The golden domes of Valaskjalf shimmered beneath the eternal light of Asgard, but the mood within the grand hall was anything but radiant.
King Odin Allfather, Protector of the Nine Realms, sat upon his throne with a heavy expression. Before him stood a delegation of Vanir elders, their faces flushed with irritation. On the long golden table between them lay a map of Vanaheim, marked with soot stains and scorched terrain.
"Your son," one of the Vanir emissaries grumbled, "fought valiantly, yes, but he also obliterated the village of Tharnor. Fields burned, homes crushed, and while no lives were lost… our people demand reparations."
Odin clenched his jaw. His single eye burned with restrained weariness. "You shall have your reparations," he said, voice like stone sliding over iron. "But let it not be forgotten—Thor fought to drive away a creature that would have swallowed your forests and silenced your rivers."
Another elder sniffed. "And in doing so, he silenced our granaries for the year."
The chamber fell into heavy silence.
Odin slowly stood, robes of midnight and gold swirling around him. "The treasury will see to your claims. As for Thor…" He turned to the guards. "Tell him I will speak with him later."
He dismissed the court with a gesture and turned away from the bickering diplomats.
Odin had just reached the quiet of the Crystal Foyer, when a familiar presence approached.
The sound of armored boots was unmistakable—measured, resolute, and without hesitation.
Heimdall.
Odin halted. He did not need to look to know who it was.
"You only leave the gate if the sky itself is falling," Odin said, not turning around.
"It nearly did," Heimdall replied cryptically. "That is why I am here."
Odin turned slowly, his expression sharpening. "Speak plainly."
Heimdall gave a rare smile, one corner of his mouth twitching with restrained satisfaction. "I have found him."
Odin's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer. "Harry?"
Heimdall nodded.
The Allfather exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his chest. For years, he had wondered. For years, he had waited. "Where?"
"Midgard. A village called Earling," Heimdall replied. "He has friends—one in particular named Hermione Granger. He visits her often. But more importantly… he is no longer shielded. There is no magical protection in Granger residence."
Odin grunted, now pacing slowly beneath the vaulted crystal ceiling. "For three years, not even your gaze could pierce the veil around him."
"Yes," Heimdall said, his voice solemn. "I believe he was hidden behind ancient magic, Midgardian sorcery crafted to rival even the Bifröst's echo. But now, he often come out of the protection area. I saw him walking along a snowy path… he laughed. He looked older. Stronger."
"And what of his aura?" Odin asked. "Is he… like Thor?"
Heimdall nodded once. "He has lightning power. Raw. Untamed. But it is not just Asgardian. I sensed… something else. Magic ancient and wild. He is both."
Odin's expression became unreadable.
"A child of thunder… and magic," he muttered. "Then he must be brought to Asgard. Quietly. Before others discover the truth."
Heimdall straightened. "Shall I speak with him first?"
"No," Odin said sharply. "Not yet. The last thing we need is another being on Midgard discovering the boy's true nature. He must not be frightened."
Odin crossed the chamber and placed a hand on Heimdall's armored shoulder.
"When next you see him… activate the Bifröst. Bring him here. Do not alert Thor. Do not alert Frigga. Not until I have spoken to the boy myself."
Heimdall gave a single, firm nod. "It will be done."
As Heimdall turned to leave, the faint ripple of Bifröst energy shimmered behind his eyes. "I will not fail, my King."
Odin stood alone, his hand slowly tightening around the hilt of Gungnir, his spear.
"Harry…" he whispered.
A name almost forgotten by others, but never by the Allfather.
"My grandson."
The news spread faster than Floo Fire: Sirius Black is innocent.
Every paper, every magical wireless station, every pub and fireplace from Diagon alley to Hogsmeade buzzed with outrage and disbelief.
The Daily Prophet, which had once painted Sirius Black as a lunatic murderer, now ran front-page editorials condemning the Ministry.
"THE WRONG MAN IN AZKABAN: Ministry's Blunder Exposed"
But the fury didn't stop at bureaucratic incompetence.
Soon, whispers turned into full-throated accusations.
Cornelius Fudge's rise to power had been fueled by the capture of Sirius Black—a moment the press had lauded as brave and heroic. Now, the truth surfaced.
Fudge hadn't captured Sirius. He had apprehended him. Without a duel. Without resistance.
And worst of all—without a trial.
In a public forum hosted in the Ministry atrium, Augusta Longbottom stood with a trembling parchment in her hand.
"My son was tortured into insanity fighting Voldemort's servants," she declared. "Sirius Black fought beside him… and for that, he was betrayed. Forgotten. And left to rot."
Fudge tried to defend himself. "I only followed procedure! He didn't protest! He didn't ask for a trial!"
But the tide had turned.
He was no longer the Minister of Magic.
After a swift and emotional emergency election, the Wizengamot appointed George Wood as the interim Minister of Magic.
A former Auror and outspoken advocate for judicial reform, Wood stood before the public with no flowing robes or polished speeches. He wore simple dragon-hide gloves and a worn-out wand holster.
"Our system has been twisted," he said plainly, "not by dark magic, but by quiet corruption."
His first act?
Declassifying old Auror records.
And what they uncovered sent shockwaves through every level of wizarding society.
Eighteen witches and wizards—all Muggle-borns or half-bloods—had been imprisoned in Azkaban without ever stepping foot in a courtroom.
"They were troublemakers," said one unnamed Auror. "Upsetting the wrong purebloods."
Several had dared to duel or challenge the sons of noble houses. Some had simply owned property in neighborhoods coveted by influential families.
Gold had changed hands.
And the Aurors, loyal to salaries and silence, complied.
The revelation didn't stop with Fudge.
Albus Dumbledore, long considered the moral beacon of the wizarding world, found himself on trial—not for criminal guilt, but neglect.
"How could the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot," asked Griselda Marchbanks, "let a war hero rot in Azkaban for over a decade?"
Dumbledore, for once, had no wise words.
"I made mistakes," he said quietly, looking older than ever. "I was… distracted. The battle against Voldemort consumed every moment of my thoughts. And for that, I failed Sirius Black."
Stripped of his positions as Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump, Dumbledore quietly withdrew from public view.
A group of old members of the Order of the Phoenix—Elphias Doge, Remus Lupin, and Dedalus Diggle among them—petitioned to recover Sirius Black's remains from the Azkaban burial grounds.
The Ministry, wary of setting precedents, denied the request at first.
"He died a criminal," one bureaucrat argued. "Only posthumously exonerated."
"But he was a war hero," Remus had replied, fists clenched. "You owe him dignity."
Public outrage flared again.
Wizarding children wore black armbands. Hogwarts held a moment of silence. Gringotts released a statement honoring Black as the last Lord of House Black who never compromised with darkness.
After mounting pressure, Minister George Wood didn't budge.
Everyone who wanted Sirius Black's body had once betrayed him and believed he was a death eater. They have no claim over Sirius Black and if the House of Black wanted the body of Sirius Black the ministry will provide but there is no Blacks are there anymore.
Reforms began.
A new department was created: Judicial Integrity and Oversight.
Amelia Bones, who had cracked open the deception, was named High Magistrate of Magical Law.
Every Auror was now required to wear memory-recording pendants during arrests.
Every suspected criminal now had access to a mandatory pre-trial review.
And the Pettigrew Trial was now taught at the Department of Magical Law as a lesson in how corruption thrives in silence.
The Highlands were bathed in warm orange light as the sun dipped behind the distant hills. The windows of Highlands Manor glowed golden, flickering softly with the crackle of the evening fireplace. It was peaceful—too peaceful for Sirius Black, who sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, eyes gleaming with impatience.
"You said he had a surprise?" he asked, glancing toward the kitchen where the sound of muffled laughter echoed.
"Yes," Wanda replied, sipping from a tall glass of chilled pumpkin cider. "He told me to wait. Said he wanted a dramatic entrance."
"Of course he did," Sirius chuckled, running a hand through his shaggy, greying hair. "He's my godson after all."
Hermione sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the fireplace, flipping idly through an ancient book on defensive magic. America Chavez leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, watching the sun fade into twilight.
Then, the door to the grand hall opened.
Harry entered, his wand tucked behind his ear and an uncharacteristic grin stretching his face.
"Alright," he said, cracking his knuckles theatrically. "You all promised to stay quiet. No interruptions. Prepare to be amazed."
"You've built this up so much," America teased. "This better not be another prank where your boots start singing again."
Harry laughed. "No, no music this time. Watch carefully."
He stepped back, centered himself, closed his eyes—and then, in a blink of light and a spark of energy, his form shimmered and morphed.
There was a sudden rush of wind inside the hall, a ripple of magic that made everyone's hair stand on end.
Feathers burst outward where his arms had been, his legs bent and twisted, spine shifting with a crackle and a flare of golden light. Electricity surged in the air as the transformation completed.
Before them now stood a magnificent Thunderbird—a majestic creature as tall as a horse, its body covered in gleaming golden-yellow feathers that shimmered with every movement. It had three pairs of wings, each elegantly layered like blades of sunlit wind, and long twin tails that curled like lightning trails behind it.
Its eyes glowed electric blue, burning with raw, sentient energy, and every breath the creature took made the flames in the fireplace flicker in response.
"Merlin's beard…" Sirius whispered.
Hermione's jaw dropped. "A—A Thunderbird? But those are native to North America! They're elemental storm birds! How is this—how—Harry?!"
The Thunderbird let out a soft, harmonious cry, a sound that vibrated with magic and life. And with another flash, the creature collapsed back into human form—Harry Potter stood there again, a bit out of breath but beaming with pride.
"It's called an Animagus transformation," he said, brushing back his windswept hair. "Cool, right?"
Wanda was stunned. "That… was not just any Animagus. You turned into a Thunderbird. A mythical one. That's…very impressive."
Hermione was already on her feet, grabbing him by the arm. "You—Harry James Potter—do you have any idea how rare that is? There are only a handful of registered magical Animagi, and none of them transformed into elemental creatures! You're not just an Animagus, you're a magical one!"
Harry shrugged, still grinning. "I figured that out during the second week of practice when it started raining every time I sneezed."
"You sneezed thunderstorms?" America burst out laughing.
Sirius stood slowly and walked over, clapping Harry hard on the shoulder. "That was… brilliant, kid. When did you pull this off?"
Harry turned to him. "You gave me your Animagus notes for my birthday, remember? The journal? I've been working on it ever since I got it. It took over a year, but… I kept at it."
"You practiced secretly for almost a year?" Wanda asked in amazement.
"I didn't want to tell anyone in case I failed," Harry admitted. "But once I transformed the first time, I knew I had to show you all."
Wanda's expression turned serious, her eyes shimmering with red. "That form is powerful. Dangerous even. You'll need training. You're not just transforming—you're commanding elemental magic when you do."
"I know," Harry nodded. "And I was hoping you'd help with that."
She gave a soft smile. "Of course I will."
Sirius looked between them and let out a bark of laughter. "My godson, the electric bird of doom. James would've loved this."
"Don't let anyone know about this" America grinned. "They'll expect you to fly into battle with a bolt of lightning."
"I mean," Harry said cheekily, "I could."
And they all burst into laughter, the sound echoing warmly in the grand hall of Highlands Manor, as the fire crackled and the storm winds outside shifted—almost as if the sky itself was acknowledging the awakening of a Thunderbird.
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