, the weight of the thought lingering.

By the time they reached the platform, Hermione and Neville had joined them. Hermione carried a large carrier, a ginger cat, Crookshanks, peeking curiously from inside. Neville walked beside her, grinning broadly at the approaching group. They waved excitedly, calling Harry and Ron over.

Before Harry could rush to greet them, Sirius placed a hand on his shoulder and gently steered him a few steps aside, his expression turning serious beneath the easy grin.

“Listen, Harry,” he began quietly, “when you come home for Christmas, I’m going to start tutoring you properly.. on your inheritance, your heirships, and all the political rot that comes with our lovely ancient titles.” His lips quirked. “It’s boring as hell most of the time, but it’s power, and I’ll be damned if you walk into adulthood unprepared.”

Harry blinked, a little taken aback, but intrigued.

Sirius squeezed his shoulder. “And Hogwarts is the best place to start laying foundations. Start getting to know the other heirs at school, Longbottom, Malfoy, even the younger Bones girl. You don’t have to like them,” he added with a wink, “but connections matter. Trust me.”

Harry nodded slowly, determination stirring. “All right. I’ll try.”

“Good lad,” Sirius said, clapping him lightly on the back before his grin returned in full force. “Now go on before Hermione drags you aboard by the ear.”

After greetings were exchanged and introductions made to Sirius and Remus, the four teenagers left their trunks to be loaded and settled into their compartment. Remus sank onto the bench beside Harry, his movements slightly slower than usual, a faint shadow under his eyes betraying the exhaustion from last night’s full moon. He adjusted his bag carefully, giving Harry a reassuring smile, though it lacked some of his usual energy.

The whistle of the Hogwarts Express echoed through the station. Soon, the train lurched forward, and as it pulled out, Arthur and Sirius waved, the morning sun catching on their faces, while Harry felt the familiar thrill of the journey beginning, Hogwarts waiting just ahead, and this year promising to be unlike any other.

The four teens settled into their compartment, the soft clatter of the train lulling the space into a cozy, moving world. Remus slumped almost immediately onto the bench beside Harry, exhaustion evident in the way his head lolled slightly to the side. He gave a faint, tired smile before closing his eyes and drifting off, leaving Harry and the others to chatter freely.

Ron plopped onto the opposite bench, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Blimey, I can’t believe it’s really happening. Sirius… free!” he said, his voice a mix of awe and excitement.

Harry grinned, leaning forward. “I know! It was… it was incredible. The court case, the testimony, everything. Kingsley, Amelia Bones… they proved Peter.. Scabbers did it. Sirius was cleared. And now there’s going to be a custody hearing, to make sure I never have to go back to the Dursleys.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled as she absorbed every word. “That’s amazing, Harry. I can’t imagine how it must feel to finally… have someone who is going to fight for you.”

Neville nodded enthusiastically, a shy grin on his face. “It’s brilliant! I’m so glad he’s free. You must be so happy.”

Harry laughed, leaning back against the wall. “I’ve never been this happy. And the best part? I’m finally going to have a proper home… with Sirius and Remus. No more Dursleys, no more hiding. I can’t believe it’s real.”

Ron grinned, punching his fist lightly into his palm. “Mum and Dad have already bought me an owl to replace Scabbers. He and Hedwig can keep each other company.”

The others immediately bombarded him with questions about the new owl. “I’ve named him Nimbus,” Ron said happily, “and hopefully he’ll be as fast as a broom!”

Harry’s eyes lit up at the news. “Well, Ron… I forgot to tell you. Sirius got me a new broom for my birthday, and I brought Nimbus along in my trunk… it’s yours! Maybe now you can finally join me on the Quidditch team!”

Ron’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Wait… really?” he stammered. “You… you mean it?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said, grinning. “It’s all yours. Consider it an early welcome-back-to-Hogwarts gift.”

Ron’s face broke into a huge grin. “Blimey… thanks, Harry! That’s… that’s incredible!” He hugged Harry briefly, barely able to contain his excitement. The three boys then broke into a lengthy discussion about brooms and quidditch.. much to Hermione’s displeasure. The ride was broken up by the snack cart being brought around. Harry bought snacks for them all, and even got Remus a few things for when he woke up.

Once their snacks were finished, the four of them took turns changing into their school robes, each preparing for the journey back to Hogwarts. Harry’s excitement at returning was tempered by a knot of apprehension in his stomach; he couldn’t shake the thought of facing the Headmaster, the man responsible for Sirius’ wrongful imprisonment.

The meeting room at Gringotts was cold, its stone walls echoing with the quiet of whispered power. Sirius Black stood tall, his dark robes brushing the marble floor, waiting for his cousin and her husband to arrive. He had called the meeting yesterday, knowing that their son, Draco would be off to Hogwarts today so they would already be in London.

When Lucius Malfoy was escorted into the room by a goblin, his sharp glare immediately met Sirius’s unwavering eyes. Sirius allowed the silence to stretch, letting the weight of his presence fill the space as Lucius and Narcissa made their way to the large table. Once they were seated, Sirius lowered himself into his chair, deliberate and composed.

Across from him, Narcissa sat with perfect poise, hands folded neatly, radiating a calm authority that stood in stark contrast to her husband’s taut rigidity. The tension in the room was palpable, the air heavy with unspoken histories and the silent measure of power between the families.

“I have expelled Bellatrix from the family,” Sirius said, his voice firm, carrying the weight of the Black family’s ancient magic. “I called upon the family’s magic to punish her. Her magic has been stripped, and she died in Azkaban. I am not sure if you have been alerted, yet.”

Lucius paled, his fingers clenching the edge of the table as if it could anchor him. “Let me guess,” he said, his voice low and edged with venom, “you’ve come to blackmail us… or to punish us in the same way, Black?” Narcissa’s hand shot up, silencing him with a subtle gesture. She leaned slightly forward, her eyes meeting Sirius’s, waiting patiently, showing the respect due to the head of her house , the head of the powerful House Black.

Sirius’s gaze shifted to her, acknowledging her authority with a slight nod. “I do not agree with this marriage,” he said evenly. “I am deeply unhappy that a Black has been tied to a Death Eater. But I will not force a divorce.. not yet. I will see if Lucius can change.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened as he absorbed the weight of Sirius’s words. He knew the truth of Black family magic: should Sirius enact the rites to dissolve the marriage, he would lose Draco, his heir and the influence that the connection to the Blacks had secured. The dowry, the allowance… the gold would all be gone. The thought sent a ripple of quiet panic through him, and he fixed Sirius with a calculating stare, forcing his hands to remain still despite the subtle tremor betraying his unease.

Sirius’s voice, colder now yet perfectly controlled, cut through the tension. “The Blacks are far more powerful than the Malfoys. Make no mistake, Lucius: I would rather see my family united in strength than fractured by ambition. You will have the chance to prove yourself. Any further missteps, however, and the consequences will be severe.”

Narcissa remained silent, her expression unreadable, yet her eyes softened ever so slightly as she studied Sirius. Even if she questioned some of his methods, she recognized the measure of a Black, unyielding, unwavering, and fully in command of their legacy.

Lucius swallowed, the tension coiling in his chest like a snake ready to strike. “Very well, Black,” he said finally, his voice measured but tight. “We shall see if I am capable of… improvement.”

Sirius inclined his head slightly. “I will be monitoring the situation. I expect your full support in the upcoming custody proceedings for my godson. Lucius, you may leave. Narcissa… stay.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of indignation flashing behind their cold grey sheen. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might argue, but the weight of Sirius’s gaze made him think better of it. With a sharp adjustment of his cuffs, he rose from his chair. “Very well,” he said coolly, his composure brittle but intact. “I’ll leave you to your… family matters.”

He turned toward the door, the echo of his polished boots on the marble floor filled the silence as he strode out, his cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow. The door closed with a decisive click.

Narcissa remained seated, her posture impeccable, but Sirius’s gaze pinned her in place. He leaned slightly forward, voice low but commanding. “Tell me, Narcissa… where do your loyalties lie?”

Narcissa’s eyes flickered toward the floor briefly before she looked up, steady. “With Draco,” she said firmly. Sirius raised a brow, noting the measured tone. “And your loyalty to Lucius?”

She hesitated, then spoke carefully. “I… do not agree with his politics,” she admitted. “But he has never been cruel to me… or to Draco.”

Sirius’s expression darkened, though his voice, when he spoke, was quieter, controlled, not cruel. “Do you know what he’s done in the name of those politics?”

Narcissa frowned slightly, confusion flickering across her face. “I… no. What do you mean?”

Sirius leaned forward, his tone grave. “What do you know about the diary Voldemort entrusted to him? The very one Lucius planted in a schoolgirl’s belongings. The one that possessed her, used her, and nearly cost her life. It would have too, if my Godson hadn’t risked his life to save her.”

For a heartbeat, Narcissa simply stared at him, the words not sinking in, and then the colour drained from her face. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible… he wouldn’t… Draco was there. He would never endanger his own son.”

Sirius shook his head slowly. “He did. Whether through arrogance or loyalty to the wrong master, he unleashed danger into Hogwarts itself. A basilisk, Narcissa, a sixty foot basilisk that resided in the chamber of secrets. A monster in the same castle where your son slept. Harry slayed the basilisk when he went down into the chamber to save Ginny Weasley.”

Her composure broke then; she brought a trembling hand to her lips, eyes glassy with disbelief. “Merlin… Draco could have been killed.” Her voice trembled. “I had no idea, Sirius. None.”

“I know,” Sirius said softly, the sharpness in his tone easing. “That’s why I’m telling you. You needed to hear the truth from someone who still values the Black name, someone who remembers what family once meant.”

Narcissa swallowed, voice unsteady. “What is it you want from me?”

Sirius straightened, his expression measured but no longer severe. “It’s simple. I intend to invite your sister Andromeda back into the family, and her daughter, Nymphadora, as well. You will not object. In fact, you will welcome them. You will be loyal to the Black family once more.”

Narcissa blinked, surprise flickering into something softer, a flicker of long-buried warmth. “Andromeda…” she breathed, her lips parting as her voice steadied. “I’ve missed her terribly. Lucius forbade me from speaking to her after she married, all because she married a muggle-born”.

Sirius’s eyes softened just slightly. “Then take this chance to make things right. The Blacks are done tearing themselves apart over pride and blood. You’ll see her soon.”

For the first time since entering the room, Narcissa smiled, faintly, but genuinely. “Thank you, Sirius. I will await instruction for the reunion.”

Sirius inclined his head, satisfied. “Good. Then perhaps there’s hope for us yet.”

He paused then, studying her expression, the delicate balance of poise and quiet sorrow. “Narcissa,” he said evenly, “if you wish it, I can dissolve your marriage. The Black family’s magic would see it done easily. You’d be free of him, and safe from whatever ruin he brings upon himself.”

Her breath caught, surprise flickering across her face before she shook her head softly. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Lucius still holds influence at the Ministry, influence the family can use, if he can be guided. And for Draco’s sake… I will not break our home unless he gives me no other choice.”

Sirius nodded slowly, respect glinting in his gaze. “Then you’ll have that choice when the time comes. But make no mistake, if he stays loyal to the Voldemort, who I know is not truly gone , I will not let him drag you or Draco down with him.”

Narcissa met his eyes, concern flashing, her voice quiet but firm. “If he chooses that path again, I will take the divorce. Draco’s safety comes first.”

Sirius leaned back slightly, his expression softening just enough to show approval. “Spoken like a true Black.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, not cold, but weighted with understanding. Then Sirius rose, the faintest ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You may go, Cousin. We’ll speak again soon.”

She stood gracefully, inclining her head. “Thank you, Lord Black.” Her tone carried both deference and renewed pride. And as she turned to leave, there was a quiet strength in her step, as though some part of the old Narcissa, the one unafraid to care, had been restored.

Sirius remained in the meeting room long after Narcissa’s footsteps faded into the echoing corridors of Gringotts. The stillness settled around him like old dust, ancient and expectant. For the first time that morning, he allowed himself a slow exhale, his fingers tapping lightly against the polished table as his thoughts turned to the task yet unfinished. The heavy door creaked open and the Black account manager, Thrangor, appeared. His sharp eyes glittered, his expression as impassive as ever. “You requested access to the Black family vault, Lord Black?”

“I did,” Sirius said, rising smoothly to his feet. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Without a word, Thrangor led him through the maze of marble corridors and into the cool, torch-lit tunnels that descended deep beneath Gringotts. The rattle of the cart echoed sharply off the walls as they sped downward, the rush of air tugging at Sirius’s hair..

When they finally reached the great iron door of the main Black family vault, Thrangor hopped down, muttered a series of guttural Gobbledegook commands, and opened the vault door. The vast lock mechanisms shifted and clanked, groaning awake, and with a resonant boom, the door swung open.

Sirius’s eyes went straight to the marble pedestal at the centre, where the thick, leather-bound Black Family Ledger rested.

He stepped forward, the faint hum of family magic vibrating in the air. The moment his fingertips brushed the cover, it responded and the ledger opened of its own accord. Names filled the pages in elegant, inked script, each one bound with threads of faintly glowing enchantment. Some were bright and strong; others, faded or struck through.

Sirius turned the pages slowly until he found it.

Andromeda Tonks (Nee Black).

Her name was still there, faint, greyed out, scarred by the mark of disownment. But it hadn’t been erased entirely. The magic had waited, dormant, as if the bloodline itself refused to forget her completely.

Sirius smiled faintly. “Stubborn as ever, Andromeda.”

He drew his wand, the air around him thickening as he began to speak the old words, the ones passed down through generations of the House of Black. The magic stirred, coiling around him, drawn to the invocation of blood and intent.

“By the right of inheritance, by the power of the name, by the blood that binds and remembers, I, Sirius Orion Black, Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, call forth the daughter once lost.”

Silver light burst from the ledger, the vault filled with a low hum, the resonance of a thousand whispered voices from the past. The greyed-out ink on the page glowed, brightening, deepening, until Andromeda’s name shone once more in clear, unbroken script. Beside it, the names of her husband, Edward Tonks, and their daughter, Nymphadora, flared to life as well, newly bound, recognised, and welcomed into the House of Black. Sirius smiled and walked out of the vault.

He left the bank and Apparated to the Tonks family cottage in Hampshire, the cool air sharp against his face as he landed. As he approached the gate, he wondered idly whether Andromeda would already have felt the magic of her reinstatement, that subtle pull of belonging returning after so many years. The two black sheep of the family, together again. A faint smile touched his lips; he found himself genuinely looking forward to this reunion.

Chapter Text

Harry was thrilled to be back at Hogwarts. The castle felt alive again, warm, noisy, and full of magic that welcomed him home. He could speak to Sirius every night through his mirror now, which made him feel more connected than ever. For the first time, Hogwarts truly felt like home.

On that first evening, the Gryffindor common room buzzed with excitement as everyone crowded around to admire Harry’s new Firebolt. The broom was passed from hand to hand, everyone running an awed thumb along its polished handle as though it were made of gold. The Quidditch team were already making plans to test it out that weekend, their laughter echoing up the staircases long after curfew.

The opening feast had been as grand as ever. Harry noticed that Dumbledore didn’t meet his eyes once, though the Headmaster’s usual twinkle seemed dimmer than before. At the staff table, Snape kept casting strange glances at Remus, alternating between his usual loathing and something more cautious, almost thoughtful. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it, but by the time he climbed into bed that night, he was simply too tired to care. For the first time in years, he slept soundly, free, unburdened, and looking forward to the year ahead now that the blocks on his magic and personality were gone.

The next morning, Professor McGonagall handed out timetables at breakfast. Harry and Neville exchanged grins as they compared theirs, they’d both chosen Ancient Runes and Arithmancy as their electives. Hermione, on the other hand, had gone completely mad and taken every subject offered. She looked flustered but triumphant as she tucked her timetable into her bag.

“I’ve got it all sorted,” she said quickly when Ron gaped at her. “The Ministry gave me a time turner to manage it, but you can’t tell anyone. Promise.”

Ron groaned, stabbing at his toast. “I still don’t see why anyone would want more homework. I’m sticking with Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, nice and simple. Shame you two won’t be in them.” He cast a resentful glance at Harry and Neville, who both smirked.

Hermione patted Ron’s arm in consolation. “Don’t worry, Ron, I’ll be there with you for both.” Ron brightened slightly. “Brilliant. At least I won’t have to face Trelawney’s crystal balls alone.”

Harry laughed into his pumpkin juice. For the first time in what felt like forever, things finally seemed right, friends, classes, Quidditch, his uncle Remus down the hall and Sirius just a mirror call away.

September seemed to fly by almost unnoticed. Harry was thriving more than ever before. His magic was sharper, more precise, and far more powerful. He was mastering spells on his first try, far surpassing his peers. Every subject he touched, he excelled in. Professor Flitwick’s Charms lessons were like play for him, and he finished every Potions assignment with perfect execution. Ancient Runes and Arithmancy had become second nature. Every professor seemed genuinely impressed with him, and he was racking up points in every class. He had been worried Hermione would be upset at him beating her, but she wasn’t. She was proud of him, which made Harry beam.

Professor Lupin’s Defence Against the Dark Arts classes were enlightening. The students hung on his every word, learning practical duelling skills and protective enchantments under the guidance of a teacher who truly understood them. For once, the DADA lessons weren’t a source of dread, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a quiet satisfaction in seeing his classmates enjoy the subject as much as he did.

Hagrid had somehow managed to get the Care of Magical Creatures teaching position. Ron was less than thrilled. He endlessly complained about the lessons. “Flobberworms? Seriously? We share them with the Slytherins too?” he groaned, spearing a sausage onto his fork.

Professor Snape, meanwhile, was… different. He wasn’t sneering at Harry, nor giving him stinking looks in class. On one particularly surprising day, he even awarded Harry points for correctly answering a difficult potion question. Harry nearly fell over in shock. Something about Snape’s behaviour was off, neither friendly nor hostile, but it was certainly a welcome change.

And through it all, every night without fail, Harry spoke to Sirius.

Sometimes it was through the enchanted mirror Sirius had sent; sometimes via the Floo in Lupin’s office when the professor pretended not to notice. They talked about lessons, pranks Sirius insisted Harry should be pulling, and the growing weight of Harry’s titles and responsibilities. Sirius was grounding in a way no one else was, equal parts reckless uncle and trusted mentor.

With Sirius’s encouragement, Harry had quietly begun reaching out to the other known heirs at Hogwarts. Subtle conversations with Daphne Greengrass had turned surprisingly civil, even bordering on friendly. Susan Bones was easy enough to talk to, once she realised Harry wasn’t trying to brag. They were careful, never drawing attention, just soft alliances forming in study sessions and corridor conversations. He still hadn't approached Draco Malfoy, but Sirius didn't seem to mind, and said that Draco would be around over Christmas anyway as Sirius had solidifed their relationship as Lord Black, 

But one name kept tugging at Harry’s mind. His close friend. Neville.

If anyone deserved support, it was him. Neville had power, it was clear in the way plants leaned toward him in Herbology but he lacked confidence. Sirius agreed wholeheartedly when Harry brought it up.

“The Longbottoms are as old as the Potters,” Sirius had said one night, leaning dangerously back in his chair onscreen. “You two standing together? That’s not just friendship, that’s legacy. Offer to train with him. Better yet, ask if he wants to learn from me too over Christmas. I will speak to his grandmother and put something in motion. The two of you Heirs together, fighting for the light. The Wizamagot won't know what's hit them.”

The idea had taken root. Harry didn’t know how Neville would react, but he was determined to try. If there was one thing he’d learned lately, it was that strength wasn’t meant to be hoarded, it was meant to be shared.

On top of all this, Harry had quietly arranged for the goblins from Gringotts to visit Hogwarts this weekend. He still hadn’t received news about when the custody hearing for him would be held, and the uncertainty nagged at the back of his mind. Yet, between classes, Quidditch practices, late-night laughter in the Gryffindor common room, and Sirius’s steady voice crackling through the mirror, the worry often faded, replaced by a contented sense that, for the first time in years, he truly belonged somewhere.

The first monthly staff meeting of the term dragged on, professors droning on about timetables, new textbooks, students squabbling, and minor disciplinary issues. Dumbledore, seated at the head of the polished table, barely registered the banal chatter. The conversation turned, inevitably, to Harry Potter, and his back straightened, full attention sharpening.

Reports came in from every professor. Harry was excelling. Beyond expectation. Beyond measure. His spell work was flawless, his magical control precise, and his intellect, his grasp of magical theory was unnervingly sophisticated for his age. Every instructor, from McGonagall to Flitwick, had been unanimous in praise.

Flitwick spoke first. “Headmaster, he is far above his peers. His charms are… remarkable. Very advanced, OWL level, perhaps. He may grow bored.”

“Agreed,” Lupin added quietly. “His magical control and understanding are exceptional. He needs stimulation, or he may grow restless.”

McGonagall, standing with her usual stern posture, glanced sharply at the headmaster. “Perhaps he should be given more advanced work. Or,” she hesitated, “allowed to take some higher-level lessons with the older students?”

Dumbledore’s fingers twitched against the polished wood, concealing a flicker of irritation. Bored? Engaged? No. He is a storm, an uncontained tempest. And a tempest can destroy, can reshape… or worse. He caught himself, swallowing hard. The boy… the boy’s power… it is beyond what I imagined. Beyond any child I have ever known. Stronger than even Tom Riddle was at this age…

A cold knot formed in his stomach. It cannot be allowed. He cannot grow to be more powerful than Riddle or himself. That… that would be catastrophic.

Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes, bright behind his half-moon spectacles, regarded them all patiently. “My dear colleagues,” he said softly, voice calm, measured, “I am well aware of Harry’s abilities. I must insist, however, that you do not give him additional work beyond the standard curriculum. Let him learn with his classmates. Let him grow not merely in skill, but in patience, and in camaraderie. The boy needs friends as much as he needs knowledge.”

He gave a polite smile, but inside, his mind was a storm of calculations. He could not allow the staff to know the full extent of Harry’s potential. They must see the boy as remarkable, but not terrifying. They must never suspect the depths of his power, or the lengths he might have to go to contain it. If Harry has indeed broken free of the blocks I placed… then the time for subtlety grows shorter.

The meeting continued, voices raising and falling around him, and Dumbledore allowed the staff to believe he had simply agreed with their concerns. But inside, his mind raced. Every spell Harry cast, every action, every instinctive movement, would need to be monitored. Every opportunity to guide, redirect, or restrain him had to be precise.

And if I must… I will be cruel. I will be subtle. I will be precise. This boy’s power is a weapon, and a weapon left unchecked is a threat not only to himself but to the world. He cannot surpass Riddle, not yet. Not ever.

A glance toward McGonagall caught her narrowing eyes, suspicion barely hidden. He allowed a faint twinkle in his own eyes, masking the steel beneath. The meeting wound to a close, but Dumbledore’s mind raced far ahead, tracing possibilities, outcomes, contingencies. Harry Potter’s power was extraordinary. Too extraordinary. And Dumbledore intended to shape it, control it, and contain it, whatever the cost.

As the staff stepped out of Dumbledore’s office, McGonagall’s eyes flicked towards Professor Lupin.  She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Remus,” she said, her tone casual but edged with urgency, “meet me in my office in ten minutes. There are things we need to discuss… privately.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, catching the seriousness in her voice. “Of course, Minerva. Ten minutes.”

She gave him a faint nod and moved down the corridor, her mind already racing. Once inside her office, she muttered a few quick incantations, her wand flicking through the air. Charms swirled silently: the portraits were sent out of their frames, and wards of privacy surrounding the room hummed into place. No voice from the office could escape, and no eavesdropper could hear anything or enter.

Ten minutes later, Remus arrived, slipping inside the office with a cautious glance over his shoulder. McGonagall’s expression was grave, her posture taut as ever. She locked the office door with a flick of her wand.

“Sit,” she said softly, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. “We need to talk about Harry… and Dumbledore.”

Remus sank into the chair, sensing the tension radiating from her. “I gathered it’s serious,” he murmured.

McGonagall took a deep breath, her eyes darkening with concern. “Do you know what Harry’s early years were like? Before he even arrived at Hogwarts?”

Remus shook his head slowly. “Only what I’ve heard… from Harry and Sirius. It isn’t much.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “The first letter he sent me… he replied to his Hogwarts letter. I still remember reading it. The desperation in his words… the fear. The neglect. He had no idea what magic even was, what Hogwarts was… and yet he wrote with hope, as if clinging to anything good in his life. I brought it to Dumbledore, expecting him to intervene, to allow me guide the boy like I would any other muggle-born student… but no. He sent Hagrid. Hagrid! Not me.”

Remus’s brow furrowed. “I had no idea. What was Dumbledore thinking, how can Hagrid be able to tell him all he needs to know before starting school?”

McGonagall carried on, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And then came the court case. Dumbledore’s hand was in every part of it, steering events to send an innocent man away for life.. and letting the true traitor and criminal run free.. But, Remus… my trust in Albus began to falter the moment I handed him that letter from Harry. I let him convince me to leave Harry with the Dursleys. I believed it was what James and Lily wanted for their son. I was manipulated. Lied to. And Dumbledore’s vision for Harry… it does not always align with what is best for the boy. Now… I fear what he might do next.”

Remus waited, knowing to stay silent. To let her get it all out. He needed to know where she stood. Where her loyalties lay. Her fingers drummed lightly on the desk, eyes narrowing. “At the staff meeting today, I saw it. The cold calculation behind his words, the subtle control he attempts over every professor. Harry is powerful.. far more powerful than he should be for his age. And Dumbledore knows it. He fears it. He will bend it to his will if he can’t control it”

Remus swallowed, the weight of it settling over him. “Then we watch him. Carefully. Protect him where we can. Quietly. We cannot let him become a pawn in whatever plan Dumbledore has for him.”

Minerva’s gaze hardened. “Exactly. And we remain discreet. Dumbledore must not suspect our doubts, or he will counter them immediately. We’ve let Harry suffer too long… too long at the hands of those who were supposed to care for him, too long under a Headmaster whose motives I no longer trust.”

Remus shifted in his chair, voice low. “The custody hearing. Sirius is planning on getting full custody as his right as Godfather. Harry should be there. He has a right to be, to know what’s happening with his own future. But… I don’t know how we can manage it without Dumbledore interfering.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, a spark of determination lighting her features. “Leave that to me,” she said firmly. “As Head of Gryffindor, I will ensure Harry can attend. I can excuse him from lessons, arrange for his presence, and keep it entirely from Dumbledore. He will not be denied his own life, certainly not by Albus. I will make the arrangements myself, quietly, and with utmost discretion.”

Remus nodded, relief evident on his face. “I knew I could count on you, Minerva.”

She gave a curt nod, her jaw set. “Harry’s well-being comes first. Whatever Dumbledore thinks, we will protect him. We have all trusted that old fool for too long, blindly following him in whatever plan and scheme he cooks up. Well no more. I refuse.”

Remus hesitated.

McGonagall noticed immediately. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

He shifted, clearly weighing his words before speaking. “There’s… one more matter. And I wouldn’t mention it if it weren’t important.”

Her expression sharpened. “Speak plainly, Remus.”

He drew a slow breath. “When I took Harry to Gringotts to initiate the inheritance process… the goblins performed full diagnostic scans. They found magical blocks.. on his core, his growth, even his emotional responses. Compulsions.” His voice dropped. “As far as i'm aware they’re still confirming who placed them. St Mungos too, as they redid the scans after the goblins completed the rituals. But every sign points to Dumbledore.”

For a heartbeat, McGonagall did not move. Then her eyes blazed, silent, lethal fury simmering beneath her rigid composure.

Remus continued gently, “And before you think otherwise.. I don’t believe you allowed it or knew about it. Which is why I think… you should be checked as well. At Gringotts, or St. Mungo’s. Because it isn’t like you to stay silent when a child is being neglected or treated like he was. If he tampered with Harry… he may have tampered with you too.”

McGonagall closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a controlled breath. When she opened them, the fury had not lessened.. it had merely been harnessed.

“Very well,” she said, voice crisp as frost. “I will go. Today, if possible. And if I find so much as a trace of Albus Dumbledore’s magic on my mind…” Her lips thinned into a razor line. “Then he will learn what it is to underestimate a Transfiguration Mistress.”

Remus inclined his head, a quiet acknowledgment. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Silence settled over the office, heavy with unspoken understanding, as the distant hum of the castle carried on. Remus met her gaze, a shared resolve passing between them. The two of them felt they were acting not merely as teachers, but as protectors, guardians against the very man who should have been Harry’s ally.

Chapter Text

The moment Minerva McGonagall stepped into St Mungo’s, she knew something had been done to her. She didn’t need the diagnostic lights to tell her, there was a tug in her mind, a weight she could not name. Still, she allowed the healer to scan her, to poke and prod, to whisper spells she had never heard before. Her face remained calm, her voice clipped. Inside, her blood thrummed with heat.

Then the truth hit. Two compulsion blocks. Deep. Layered. Reinforced multiple times.

One to increase loyalty. One to force complete trust. Both aimed at the caster. Control.

Dumbledore. It could only have been him. Years of subtle nudges, invisible control, and she had never suspected.

The healer’s soft voice cut through her storm of thoughts. Permission to remove them. She nodded, sharp, decisive. The signature was taken to be analysed, it would secured, accessible only to her after the caster had been identified. Then the compulsions snapped.

Clarity slammed through her. Cold, precise. A raw ache of betrayal followed, and beneath it, a fury that hummed and bit. She wanted to roar. To tear apart the walls of this ward and leave nothing standing. Instead, she breathed, slow and measured. The mask remained in place. She could not show this. Not here.

The Floo swallowed her, flames spitting and hissing around her. She barely noticed. Her mind was a storm, plotting, calculating, tasting the barely restrained anger. Her office at Hogwarts rose before her, dark and quiet. She went straight to Remus.

He saw her immediately. The moment his eyes landed on her, his face tightened with a mixture of sorrow and concern.

“I…” she began, faltering. Words failed. She could not let him see everything, not yet. “Two blocks. Removed. Dumbledore could be the only one, although St Mungos are going to find out for certain.”

He went still. His jaw tightened. “Minerva,” he said quietly. “I… I’m sorry. That they were even there.” Relief flickered faintly across his features, the knowledge that his nature protected him, that the spells could never touch him.

She did not respond. She did not need to. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers rigid. She was seething. Every part of her wanted to storm to Dumbledore, to demand answers, to rip the lies and betrayals from him. Instead, she forced herself calm. Words measured. Masked. Professional.

“I need you to arrange a meeting with Sirius. Discreetly. Today” she said, low, even, precise. No one could hear the fury simmering beneath.

Remus nodded, understanding without question. She allowed herself one brief thought, the fire inside her, the searing, smouldering betrayal. She must act as if she knew nothing. She must protect Hogwarts. Protect the students.

Remus arranged to get Sirius straight away, he would then bring him back to Minerva’s office. She could ensure they wouldn’t be overheard.

Remus emerged from the Floo, and stepped out the way. Sirius emerged next, tall and tense, eyes sharp, hand brushing a wayward lock of hair from his face. Minerva’s office was small, quiet, lined with stacks of parchment and the faint scent of polished wood.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. Her voice was calm, even, but the edges of it were taut, fraying with the tension she barely contained.

Sirius inclined his head, watching her. “Always. Remus sounded… urgent.”

She took a deep breath. “I… I had compulsions placed on me. The only person who could’ve done it and reinforced it is Dumbledore. I.. ” Her hands clenched at her sides. “St Mungo’s removed them this morning. Two separate blocks. Reinforced multiple times Loyalty and Trust..”

Sirius’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “I’m sorry, no one deserves that. St Mungo’s has the results of who cast Harry’s, but only Harry is authorised to see that information. It’ll have to wait until Christmas… or until I’m his legal guardian. The results took around two weeks.. I think yours would likely be similar”

Minerva’s shoulders stiffened. “So we wait. And do nothing?” Her eyes flickered between Remus and Sirius.

“Not nothing,” Sirius said. “We can’t act against Dumbledore yet. But we know now. That counts. And more than that…” He hesitated, eyes hard. “I’ve learned about Voldemort. About… what he’s done.”

Her stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

“The Horcruxes,” he said quietly.

“Horcrux?” The word caught her off guard. She felt the syllables fall heavy and strange on her tongue, unfamiliar, unthinkable.

Sirius’s face darkened. “Dark, vile magic. The worst kind. A piece of his soul placed in an object. He cannot die while any fragment remains outside his body. He did it five times, meaning six fragments of his soul in total. It can only be done by completing a ritual… a murder of an innocent. It’s the vilest magic there is.. there are no records of anyone creating more than one.. to do it 5 times..” he trailed off.

Minerva felt a chill crawl up her spine. The room seemed to shrink around her. Her heart hammered. “We’ve destroyed three,” Sirius continued, voice grim. “One of them… was in Harry. His scar.”

Her hand went to her mouth. Her knees felt weak. Nausea rose in her throat. She stared at him, sickened, horrified. Harry. That his very life had been marked, a vessel for Voldemort’s immortality, untouched by them until now. Remus placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

Her hands trembled slightly, gripping the edge of her desk to steady herself. Anger and betrayal roared beneath the surface. Dumbledore. He had known. He had hidden it from them all. He had sent Harry to live with his muggle relatives without sending him to a healer.  Sirius’s eyes softened for a brief second. “I know. You’re angry. We all are. But knowing changes things. We have to act. Carefully. We have to understand both Dumbledores and Voldemort’s plan. And we cannot let Voldemort return, and cannot let Dumbledore follow through with whatever he has planned for Harry.”

Minerva’s jaw clenched. Her breathing was steady, outwardly calm, but inside, fury, grief, and disbelief burned. She let herself imagine tearing the world apart for what had been done, for Harry, for the students, for herself. And then folded it away. Focus. Control. They had work to do.

“Then we see what he’s planning.. what they are planning,” Remus said quietly. “And when the time comes, we stop it. Whatever it takes. But we have to be careful. There are only a few people we can trust, Amelia Bones, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Augusta Longbottom. No one else. Not yet.”

Minerva nodded tightly. Every nerve in her body thrummed with determination and outrage. She was still Minerva McGonagall. Still the headmistress. Still a protector. And now, she knew.

The morning sun had just begun to filter through the tall windows of Gryffindor Tower when he heard Sirius’ voice. Harry picked up his communication mirror and Sirius’s face appeared, bright and wide with excitement. “Harry,” he said, voice low but urgent, “I’ve heard from the court. Your hearing is scheduled for Halloween morning at ten o’clock. I thought we could arrive together, if you want, you use McGonagall’s fireplace and then we can Floo straight to the Ministry from home?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Yes! That would be perfect, Sirius. Do you think she will mind if I ask to use her Floo?”

Sirius grinned. “She won’t mind. She’s got that no-nonsense streak when it comes to you, and she’s already told Moony she will help you get away without the headmaster knowing.. he will probably be there at the hearing.. trying to keep me away from you” he added bitterly.

 “Listen, Harry… about the goblins coming to the castle. You might want to consider including Snape. I know.. I hate the greasy git, but hear me out. He’s a master of  potions. If you let him know he can harvest what he needs from the chamber, he’ll work with you, not against you. I bet he has never even worked with Basilisk parts before, they are so rare and expensive. He could be useful, keep him… occupied, and maybe even on your side against Dumbledore.”

Harry blinked. “Snape? You really think he’d agree to that? After everything?”

Sirius shrugged. “He’s not stupid. He loves ingredients more than grudges. And he’s good at keeping secrets if it means he gets what he wants. Trust me, pup. Sometimes you’ve got to use your enemies for your advantage.”

Harry considered it, then nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll speak to him. I’ll tell him he can come down to the chamber and take what he needs for potions. But he’s not getting the basilisk gold or anything else.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Keep your wins, share the tools. Smart. You’re learning fast.”

Later that day, after confirming the use of Professor McGonagall’s Floo, Harry found himself waiting outside Professor Snape’s office.. trying to muster up the courage to knock. He took a deep breath and knocked loudly. “Enter” came the drawling voice of Severus Snape. Harry entered and saw that Snape was polishing some vials with deliberate motions of his wand.

Snape raised his eyebrows at Harry, not expecting to ever see him willingly be in his office.

“Professor,” Harry began, careful and polite, “the goblins are coming this weekend to harvest the basilisk I slayed last term. I’d like you to have access to the chamber when they arrive.. you can take whatever ingredients you need for your potions. They’ve agreed to let you work freely.”

Snape’s dark eyes widened in shock, his usual icy mask cracking as a rare, stunned expression settled over him. “You… you would do this? For me?” His voice was incredulous, tinged with something almost like awe. “After all the..” He broke off, struggling to find the words.

Harry shrugged, a faint grin playing at his lips. “It’s not a trick, Professor. I want you to have what you need. Consider it… an experiment in civility.”

Snape sank back slightly, a weight seeming to lift from his shoulders. “I… I never thought… I always assumed you’d be like your father.. selfish, reckless… difficult. But you… you are nothing like him. You… you’re more like her… Lily. Thoughtful, careful, considerate… selfless.”

He paused, voice catching slightly as he stared at Harry. “I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Potter. Truly. This… this is… remarkable.”

Harry smiled softly. “You don’t have to say anything. Just use what you need, Professor. That’s all.”

Snape’s dark eyes narrowed, scrutinising him like a hawk, trying to find the hidden dagger behind Harry’s words. He could not. “I… I will behave,” he muttered, almost to himself. “But mark my words, Potter, this is… strange. Unnatural. You are… unusually gracious.”

Harry grinned again. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll see you in the chamber when the goblins arrive.”

As he left, Snape sat back in his chair, a storm of confusion brewing. Why is he being… decent? Snape thought, pacing slowly. For all my years, I have never seen him like this. And yet… I cannot fault him. I cannot interfere. What game is he playing? Snape’s heart soared with the thought of using basilisk ingredients.. they were unheard of in the potion world due to how rare they were. The fact Harry was letting him have them.. for free.. for nothing in return. He thought back to all the memories of Harry. Had he really been that blind to think he was a carbon copy of his arrogant father?

Somewhere in the shadows, in the corridor outside Snapes office, Dumbledore watched from afar, his jaw tight, mind spinning. The boy’s cleverness, the goblins’ absolute loyalty, and the unexpected kindness to even the least likely professor, all of it hinted at a power Dumbledore could not yet command.

The game was shifting. And Harry Potter held the pieces.

Chapter Text

Harry had just finished up breakfast in the Great Hall when the first goblins arrived. Harry had arranged everything quietly with Ragnok. They had insisted that no approvals were required from Dumbledore. By law, the basilisk was his. Goblins, after all, had a reputation for sticking to their contracts and no one would dare cross them. They had informed Dumbledore that they would be coming today so he could allow access to the castle. It seemed not even Albus was brave enough to deny the goblins access.

At the castle gates, Dumbledore appeared, expression immaculate, eyes pale behind half-moon spectacles. He greeted the goblins with a smooth, practiced politeness that failed to reach his eyes. “Welcome,” he said, voice careful. “I will escort you to the Great Hall.”

The goblins did not answer, only nodded curtly and followed.

Harry waited in the Great Hall. Bill Weasley came along with the goblins, tall and easy, his familiar grin making Harry’s chest lift with relief, he gave Harry a sly wink. The hordes of students all looked in awe at the group of goblins, and none apart from Ron, Neville and Hermione had any idea why they were there. The Weasley siblings all waved at their big brother Bill. He waved back, and spoke to Percy, who was closest to confirm he would be staying today and would come up and meet them after he had concluded Gringotts business.

Professor Snape and Remus Lupin left the head table and came down to the group, flanking Harry, while Dumbledore lingered with careful distance. Harry glanced at the headmaster, brow raised. “Do any other teachers want to come along?”

Flitwick’s voice rang immediately, sharp and eager. “Oh, I’d very much like to! Curiosity and research, you understand. I shall remain discreet, naturally.”

Minerva McGonagall shook her head, eyes sharp. “I will remain with the students. Someone has to keep watch.”

Harry gave a curt nod, satisfied. The party moved quietly through the corridors, the goblins leading the way, their footsteps echoing with authority, every glance from them measuring and precise.

They arrived at the second-floor bathroom, the air damp, faintly scented with mildew. Moaning Myrtle’s wail preceded them, high and mournful, though it softened as she noticed Harry.

“Hello, Harry,” she whispered, watery eyes flicking between him and the goblins. “You’re… taking him? The beast?”

“Yes, Myrtle,” Harry said quietly. “We’re just collecting it, making sure no harm comes to anyone. Promise.” He stepped to the sink, eyes narrowing. The serpent’s presence pulsed faintly in his mind, like a heartbeat beneath stone. Leaning close, he whispered in Parseltongue: “Open.”

The sink moved at once, sliding aside with a hiss of water over stone. Below, the passage stretched dark and long, a thin ribbon of light glinting off damp walls. The slide leading down to the chamber revealed itself, waiting.

Harry glanced at the group behind him, the goblins, serious and patient, their hands resting lightly on the tools they had brought. Bill was still grinning faintly, Snape, eyes narrowed, mask of calm in place, Lupin, posture steady, alert. Dumbledore again, lurking in the back.

He drew in a slow, steady breath. “Everyone ready?”

A chorus of nods met his question, the weight of the chamber below pressing on them all. The descent was imminent, and somewhere down there, the basilisk corpse waited.

Bill’s hand tapped his shoulder, casual but insistent. “Think you could ask it to make stairs instead of that… slide?”

Harry blinked, bemused. He had never considered it. “Stairs? Right… okay, I’ll try.”

He inhaled again, voice low, precise. “Stairs… please.”

The stone beneath him shivered, and the slick slide began to shift, folding and rearranging itself. Narrow, solid steps rose where the smooth descent had been, each one firm, ready to bear their weight. Harry’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. “Much better,” he said, and motioned for the others to follow.

The stone steps ended in a low, damp corridor, the smell of ancient damp water and stone thick in the air. Harry led the way, wand held loosely, senses stretched. The first thing they saw made everyone bar Harry freeze.

The massive, shed skin of the basilisk lay draped across the floor.

Even stripped of its owner, the basilisk’s size was staggering. Its scales glimmered faintly in the torchlight, faintly iridescent, each ridge and curl of its enormous body visible in perfect detail. The group stepped closer, awe-struck, the goblins’ eyes glinting with both respect and calculation. Bill swallowed audibly. “I… I believed you, Harry. But seeing it… just the skin…” His voice faltered, lost somewhere between wonder and disbelief. Flitwick's eyes turned to Harry "you saved this school, Mr Potter. We can only be grateful." 

Snape’s lips pressed thin, eyebrows arched high. Lupin’s hand twitched slightly over his wand. Dumbledore, standing back, expression unreadable, let his gaze linger on Harry. The boy had survived something no adult would have dared. The power in him now… Dumbledore’s eyes flickered with calculation, worry hidden behind the calm. If the blocks were removed…

Harry focused on the corridor ahead. A second door loomed, massive and ancient. He stepped forward, whispered in Parseltongue, “Open.” The door shivered, stone sliding aside with a whisper of power, revealing the chamber beyond.

It was as if time itself had been paused. The basilisk lay still, perfectly preserved by the ancient magic of the chamber. Its scales caught the torchlight in ripples of green and bronze, muscles frozen mid-motion, fangs bared, eyes ruined and bloody.

The room went silent.

Every pair of eyes turned to Harry. Twelve years old. He had faced this. And lived.

Even Dumbledore’s gaze tightened slightly, lips pressed into a thin line. The power he sensed radiating from Harry was immense, raw. If the compulsions were gone… the boy would be unstoppable.

Harry gestured. “Go ahead.” Gesturing to the goblins and Professor Snape “get to work.”

They approached the beast carefully, tools in hand, awe written across every face.

Bill fell back beside Harry, voice quiet but full of relief. “Have you ever… explored the chamber?”

Harry shook his head, brow furrowed. “No. I was a bit too busy when I was down here… the snake, Riddle, Ginny…”

Bill clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, eyes bright. “Thank you. Thank you so much for saving my sister… I can’t believe you both survived.”

Harry gave a faint, modest shrug. Remus and Flitwick joined them, eyes scanning the dark corners of the chamber, curiosity sharpening. Together, the four of them moved further into the shadows.

It was Harry who noticed the subtle hum of magic along the far wall, a vibration only Parseltongue could reveal. He whispered, guiding his companions. A second, smaller door glimmered faintly, runes etched into its surface. A small office beyond. Books lined the walls, ancient and undisturbed. Not a speck of dust. Perfectly preserved, just like the basilisk. Harry felt a breeze, and a voice spoke to him.  

“My heir… has returned.”

The words reverberated through him. He stepped forward cautiously, feeling the chamber respond to his presence, the air alive with ancient magic. On a polished desk, seemingly waiting for him, lay a ring. The lost Lordship Ring of Slytherin.

Harry’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted it. Fingers closing around the cold metal, he slid it onto his finger. In an instant, power surged through him. His hair lifted as if caught in a sudden wind, energy snapping in emerald arcs that danced across the room. The ring pulsed once, blinding in its brilliance, then stilled.

Bill and Remus stood frozen, awe written across their faces. Flitwick gave out a small squeak. 

Harry exhaled, heart racing, feeling the weight of the magic settle around him. It was strange, familiar, and intoxicating all at once. The chamber seemed to murmur in approval, the walls vibrating with a life of their own.

He exhaled, steadying himself, feeling the ancient power settle into him, familiar yet new. Around him, the chamber whispered. Lord Slytherin was claimed.

While Harry let the ring settle on his finger, Bill and Remus crouched by the shelves, eyes scanning the ancient tomes. Harry had never seen anything like them, leather cracked with age, runes etched into the margins, the weight of centuries pressing in.

“These… this is incredible,” Bill murmured. “Thousands of years old. Some of this magic hasn’t been seen since Hogwarts was founded.”

Flitwick was eyeing the books with astonishment. "I wonder if the other founders have hidden chambers.. just like this?" He asked out loud. 

Remus’s hand rested lightly on a book. “We should seal this office for now. We can come back, make a proper plan. Preserve this knowledge, protect it. Right now… it’s too much to risk.”

Harry nodded, swallowing the awe and the weight of it. “Okay. Locked away for now.”

Bill gave him a faint, approving smile. “Smart. Some things are better kept safe, even from us.”

“Let me know when you’re finished,” Harry said to the goblins, his tone even, but carrying weight. “I’ll seal the chamber once everything is secured.”

The goblins nodded, chattering quietly among themselves, clearly pleased with the haul and the care being taken. “It will take all day,” one of them said, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

Harry gave a small wave. “Good luck, and… thank you.”

Bill leaned down, giving him a quick, conspiratorial wink. “See you upstairs, hero,” he said lightly.

Snape’s dark eyes flicked to Harry briefly, unreadable, before returning to the basilisk’s remains.

Harry left the chamber and turned to the stairs, stepping carefully. Remus followed, his expression unreadable but supportive, while Dumbledore and Flitwick brought up the rear, Dumbledore's gaze lingering on the chamber with quiet calculation.

Harry slipped quietly down the corridor to the Chamber of Secrets just before dinner in the Great Hall. The air hummed faintly with residual magic. The goblins were busy, moving with meticulous precision over what was left of the basilisk’s remains. Their tools gleamed, and the haul of rare ingredients and scales already looked immense.

“Harry!” Bill called softly, turning from a pile of shimmering scales. His grin was wide, eyes sparkling with pride. “You timed it perfectly. They’re almost done.”

Harry stepped closer, peering at the organized stacks of basilisk parts. “What have you managed to harvest?” he asked the goblins, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

One of the goblins stepped forward, eyes narrow and calculating, hands resting on a set of carefully packed crates. “Most scales, venom, fangs and bones. It is all of the highest quality. We could salvage most of the eyes, too. The venom alone will fetch an exceptional price. This is the largest Basilisk in recorded history.. we will put an advertisement in the Prophet for sales of the parts. I suspect it will cause a frenzy.. I think the funds earned will surpass even our estimation.”

Bill’s brow lifted. “And what are you going to do with all that, Harry?” he asked, his tone teasing but genuine.

Harry’s reply was immediate, measured. “Half will go to the victims, the ones that were petrified and Ginny of course. The rest I’ll be donating. I am not sure where, yet. But it will all go to good causes".”

Bill’s jaw dropped. “You’re… you’re giving it all away?” His voice was incredulous, almost incredulous laughter hidden beneath it. “Donating half..? And half to the victims?”

Harry nodded. “I don’t need it, Bill. They do. And it feels right.”

The goblins murmured among themselves, eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and respect. “A wizard who honours the law and the victims… rare,” one said. Another nodded vigorously.

Snape, standing slightly apart with his arms crossed, stepped forward, voice quieter than usual. “Harry… I owe you thanks. I can never repay this, the change to even see a basilisk let alone work with the ingredients in my potions.. I owe you so many apologies for the way I’ve treated you in the past. I’ve been harsh, yes… and unfair. I should have…I am sorry.. for more than you know.” He broke off, scanning Harry’s face for reaction. “Would you allow us to start again?”

Harry looked at him, expression calm but sincere. “Yes. We can start again. But we’ll do it properly. No tricks, no secrets.”

Snape’s lips twitched in a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Agreed,” he said quietly, though the word carried weight. "I do have a secret, but I think it is best we meet with your Godfather, perhaps Christmas break? I am risking a lot in telling you, but you deserve it, you deserve the truth". Harry swallowed, and nodded. Snape left the chamber. 

The goblins continued their work around them, moving swiftly and efficiently, while Harry and Bill watched. Outside, the faint glow of the Chamber’s ancient magic wrapped around the walls, untouched and patient, as if acknowledging the boy who had dared to face it.

Bill shook his head in disbelief. “You really are something else, Harry.”

Harry only smiled faintly, turning back to watch the goblins finish. “I’m just trying to do what’s right,” he said simply. Once the goblins had finished, Harry sealed the chamber, and they all walked towards the great hall. "We will be in touch during the selling process" One of the goblins said to Harry. Harry thanked them all, and left them to go have dinner in the Great Hall. Bill followed Harry, and sat down next to Fred and George, who were overjoyed to have their brother eating with them. Harry felt exhausted, but knew donating the proceeds was the right thing to do. 

Chapter Text

The morning of Halloween broke cold and grey, as if the castle itself sensed what the day held. Harry stood outside Professor McGonagall’s office, his palms slick despite the chill. He raised a hand to knock but hesitated. Something inside him twisted. Halloween. It was never just a date.

His parents had died on this day.

A troll had wandered into Hogwarts on this day.

The Chamber of Secrets had opened on this day.

Every Halloween of his life, something terrible happened. He exhaled slowly, bracing himself, and knocked. “Enter,” came Professor McGonagall’s voice.

She was already waiting by the Floo, her expression composed but her eyes softening when she saw him. Remus stood beside her, quiet support wrapped in worn robes.

“Are you ready, Mr Potter?” she asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” he said, trying for confidence and landing somewhere near steady.

She looked as though she wanted to reach out, to adjust his collar like a mother would, or rest a hand on his shoulder, but she held herself still, every movement precise. “I must apologise,” she said, voice low. “I cannot accompany you. The headmaster will be attending the hearing himself, and I cannot leave the school unattended in his absence.”

Harry stiffened. “So Professor Dumbledore’s going to be there.”

“He will try to interfere,” Remus said gently. “But we’ll be ready for him.”

Harry swallowed. His throat felt tight. The room suddenly felt smaller. “It just… had to be Halloween,” he muttered bitterly. “Something always happens on Halloween.”

Remus stepped closer. “Then let’s make this the first one that ends differently.”

Professor McGonagall nodded once, sharp, firm. “Today is not about what has been done to you, Harry. It is about what will be done for you.”

She stepped back from the fireplace. “Grimmauld Place. You will Floo directly there with Remus. Sirius will be waiting. You’ll head to the Ministry from Sirius'.”

She paused, her voice softer. “You will not face this alone.”

Harry took a breath, then another.

He stepped into the flames beside Remus.

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

The green fire roared up around them, and Hogwarts vanished behind.

Harry tumbled out of the Floo into the familiar kitchen of Grimmauld Place, catching himself just in time before he fell. Remus stepped out behind him with far more grace, brushing ash from his sleeve. He barely had a moment to steady himself before..

“Harry!”

Sirius swept him into a fierce hug, arms wrapping around him like a shield. Harry felt himself swallowed by leather and cigarette smoke and safety. Sirius didn’t let go for a long moment, didn’t even pretend to be composed. He held Harry as if someone might try to take him away right then and there. When he finally released him, Sirius wordlessly pulled Remus into a hug as well. Remus huffed a soft laugh but returned it with equal warmth.

Before Harry could step fully away, a sudden pop echoed beside him.

“Kreacher welcomes Master Harry,” the old elf said, bowing low with surprising dignity. His tone, though still gravelly, held no hostility, only solemn respect.

That was the calm before chaos.

“Harry Potter sir is HERE!” Dobby squealed, launching himself at Harry’s legs like an overenthusiastic Bludger. Harry staggered, laughing despite himself, patting the elf’s head as Dobby clung like a limpet.

Two softer pops followed.

Aster and Poppy appeared side by side, their large eyes shimmering with emotion. They didn’t speak, just stepped forward and each wrapped their arms gently around Harry’s legs in a quiet, tender embrace. Harry’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Alright, alright,” Sirius said thickly, blinking hard and clearing his throat. “Let the lad breathe before you drown him in affection.”

“Kreacher will prepare refreshments,” the elder elf declared, snapping his fingers.

Within seconds, Sirius, Remus, and Harry were ushered to the long kitchen table. Kreacher set steaming mugs of hot chocolate before each of them, rich and topped with cream, followed by a platter of buttered toast.

Harry stared at the spread for a moment, then at the faces around him, Remus calm and steady, Sirius trying not to look emotional, and four house-elves watching him like proud guardians.

For the first time that morning, the knot in his chest loosened.

Sirius nudged his mug toward him. “Drink up, kiddo. Big day.”

The three of them sat together in the Grimmauld kitchen with hot chocolate and toast, catching up easily. Harry told Sirius about the basilisk retrieval, showed him in person the Lordship ring of Slytherin, Snape’s unexpected apology, and his offer to speak with Sirius at Christmas. Sirius was stunned but agreed, grudgingly, that he’d hear Snape out properly. Sirius also mentioned his solicitor had nearly finished the paperwork to sue the Ministry for wrongful imprisonment. They all agreed it was nice to be able to all talk face to face rather than through the mirror. The atmosphere stayed warm and light, laughter coming easily, until the clock struck nine and they stood to leave, cloaks in hand, ready to Apparate to the Ministry from the top step at Grimmauld Place.

Remus took Harry’s arm and Apparated them cleanly into the Ministry visitor’s entrance, the chill of the morning replaced by polished marble and the distant echo of footsteps. Sirius appeared a second later with a crack, straightening his robes before leading them toward the security desk.

They surrendered their wands for inspection, the guard barely masking his surprise at the names on the registry. Sirius handed his over with a smirk. “New one,” he murmured to Harry. “Fourteen inches, blackthorn, phoenix feather, Ollivander nearly fainted when he realised who he was fitting. My first was snapped the day they dragged me to Azkaban.” Harry ran his thumb over the sleek dark handle, silent but burning with indignation.

 Wands returned, they made their way toward the lifts and descended into the darker levels of the Ministry. “Courtroom Ten,” Remus muttered, jaw tight. “A full Wizengamot session over a custody ruling… when there’s already a legal will.” Sirius snorted. “They’re putting on a show for politics, nothing more.” Harry stayed between them, pulse steadying. Whatever awaited behind that great iron door, they were facing it together.

Courtroom Ten was already half full, the seats of the Wizengamot a crescent of plum robes and watchful eyes. Remus guided Harry to the seats reserved for them, close enough to see everything and be accessible if called. Harry sat, trying to steady his breathing and nerves. He could see Ron’s parents, Mr and Mrs Weasley, sitting close by and gave them an easy smile.

Sirius didn’t join them. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and strode toward the family seats reserved for the Noble Houses. He reached a high-backed chair marked with the Black family crest. A few heads turned sharply at the sight, some in shock, others in reluctant respect, as he marked his Lordship ring to the crest, and claimed the ancestral seat that had been empty for over a decade.

Across the chamber, Augusta Longbottom inclined her head in firm approval. Amelia Bones gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment. Lucius Malfoy observed with cool interest from his own seat and gave a slight nod, fingers steepled. Lord Greengrass sat composed beside him, while Crabbe and Goyle Sr. whispered uneasily over the change in power dynamics.

Albus Dumbledore swept in beside Cornelius Fudge, both of them adorned in full Wizengamot regalia, plum robes trimmed in silver, chains of office gleaming in the torchlight. They looked every inch the picture of unity and authority, walking in step as though nothing in the world could oppose them.

But Harry saw the tension in Dumbledore’s jaw. The stiffness in his posture. He wasn’t calm, he was bracing.

Behind them came Dolores Umbridge, pink-clad and prim, her heels clicking in neat little taps against the stone. She smiled as she entered, sweet and poisonous, as though she were arriving at a tea party rather than a legal proceeding.

A few witches and wizards shifted uncomfortably at the sight of her. Sirius watched as she gave a slight nod to Lucius Malfoy.

Fudge took his seat, Dumbledore moving to his traditional place next to him. Umbridge settled herself beside them, quill already twitching eagerly in her hand.

Cornelius Fudge checked his pocket watch, adjusted his spectacles, lifted the ceremonial hammer, and struck it once against the podium. The echo rang sharply through the chamber.

“The Wizengamot is now in session,” he declared, voice carrying across the rows of assembled witches and wizards. “As Minister for Magic and acting Chair of these proceedings, I hereby call to order the custody hearing of Harry James Potter.”

A low ripple of anticipation spread through the gallery. Fudge cleared his throat.

“Parties present will be acknowledged shortly. All statements and evidence shall be heard in accordance with Wizengamot protocol. This session is officially convened.”

Fudge shuffled a stack of parchment before him with deliberate ceremony. “The Wizengamot acknowledges three formal petitions for legal guardianship of Harry James Potter.”

Whispers immediately rippled through the stands.

Fudge continued, voice smooth and official. “The first, submitted by Sirius Orion Black, citing his status as godfather as appointed by the late Lily Evans Potter and James Fleamont Potter.”

A murmur of approval rose from several benches, Amelia Bones gave a firm nod, and Augusta Longbottom sat straighter with visible approval. Sirius inclined his head coolly from the Black family seat, gaze fixed forward.

“The second,” Fudge went on, “filed by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, citing his longstanding role as magical guardian following the Potters’ deaths.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. Remus placed a steadying hand on his knee.

“And lastly,” Fudge announced, “a petition submitted by Molly Weasley, citing her status as a maternal figure and due to Harry’s close personal friendship with her youngest son.”

Harry’s head snapped toward the benches, disbelief painted across his face.

Molly Weasley sat poised, wringing her hands anxiously, but when her eyes met Harry’s, she gave a small, hopeful smile, as if expecting gratitude.

Harry stared, stunned. She applied for custody of me? Without asking?

Beside him, Remus lifted a brow, muttering under his breath, “This should be interesting.”

Fudge lifted his hammer once more. “Each claimant will be heard in order. It may be needed to let Harry speak to the court before judgment is passed, but hopefully we can come to a decision without needing him to speak, unless he wants to.”

His gaze swept the chamber.

“Molly Weasley, you may present your case first.”

Molly Weasley rose, smoothing her skirt, her voice warm but firm. “Thank you, Minister. I would care for Harry as if he were my own, and I wish to provide him with a loving, stable home. He is already close friends with my son Ron, and gets along well with all my children and my husband, Arthur.”

A sharp voice interrupted from Sirius’ solicitor, Peverell. “Mrs. Weasley, how exactly do you propose to support him financially, on top of all the other children you and your husband support? Guardianship comes with financial responsibilities, not just love and friendship .. are you prepared to bear them?”

Molly’s hands tightened on the edge of her chair, but her voice remained steady. “We will manage. We always do.”

Peverell pressed further, voice firm. “That is not sufficient, Mrs. Weasley. We need specifics.”

“There are provisions in place… Professor Dumbledore assured me the will of James and Lily includes a very generous monthly stipend to be given to the guardians for Harry’s care,” she said, her tone careful.

A faint murmur ran through the courtroom at her wording, whispers spread, eyebrows raised. Dumbledores jaw ticked.

Fudge raised a hand, clearing his throat. “Very well, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you. Chief Warlock Dumbledore, you may present your case.”

Dumbledore rose, his posture calm, his eyes steady behind the half-moon spectacles. “Thank you, Minister. I have acted as Harry James Potter’s magical guardian since he was one year old. It has been my duty to ensure his magical education, safety, and guidance. I have taken every precaution within my power, balancing the boy’s extraordinary abilities with the responsibilities of keeping him safe in both the magical and non-magical worlds. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, I have overseen his schooling with care and attention, ensuring he has access to teachers, mentors, and resources suited to his growth and magical development.”

Sirius’ solicitor, Peverell, rose sharply, voice cutting through the chamber. “Headmaster Dumbledore, do you believe you have been a good guardian for Harry?”

Dumbledore’s voice was measured. “I believe I have done my utmost given the circumstances and the information available to me at each stage of his upbringing.”

Peverell raised a hand, producing a large file. He magically copied and distributed copies to every member of the Wizengamot and to Fudge. “In this file,” he said, voice ringing across the courtroom, “are Harry James Potter’s medical records. Let the record state: from the age of one until the healer compiled this report in July of this year, Harry Potter has suffered repeated abuse, neglect, and physical harm at the hands of his muggle relatives, broken bones, insufficient food, and continual mistreatment all while under the legal guardianship assigned by Chief Warlock Dumbledore, against the clear wishes of James and Lily Potter. Harry was not removed from his muggle guardian's house, despite the 10 years of physical and mental abuse.”

Peverell’s voice grew colder, resonating with the gravity of the evidence. “This is not all. Since arriving at Hogwarts at age eleven, Harry has endured repeated injuries: broken bones inflicted during magical education, severe magical exhaustion when forced to defend himself against a teacher in his Dumbledore’s own school, poisoning with basilisk venom, and further physical damage while confronting, what the goblins have claimed is the largest basilisk ever recorded in wizarding history, again, under the watch of Dumbledore, the very guardian entrusted with his welfare. I don't list the faults what Albus Dumbledore calls a good guardian exhaustively, and there is a lot more.. please read for yourself to see.”

A hush fell over the chamber as the members of the Wizengamot read the documents. Murmurs rose among some, while Fudge’s expression tightened, and Umbridge’s face went even redder. Dumbledore remained composed, but a faint flicker of concern crossed his eyes as the weight of the evidence was laid bare.

“Well, Dumbledore. What do you have to say to that” snapped Fudge, looking angry.

Dumbledore’s calm mask faltered. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then closed it again. His eyes, usually bright with certainty, flickered with something unspoken.. an acknowledgment that he had no satisfactory answer.

“I… have no further comment,” he said finally, his voice low, measured. “I have always sought to keep Harry stable, to guide him as best I could, given the circumstances.”

Without another word, he withdrew his petition for guardianship, sat down and  slid the file of papers holding Harry’s medical records across the desk, leaving the Wizengamot, Sirius, Remus and Harry in stunned silence. 

Fudge straightened, his face tight, and banged his gavel lightly. “Very well. Lord Sirius Black, you may present your petition for guardianship.”

Sirius Black rose, his expression steady but eyes bright with emotion. “Thank you, Minister. I am Harry Potter’s godfather. I have loved him like a son since the day he was born. This is not a casual bond, it is a promise I made to Lily and James Potter, a promise I intend to keep. I undertook the Godfather Oath in front of James and Lily when they chose me to be godfather, and I will do it again in this chamber if needed.”

He straightened slightly, voice sharpening with controlled anger. “Had I not been illegally imprisoned without trial, I would have been entrusted with Harry as an infant. Yet I was denied that right by the very Ministry that now judges me.”

A faint flush coloured Fudge’s face, while Umbridge’s glare could have boiled water. Sirius ignored them. “I have the financial means to provide Harry with a secure and loving home. I have properties all over the world, all safe and under ancient protections. I have ensured he has access to the best care, healers, tutors, and guidance. I personally arranged for a healer to help me recover after my release from Azkaban so I would be ready to take on guardianship. I acquired new house elves, two of which are the very same elves that raised his father, James. Tutors will come during Christmas break to further his education. Everything I have done has been to protect and nurture him.”

He paused, letting his words settle, then looked directly at the Wizengamot. “I am here to fulfil the choice Lily and James  made themselves when they named me Godfather. I am ready to be the guardian Harry deserves.”

A ripple of impressed murmurs ran through the Wizengamot. Heads nodded subtly, whispers of approval passing between members. Even the usually stoic faces of Augusta Longbottom and Amelia Bones softened in recognition of Sirius’s dedication.

Camera flashes popped sporadically, the brief bursts of light reflecting off polished robes and spectacles, capturing the moment for the magical press. The hall buzzed quietly with the weight of Sirius’s words, the clarity and certainty in his voice leaving a palpable mark on everyone present. Fudge cleared his throat, frowning at the attention, while Umbridge’s glare could have cut through stone. But for the first time in years, Sirius Black felt the room bending, even slightly, toward justice.

Suddenly, two cloaked Dementors swept in with ferocious speed from the unguarded doors to the holding cells. The chamber gasped as the dark figures went straight toward Sirius, cold seeping into the very air. They leaned down, glistening mouths parting, ready to kiss him, to suck his soul out. Horror erupted across the chamber, screams pierced the stunned murmurs. Harry’s own scream tore through the other screams.

In an instant, a massive black dog Patronus burst from Amelia Bones’ wand, charging with unstoppable force. The Dementors recoiled and fled through the doors as though pulled by some invisible tide. “What is the meaning of this?!” Amelia Bones screeched, her voice echoing off the stone walls. She slammed her wand down, sealing every exit, while Aurors moved swiftly to guard each doorway. “Who is responsible for this?”

Sirius collapsed to the floor, trembling, the weight of years of torment and fear crashing down upon him. Harry tore himself free from Remus’s grip and rushed forward, gathering his godfather into his arms. He held him tight, murmuring reassurances, while the Wizengamot sat as if frozen, shocked into silence by the audacity of the attack.

Remus ran to join Harry, and knelt beside Sirius, gently offering him a piece of chocolate from his satchel. “Here,” he said softly, “helps steady you.” Sirius took it shakily, letting the sweetness calm the tremor in his hands, while Harry stayed close, still holding him tightly.

Amelia Bones spun toward Fudge, her eyes blazing. “This is your doing! Two Dementors in the middle of a hearing? How could this happen under your watch?”

Fudge spluttered, reddening. “I.. this is outrageous! I cannot be held responsible for every security breach.. ”

“Hem hem… I hope you aren’t blaming the Minister for this, Director Bones,” came a smooth, oily voice. Umbridge had leaned forward, her wide, false smile did nothing to hide the sharpness in her tone.

“I am blaming whoever let this happen!” Amelia snapped, stepping forward, her eyes blazing. “Two Dementors in the middle of a custody hearing! Children in the room! A Lord of a Noble house attacked! How could security fail so catastrophically?”

Umbridge’s smile faltered slightly, but her voice remained syrupy. “Surely, Director Bones, the Minister could not have anticipated.. ”

“Anticipated?” Amelia cut her off, stepping closer, voice rising. “This is not a mere accident! Dementors don’t simply appear without purpose. Someone sent them. Someone wanted chaos, fear, and trauma to reign here! And it almost succeeded! The only person who can order dementors away from Azkaban is sitting right there” She said, with venom in her voice, pointing right at Fudge.

A ripple of murmurs passed through the Wizengamot. Fudge cleared his throat, red-faced, hands flailing. “Order! Order! This is a serious accusation..”

Amelia’s glare didn’t waver. “And someone should be held accountable! I demand to know.. who authorised this assault on the courtroom if it wasn’t you, Cornelius?!”

Amelia took a sharp breath, her fingers still trembling from the rage. “Minister Fudge, I demand to see the Azkaban logs, who authorised those Dementors to leave the prison, and at what time! I need to know exactly who ordered this assault.”

Fudge’s face went crimson, his hands fluttering helplessly. “I… I’m afraid that.. those records… they’re classified. Restricted access. Only the Minister may review..”

A roar of indignation rose from the Wizengamot. “Classified?!” “How convenient!” “We demand transparency!” Members of the court began shouting over each other, voices echoing against the stone walls.

Fudge banged his gavel, trying to restore order. “Order! Order, I say! This is highly irregular.. ”

Umbridge’s false smile returned, smooth and tight, though her eyes flickered with unease. “Perhaps… perhaps we can all remain calm,” she purred, stepping forward, one hand fluttering over her cane as if to soothe the room. “Director Bones is… mistaken. The Minister is only doing what is necessary to maintain order.”

Amelia’s glare cut through her like a blade. “Mistaken? The order to release them cannot be irrelevant, and someone will be held accountable. I will not let this slide!”

Umbridge’s lips twitched, her composure cracking for the briefest instant before she smoothed it. “Now, now… let us not get carried away. The Wizengamot must remember its duty to law and procedure.”

Fudge’s hands shook as he tried to intervene, flustered, caught between calming the chamber and defending his own credibility. The shouting continued, the air thick with tension, and the court seemed on the edge of chaos, every eye flicking between Amelia, Umbridge, and the floundering Minister.

Amelia’s eyes blazed as she advanced slightly, voice sharp and commanding over the din. “Minister Fudge, I will not be stonewalled. The logs exist. Someone authorised the Dementors to leave Azkaban. I want the records. Now. If you cannot provide them, you will explain.. who gave the order!”

Fudge swallowed hard, sweat beading his forehead. His hands trembled as he stammered, “I… I… well… it’s not that simple—”

“Not that simple?!” Amelia’s voice cut like steel. “Two Dementors assaulted Sirius Black in open court!”

The Wizengamot members were now shouting over each other, some pounding their desks, others murmuring in shocked disbelief. “How could this happen?” “This is outrageous!”. No matter what they thought of Sirius Black, the mere idea that a Noble head of house could be attacked in the chamber was unfathomable.

Umbridge’s smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. “Director Bones, surely you.. ”

“You sent them!” Amelia snapped, pointing directly at Umbridge. “You authorised this attack, didn’t you?!”

Umbridge froze, her carefully cultivated mask cracking as her fingers twitched over the desk. “I.. I… it was… I mean… the order was… merely precautionary.. ” Umbridge’s composure broke entirely. She stopped abruptly, realising she’d said too much. Her face paled as all eyes turned on her. “I only meant to…”

The courtroom erupted. Fudge banged his gavel helplessly, red-faced, muttering, “Order! Order!”

Amelia pressed forward, eyes blazing, voice louder than ever. “Precautionary? Sending Dementors into a courtroom during a custody hearing is not precautionary, it is criminal! I will ensure the Wizengamot holds you personally accountable, ordering the kiss on an innocent man, in a room full of children and witnesses. This is murder, murder of a Lord of a Noble House!”

The courtroom fell into stunned silence. Even Fudge gaped, flustered beyond words, while Amelia’s gaze bore into Umbridge like a physical weight. Every head turned towards Amelia as she raised her wand. “AURORS! Apprehend her.. now!”

Before Umbridge could react, a pair of Aurors surged forward. Magical suppression cuffs and chains wrapped around her instantly, holding her fast. Shock and disbelief painted her face as she realized she had no defence. Amelia’s eyes never wavered, burning with authority and righteous fury. Amelia unlocked the chamber and the aurors led Umbridge down into the holding cells.

Amelia’s voice cut through the stunned silence of the chamber. “Minister Fudge, the custody hearing must continue. There is business still to be conducted today, including the vote of no confidence in your leadership. We cannot allow this chaos to derail proper proceedings.”

Fudge’s face drained of colour. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, stammering. Dumbledore’s pale eyes flicked between Amelia and the Minister, a tight line across his lips. There was no anger, only the faintest trace of worry, the sort that comes when one realizes the rug has been pulled out from under them.

Sirius, still on the floor from the shock of the Dementor assault, let out a low, ragged breath. Remus crouched beside him, supporting him as best he could, while Harry clutched Sirius tightly, fear flashing in his wide green eyes. The boy trembled slightly, the aftermath of seeing the Dementors so close still fresh in his mind.

Remus leaned down, whispering to both Sirius and Harry, offering comforting words. All three stood up, Sirius’s hand found Harry’s shoulder, squeezing gently as he tried to draw strength from his godson’s trust. “It’s alright, Harry. Nothing else will get past me. I promise.”

The chamber settled, though the tension lingered like a storm cloud. Fudge cleared his throat, voice trembling. “Very well… all in favour of Lord Black claiming full custody of Harry James Potter, raise your wands.”

Every member of the Wizengamot obeyed, wands raised high. Fudge’s face fell as the motion passed unanimously. “Custody is awarded to Lord Sirius Orion Black. You may take your seats.”

Harry practically leapt into Sirius’s arms, sobbing with relief. Sirius held him tight, murmuring reassurances as Harry buried his face in his godfather’s chest. Remus moved closer, enveloping them both in a warm, protective hug. The chamber seemed to pause, every eye witnessing the raw, overwhelming relief of the boy finally safe in the arms of someone who truly cared. Tears streaked Harry’s face, but his sobs slowly gave way to soft sniffles.

Sirius led Harry and Remus back to their seats, giving Harry a reassuring squeeze and whispering, “It won’t be long now… then we celebrate.” He returned to his family seat, posture proud and steady.

Amelia rose immediately. “I propose a vote of no confidence in Minister Cornelius Fudge.” Augusta Longbottom stood beside her. “Seconded.”

Amelia gestured to the Wizengamot. “Raise your wands if you agree.” Every wand shot up, even Lucius’ Malfoy. His cronies followed suit.  The decision was clear, Cornelius Fudge was no longer Minister for Magic. He sank forward, resting his head on his desk, defeated, while Dumbledore’s eyes blazed with fury.

“Vote noted. Cornelius Fudge, by order of the Wizengamot, you are no longer Minister for Magic. Please vacate your office by close of day,” Amelia continued, her voice firm and authoritative. “Session closed. All applications for the new Minister of Magic must be submitted by the end of today. We will reconvene tomorrow to announce a temporary minister while elections take place. The trial of Dolores Umbridge will follow immediately thereafter.”

Harry held tightly to Sirius’ hand, Remus beside them, as they hurried through the corridors. Relief washed over him, trembling but real.

Hand in hand, the three of them left the Wizengamot behind, heading home at last.