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The satisfied weight of successful negotiation should have felt good, but when Harry opened his mouth to ask about Sirius, the words stuck like honey in his throat. His fingers found the edge of Scrimgeour's desk, polished mahogany smooth as glass under his palm—something to anchor him while the room suddenly felt too warm.
"There's one more matter, Minister." His voice came out steady, which was remarkable considering his chest felt like someone had wrapped iron bands around it. "My godfather's belongings. His inheritance."
The scratching of Scrimgeour's quill stopped. The silence stretched long enough for Harry to hear the soft whisper of parchment settling, the distant murmur of voices from the corridor beyond the heavy oak door. When the Minister finally looked up, something in his expression had shifted—not unkind, but careful. Like someone approaching a volatile potion.
"Ah." Scrimgeour set down his quill with deliberate precision. "Yes, that's... somewhat more complicated than it should be."
Of course it is. Harry's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. Everything involving Sirius had been complicated. His escape from Azkaban, his hidden existence, his death. Why should his will be any different?
"Complicated how?"
"Sirius Black did indeed leave everything to you in his will. That much is clear." Scrimgeour pulled a different folder from the stack beside his elbow, the parchment inside rustling like autumn leaves. "However, the inheritance laws governing ancient pure-blood families are... labyrinthine. House Black has certain magical protections and requirements that supersede individual wishes."
Harry's fingers pressed harder against the desk's edge. The wood grain felt like tiny ridges under his skin, each one distinct and sharp. "Such as?"
"Such as bloodline succession laws that date back centuries. While Sirius could choose his heir, the magical inheritance of House Black itself follows different rules." Scrimgeour's tone was professorial now, like he was explaining a particularly tedious Ministry regulation. "Since Sirius died without direct descendants, the inheritance could potentially pass to the next blood relative in line."
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Harry's breath came shallow, quick. "Which would be?"
"Narcissa Malfoy, as Sirius's cousin. Or more specifically, her son Draco, as the next male heir in the Black bloodline."
Draco Malfoy. The thought of that sneering git inheriting Sirius's house, his belongings, everything that remained of the man who'd died trying to save Harry—it was obscene. Worse than obscene. It was the kind of cosmic joke that made Harry wonder if the universe was actively malicious.
"That's..." Harry's voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat, forced his tone back to something resembling diplomatic calm. "That seems rather unfair to the deceased's stated wishes."
"Indeed. Which is why we need to determine the rightful heir through more definitive means." Scrimgeour leaned forward, his weathered hands clasped on the desk. "There is a way to settle this conclusively, though it requires invoking some rather archaic magical law."
"House Black maintains a house-elf," Scrimgeour continued. "According to magical law dating back to the founding of the great houses, such elves are bound not just to serve the family, but to recognize and obey only the true heir. The elf's magical bond will only activate for the rightful inheritor of the Black legacy."
Kreacher.
The name slammed into Harry's consciousness like a curse. That treacherous, bitter creature who'd led Sirius straight into Bellatrix's trap. Who'd hated Sirius, who'd whispered family secrets to the wrong ears, who'd—
Harry's hand clenched into a fist before he caught himself. His knuckles had gone white against the dark wood of the desk. Carefully, deliberately, he forced his fingers to relax.
"I see." The words came out clipped, precise. "And you believe this elf will respond to my summons?"
"If you are indeed the rightful heir, yes. The magical binding is absolute—the elf literally cannot refuse to answer the call of House Black's true master." Scrimgeour's eyes were sharp, studying Harry's face. "Are you willing to attempt the summoning?"
Willing. As if Harry had a choice. As if he could let Draco Malfoy claim even a single Knut of what Sirius had wanted him to have. As if he could bear the thought of that vile elf serving anyone but—
No. That wasn't right either. Harry didn't want Kreacher to serve him. Didn't want anything to do with the creature whose betrayal had cost Sirius his life. But this wasn't about what Harry wanted. This was about what Sirius had wanted, and Sirius had wanted Harry to have his inheritance.
"Yes." Harry's voice was steady again, cool as winter air. "I'm willing."
Scrimgeour nodded approvingly. "Very well. The summoning is quite simple—you need only call the elf by name and command it to appear before you. If the bond recognizes you as master, it will have no choice but to obey."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath.
"Kreacher," he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable ring of command. "I summon you. Appear before me now."
The crack of Apparition split the air like breaking bone. Harry's ears rang with it, but he didn't flinch. Didn't move at all, actually, because suddenly there was a house-elf standing in the middle of Scrimgeour's pristine office, and the sight of it made Harry's carefully maintained composure fracture like ice.
Kreacher looked exactly as Harry remembered—ancient, decrepit, with bulbous eyes full of malice and ears that drooped nearly to his shoulders. His pillowcase was stained and torn, hanging off his skeletal frame like a burial shroud. But it was the expression on his face that made Harry's blood boil: pure, undisguised hatred, mixed with something that might have been fear.
"Master calls Kreacher," the elf said, his voice like grinding stone. The words were obedient, but everything else about him radiated resentment. "Kreacher comes, though Kreacher does not want to."
"Well," Scrimgeour said softly, and Harry could hear the satisfaction in his voice. "That settles the matter rather definitively, doesn't it?"
Harry stared down at the elf who had destroyed his godfather. Kreacher's bulging eyes met his for just a moment before darting away, but in that brief contact, Harry saw something that made his chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't quite name. Not just hatred—though that was certainly there. Something closer to acknowledgment. Recognition of a new reality neither of them had wanted.
"Kreacher," Harry said, and his voice carried an authority he hadn't known he possessed. "You will return to Grimmauld Place immediately. You will clean the entire house from top to bottom—every room, every surface, every piece of furniture. You will remove all traces of dark magic, all cursed objects, everything that could harm an innocent person who might enter that house."
Kreacher's eyes widened, but he didn't protest. Couldn't protest, Harry realized. The magical binding wouldn't let him.
"Yes, Master," Kreacher said, the words dragged out of him like splinters from a wound. "Kreacher will clean the house. Kreacher will make it... safe."
The way he said 'safe' made it sound like a foreign concept, something distasteful he'd never had to consider before. Harry felt a moment of dark satisfaction at the elf's obvious discomfort.
"Good. And Kreacher?" Harry's tone dropped lower, more dangerous. "You will do this thoroughly. Completely. I don't want to find so much as a speck of dust when I inspect the house. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master." Kreacher's voice was barely above a whisper now. "Kreacher understands."
With another sharp crack, he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of old dust and older hatred lingering in the air.
Scrimgeour was watching Harry with interest, his expression somewhere between impressed and slightly unnerved. "Well then," he said finally. "I believe that concludes the matter. You are now, legally and magically, the sole heir to the House of Black. Congratulations, Mr. Potter."
"Thank you." Harry's voice was perfectly steady, perfectly polite. Inside, he felt like he'd swallowed broken glass. "What exactly does that entail?"
"Everything. The London property at Grimmauld Place, of course. Several Gringotts vaults—some quite substantial, I'm told. Various magical artifacts, books, family heirlooms." Scrimgeour consulted his notes. "You'll receive the full inventory within the week, along with the necessary contracts for your signature."
Contracts. Even inheriting from his dead godfather required paperwork. Harry almost smiled at the absurdity of it, but the expression would have been too sharp, too bitter for the diplomatic mask he was wearing.
"I appreciate your assistance with this matter, Minister," he said instead. "I know it could have become quite complicated without proper resolution."
"Indeed it could have." Scrimgeour's tone suggested he was thinking about the political ramifications of Draco Malfoy potentially inheriting a significant pure-blood fortune. "This outcome serves everyone's interests, I believe."
Everyone except Kreacher, Harry thought, and found he didn't much care about that particular exception.
The satisfaction of settling Sirius's inheritance should have lasted longer, but the moment Kreacher's bitter presence vanished from the office, Harry's mind snapped back to more immediate concerns.
"There's another matter, Minister." Harry said calmly. "The house-elf that attacked me tonight. Reggy. I'd like to know who sent him."
"Ah yes, that is rather concerning, isn't it?" He shuffled through another stack of documents. "I had our people check the registry the moment we received word of the attack."
"And?"
"Nothing." The word dropped between them with the finality of a judge's gavel. "No house-elf named Reggy appears in any of our records. Not in the current registry, not in the historical archives, not even in the restricted files dating back to the founding of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."
Harry's stomach tightened. He'd expected as much, really—whoever had sent an ancient elf with a glowing red arm and reality-warping magic wasn't likely to have filed the proper paperwork. But hearing it confirmed made the situation feel more dangerous, not less. Like learning that the thing stalking you through the forest didn't technically exist.
"Could the records be incomplete?"
"Possible, but unlikely." Scrimgeour's tone suggested he'd already considered and dismissed this possibility. "House-elf registration has been mandatory for over three centuries. Even the most reclusive pure-blood families comply—the magical binding spells require official documentation to function properly."
A soft knock interrupted them. Harry turned as the door opened to admit Amelia Bones, her square jaw set in grim lines that made something cold slither down his spine. She moved like someone carrying bad news.
"Minister," she said, inclining her head slightly to Scrimgeour before her sharp eyes found Harry. "Mr. Potter. I'm afraid I have an update on our prisoner situation."
The way she said 'situation' made it clear that whatever had happened wasn't good.
"The house-elf?" Scrimgeour asked, though his expression suggested he already knew the answer wouldn't be pleasant.
"Gone." Bones moved to stand beside the Minister's desk. "Completely."
"Escaped?"
"Not exactly." Bones exchanged a look with Scrimgeour that spoke of conversations Harry hadn't been privy to. "At approximately three this morning, the red glow from the creature's arm began to spread. Our monitors initially assumed it was some form of magical healing or regeneration."
She paused for a moment before she continued.
"Within minutes, the glow had covered his entire body. The duty officers described it as looking like an infection—red veins of light spreading under his skin like poisoned blood." Bones's clinical tone made the image somehow worse, as if she was describing a particularly unpleasant Potions experiment rather than a living being's destruction. "Then he simply... dissolved."
"Dissolved?" Harry's mouth felt dry.
"Into blood. Nothing but blood." Bones said, sounding a little caught off guard herself. "By the time our emergency response team arrived, there was nothing left but a pool of red liquid and the lingering traces of magic we'd never encountered before."
Scrimgeour leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "Contingency measures?"
"Almost certainly. The magical residue suggests a sophisticated self-destruct curse—something designed to activate if the creature was captured or incapacitated." Bones turned to Harry, her expression grave. "Someone wanted to ensure that Reggy could never be questioned, never provide information about who sent him or why."
Clever. The thought arose unbidden. Whoever was behind this had planned for failure, had built in safeguards to protect their identity even if their assassination attempt went wrong.
"Any theories about the magic involved?" Harry asked.
"Nothing in our databases. The signature was unlike anything we've encountered—old magic, possibly predating the establishment of the Ministry itself." Bones's frustration was evident in the tight line of her mouth. "We're consulting with the Department of Mysteries, but I suspect they'll be as baffled as we are."
"So we have no leads," Harry said. It wasn't a question.
"None that are immediately apparent." Scrimgeour's admission carried the weight of someone unused to saying such things. "Though we will, of course, continue investigating. This attack represents a significant escalation in the threats against you, Mr. Potter. We cannot allow it to go unanswered."
Harry almost smiled at that. Cannot allow it to go unanswered. As if the Ministry's permission had any bearing on what his unknown enemies might attempt next. But he kept the thought to himself—political Harry didn't point out the obvious limitations of bureaucratic authority.
"I appreciate that, Minister." Harry's tone was perfectly respectful, hiding his growing certainty that the Ministry's investigation would turn up exactly nothing. "Though I suspect whoever sent Reggy is rather more sophisticated than your average Death Eater."
"Indeed." Scrimgeour said sharply. "Which raises the question of who, precisely, you might have made an enemy of, well, except You-Know-Who. Someone with access to ancient magic, someone with knowledge of house-elf binding techniques that predate modern magical law, someone with the resources to orchestrate such an elaborate assassination attempt..."
Harry had walked through the Veil and returned—the first person in recorded history to accomplish such a feat. Had something followed him back? Some ancient entity that considered his survival an affront to the natural order?
Or was it something else entirely? Someone who saw his growing independence, his break from Dumbledore, his emerging political influence as a threat to their own plans?
"I'll be more careful," Harry said finally, though the words felt inadequate. How did you guard against enemies who could dissolve into blood when captured, who commanded magic that the Ministry couldn't identify, who struck from the shadows with ancient knowledge and impossible creatures?
"See that you are." Scrimgeour's voice carried genuine concern beneath the authoritative tone. "We'll do everything in our power to identify and neutralize this threat, but in the meantime, your safety remains paramount."
Harry nodded, though privately he suspected his safety depended more on his own growing abilities than on anything the Ministry might provide. Political alliances were useful, but when something with glowing red arms came for you in the night, negotiation wasn't really an option.
The grandfather clock in the corner of Scrimgeour's office chimed five times, its deep bronze notes rolling through the room like distant thunder. Dawn was still an hour away, but Harry felt the exhaustion of the long night settling into his bones like winter cold. Time to finish this dance and return to whatever passed for normal life these days.
"Well then," Harry said, settling back in his chair with the satisfied air of someone who'd just completed a successful business transaction. "I believe we have an understanding, Minister."
Scrimgeour smiled—the first genuinely pleased expression Harry had seen from him all night. "Indeed we do, Mr. Potter. Though I want to be absolutely clear about the terms of our arrangement." He pulled a fresh piece of parchment toward him, quill hovering. "You'll provide limited public support for Ministry initiatives related to the war effort. Key word being 'limited.'"
"No more than one public appearance per month," Harry said, the number sliding off his tongue like he'd been planning this conversation for weeks instead of improvising. "And I retain absolute veto power over any event that doesn't serve my interests as well as yours."
"Agreed. And no extensive interviews with the press?"
"I'll answer questions at official events, but nothing resembling a sit-down exclusive with Rita Skeeter or her ilk." The memory of that woman's poison-quill articles still made Harry's jaw tighten. "Any statements released in my name must be approved by me personally before publication."
Scrimgeour made careful notes, his handwriting precise despite the late hour. Or early hour, depending on perspective. "And in exchange, Auror Tonks becomes your official bodyguard within forty-eight hours, you receive limited exemption from underage magic restrictions for self-defense purposes, we pursue the Umbridge prosecution with full vigor, and we provide regular updates on Death Eater trials."
"Don't forget the consideration of enhanced sentencing," Harry added softly. "I rather think public executions might send the right message to any wavering Death Eater sympathizers."
"Yes, well." Scrimgeour's pause suggested this particular aspect of their agreement made him deeply uncomfortable. "That will require considerable political maneuvering, as I mentioned. But I'll explore the possibilities."
Explore the possibilities. Political speak for 'probably not going to happen but I'll make the right noises.' Harry had expected as much—even this new, more ruthless Minister wasn't quite ready to start executing prisoners without due process. Though the fact that he was willing to consider it at all spoke volumes about how much the war had changed everyone's perspective on justice.
"I'll also need emergency contact protocols," Harry continued, his tone brisk and businesslike. "If something like tonight's attack happens again, I want direct lines to both your office and the DMLE. No bureaucratic delays, no forms to fill out in triplicate."
"Of course." Scrimgeour scribbled another note. "Priority channels for all communications. You'll have direct access to myself, Madam Bones, and the Auror emergency response teams."
The quill scratched across parchment with a sound like tiny claws on stone. Harry found the noise oddly soothing—the sound of agreements being formalized, of power structures being rebalanced in his favor. Six months ago, he'd been a traumatized teenager stumbling through Fudge's political ambush. Now he was negotiating as an equal with the most powerful wizard in magical Britain.
The transformation should have felt more dramatic. Instead, it simply felt... necessary.
"One final point," Harry said, and something in his tone made Scrimgeour look up sharply. "I understand the symbolic value of having the Boy Who Lived endorse Ministry policies. But I want it clearly understood that my cooperation extends only to matters directly related to defeating Voldemort."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I won't be your poster boy for controversial domestic policies or petty political maneuvering." Harry's smile was sharp as winter wind. "Try to use me to legitimize something I disagree with, and our arrangement ends immediately. Along with any public support I might have provided."
Scrimgeour's eyes glittered with what might have been amusement or annoyance—with a man like him, it was often impossible to tell the difference. "Direct threats, Mr. Potter? You are a strange man, Mr. Potter"
"Not threats, Minister. Terms and conditions." Harry stood, extending his hand across the polished desk. "I've found that clarity prevents misunderstandings."
The Minister's grip was firm, calloused from years of wand work before his political career. "Indeed it does. Very well, Mr. Potter. I believe we understand each other perfectly."
Do we? Harry wondered, but kept the thought to himself. Understanding required trust, and trust was something he'd run dangerously low on lately. But mutual benefit—that was something both of them could work with.
"Excellent." Harry turned toward the door, where Tonks waited with the patient alertness of a professional bodyguard. "I assume someone will be in touch about the paperwork?"
"Within the week. Along with your new emergency contact information and Auror Tonks's official assignment documents." Scrimgeour's voice carried a note of dismissal, but also something that might have been respect. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Potter. I suspect this arrangement will prove beneficial for all concerned."
"Indeed, Minister."
The Ministry corridors stretched before them like arteries in some vast stone creature, lit by floating orbs that cast dancing shadows on the walls. Harry's footsteps echoed in rhythm with Tonks's, a steady beat that felt like a countdown to something he couldn't quite name.
"Well," Tonks said quietly as they walked toward the lifts. "That was thoroughly terrifying to watch."
"Which part?"
"The part where you calmly negotiated the potential execution of nine Death Eaters like you were discussing the weather." Her violet hair had darkened to match her troubled expression. "When did you become so... calculating?"
"When I realized that being noble and trusting gets the people I care about killed," he said finally. "I'd rather be calculating and alive than noble and dead."
The lift arrived with a soft chime, and Harry stepped inside without looking back. Behind him, the Ministry slept on, blissfully unaware that the Boy Who Lived had just grown teeth.
Dumbledore
The owl arrived as the first pale fingers of dawn crept through the tall windows of the Headmaster's office, its silver form materializing from the pre-dawn gloom like a ghost given substance. Dumbledore looked up from the tome spread before him, a text on Horcrux destruction that made for decidedly unpleasant early morning reading, and extended his uninjured hand to receive the message.
His stomach tightened even before he broke the unmarked seal, some instinct warning him that the contents would not improve his already troubled morning.
Albus,
The Potter boy met with Scrimgeour tonight. Three hours, private meeting in the Minister's office. Details unknown, but an agreement was reached. Auror Tonks has been officially assigned as his personal bodyguard, effective immediately. The boy's cooperation was purchased, though the price remains unclear.
Thought you should know.
The letter was unsigned, unremarkable in every way except for the cold certainty it brought settling in Dumbledore's chest like winter fog. He read it twice, then set it carefully beside the destroyed ring that lay on his desk—two reminders of how thoroughly his careful plans had begun to unravel.
Harry had made a deal with the Minister of Magic. Without consultation, without hesitation, apparently without even the courtesy of informing his former mentor until after the fact. The boy who had once hung on Dumbledore's every word, who had trusted him implicitly despite repeated disappointments, had negotiated an agreement with the Minister of Magic as if Albus Dumbledore simply... didn't matter.
Perhaps he didn't. Not anymore.
Dumbledore's gaze drifted to the blackened ring beside his elbow, its once-proud stone now cracked and lifeless. The Resurrection Stone—one of the Deathly Hallows, a tool of unimaginable power—reduced to worthless metal and broken crystal by his own desperate foolishness. The curse that had nearly killed him still pulsed in his withered hand, a constant reminder of the price of acting on emotion rather than wisdom.
He had wanted to see his sister again. Had wanted, for just one moment, to speak to Ariana and tell her how sorry he was for everything that had gone wrong that terrible summer. The ring had promised him that chance, had whispered of reunions and redemption and the possibility of peace.
Instead, it had nearly cost him his life and had certainly cost him precious time. Time he should have spent repairing the growing rift between himself and Harry Potter, the boy upon whom all their hopes rested.
The boy who now refused to speak to him.
"I will never forgive you for this. Never."
Harry's words echoed in the quiet office. Dumbledore had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that time might soften that pronouncement. That Harry's anger would cool, his pain would dull, and eventually they might find their way back to some semblance of their former relationship.
But this letter suggested otherwise. Harry wasn't nursing his wounds in silence or waiting for Dumbledore to make the first move toward reconciliation. He was moving forward, making alliances, negotiating agreements, building his own network of support and protection. Without Dumbledore. In spite of Dumbledore.
The realization should have been cause for celebration. After all, wasn't this what he had always wanted? For Harry to grow into his own power, to become the leader the wizarding world needed rather than simply the weapon Dumbledore had reluctantly forged? Independence was a sign of maturity, of strength, of exactly the kind of character that would be necessary to defeat Tom Riddle.
So why did it feel like losing another piece of his soul?
Fawkes stirred on his perch, fixing Dumbledore with one brilliant eye that seemed to hold far too much understanding. The phoenix had been unusually quiet lately, as if knowing what Dumbledore had done.
"Yes, old friend," Dumbledore said softly, his voice barely audible above the whisper of wind through the tower windows. "I know what you're thinking. That I should have trusted him from the beginning. That honesty might have prevented all of this."
The phoenix said nothing, but his silence felt like an accusation.
Dumbledore had planned to wait longer before approaching Harry again. Had intended to give the boy more time to process his grief, to let the sharp edges of his anger wear smooth before attempting another conversation. The curse in his hand was still spreading, still eating away at his magical reserves day by day, but he had hoped to have at least a few more weeks to plan his approach carefully.
This changed everything. If Harry was making political alliances with Rufus Scrimgeour—a man whose ambition was matched only by his ruthlessness—then waiting was no longer an option. Whatever agreement they had reached, whatever price Harry had extracted for his cooperation, it represented a fundamental shift in the balance of power. The Boy Who Lived was no longer an isolated teenager dependent on adult guidance. He was becoming a player in his own right.
And players in the game of wizarding politics were dangerous to those who had wronged them.
Dumbledore stood slowly, reaching for his traveling cloak. His infected hand throbbed with each heartbeat, the curse that Voldemort had left in the ring spreading its poison through his system with patient malevolence. How fitting that Tom Riddle's magic should weaken him at the very moment when he needed his strength most.
"Remember the plan, Fawkes," he said quietly, fastening the cloak around his shoulders with his good hand. "No matter what happens today, no matter how he reacts, we must not waver from our course. Too much depends on it."
The phoenix trilled once—a sound that might have been agreement or mourning or simple acknowledgment of an impossible task. Dumbledore chose to interpret it as support, though he suspected Fawkes was far too wise to believe such convenient self-deception.
His wand felt heavier than usual as he grasped it in his uninjured hand, the familiar weight somehow foreign against his palm. When had everything become so difficult? When had every conversation become a negotiation, every gesture a potential betrayal, every word a weapon that might be turned against him?
Since the night Sirius Black fell through the Veil, probably. Since Harry Potter had looked at him with eyes full of pain and fury and declared their relationship finished forever.
With a soft pop of displaced air, Albus Dumbledore disapparated from his office, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lemon drops and the heavy weight of secrets that grew more dangerous with each passing day.
He was going to face a Harry Potter who was no longer the boy he remembered—no longer the trusting child who had looked to him for guidance and protection. This Harry had walked through the Veil and emerged changed, had broken with every authority figure in his life and survived it, had negotiated with the Minister of Magic as an equal.
This Harry Potter had grown teeth.
And Dumbledore was no longer certain he could control what the boy might choose to bite.
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