"Deadly serious." Amelia returned to her seat, her movements precise and controlled. "As of this morning, the DMLE is opening an official inquiry into Harry Potter's placement and subsequent treatment. We'll be interviewing everyone involved—you, Hagrid, McGonagall, Mrs. Figg. We'll be examining your records, your reports, every decision you made regarding Harry's custody."
"I am Chief Warlock—"
"You are Harry Potter's magical guardian," Amelia interrupted. "Or you were. That authority can be challenged and revoked. Especially when evidence suggests gross negligence in your duties."
"On whose authority?" Dumbledore's voice had gone very soft.
"Mine," Amelia said flatly. "As Head of the DMLE, I have jurisdiction over child welfare cases. And I have more than sufficient evidence to warrant investigation. The Wizengamot may love you, Albus, but they're not going to love child abuse. Not when it's documented this thoroughly."
"The Potters are behind this," Dumbledore said. It wasn't a question.
"The Potters brought the evidence to my attention," Amelia confirmed. "But the investigation is mine. The DMLE's. We don't ignore child abuse just because it's politically inconvenient."
"They want custody."
"They're Harry's grandparents. They have a superior claim to guardianship than you ever did."
"I was named in James and Lily's will—"
"As a backup," Amelia interrupted, pulling out a copy of the will. "You were named to take custody if, and I quote, 'the godparents named herein are unable to fulfill their duties, and if no blood family is available and capable of care.' Harry has blood family. Therefore, your guardianship should never have been activated in the first place."
"The Potters were incapacitated—"
"'Unable' and 'incapacitated' are not the same thing," Amelia said. "Unable implies permanent incapacity. Death, for example. Or declared mentally incompetent. The Potters were in a magically induced coma with documented brain activity. That's temporary incapacity. Different legal standard entirely."
Dumbledore stared at her. "You've been consulting with solicitors."
"I've been doing my job," Amelia corrected. "Which is more than I can say for you. Tell me something, Albus. Did you know about the cupboard?"
"I did not."
"Did you know about the abuse?"
"I knew the Dursleys were... resistant to magic. I thought that might make Harry more humble. More normal. Less likely to develop an inflated ego."
"You thought systematic abuse would build character," Amelia said, her voice flat with disbelief.
"I thought a modest upbringing would prevent him from becoming arrogant," Dumbledore corrected. "Many magical children raised in the spotlight develop problematic attitudes. Harry needed to be grounded. Connected to the Muggle world. I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Amelia interrupted. "Humble upbringing doesn't mean abuse, Albus. It doesn't mean malnutrition. It doesn't mean sleeping in a cupboard and being called a freak. There's a vast difference between modest and cruel, and you either didn't know it or didn't care."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" Amelia's laugh was bitter. "You want to talk about fair? Let's talk about a five-year-old boy who thought he was worthless. Who believed he didn't deserve food. Who was cooking breakfast on a hot stove at age four because his aunt was 'tired of doing it herself.' Let's talk about fair, Albus. Because Harry Potter hasn't had fair since his parents died."
Dumbledore sank back into his chair, suddenly looking every one of his 105 years. "I made mistakes," he said quietly. "I acknowledge that. But everything I did was to protect Harry. To keep him safe from Death Eaters, from dark wizards who would use him, from a world that would never let him simply be a child."
"And instead, you put him in a home where he wasn't allowed to be a child at all," Amelia said. "Where he was a servant. A burden. A freak. Tell me, Albus—which is worse? Being famous and loved, or being unknown and abused?"
"That's not—the situation isn't—" Dumbledore stopped, seeming to gather himself. "What do you want, Amelia?"
"I want the truth," Amelia said. "Complete honesty. Did you attempt to wake Charlus and Dorea Potter? Did you bring in curse-breakers, potions masters, anyone who might be able to break Voldemort's curse?"
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment.
"I consulted with Healers," he said finally. "They said the curse was beyond their ability to break. That only time and the natural resilience of the human spirit could overcome it."
"Which Healers?"
"I... I don't recall the names. It was five years ago, in the chaos after the war—"
"You don't recall," Amelia repeated. "You don't recall which Healers you consulted about waking the Potter grandparents, the people who could have raised Harry. How convenient."
"It's the truth," Dumbledore said, and there was a note of desperation in his voice now. "I'm not lying, Amelia. I'm not some monster who deliberately kept them unconscious. I simply... I accepted the Healers' assessment. I thought they would wake when they were ready, and in the meantime, Harry needed immediate placement."
"Immediate placement in an abusive home," Amelia said. "Rather than with literally any other wizarding family. The Weasleys would have taken him. The Longbottoms—before Bellatrix destroyed them. Andromeda Tonks, even—she's Sirius's cousin, good people. There were options, Albus. You chose the worst one."
"I chose the one with blood wards," Dumbledore said firmly. "I chose the one that would keep Harry magically protected until he was old enough to defend himself. I chose—"
"You chose control," Amelia interrupted. "You chose to place Harry somewhere you thought would make him pliable. Grateful. Easy to manipulate when the time came. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise."
"That's not—I would never—"
"Wouldn't you?" Amelia leaned forward. "Tell me honestly, Albus. When you imagined Harry Potter growing up, did you imagine him with the Black Dragon Legion? Learning combat magic at age seven? Being trained in political maneuvering and family alliances? Being raised to be dangerous?"
Dumbledore was silent.
"Or did you imagine him humble and kind? Brave but naive? Willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good because he'd been taught his whole life that he wasn't particularly special or valuable? Because that's what would happen if someone grew up being told they were a burden. They'd believe their life mattered less than others'. They'd be willing to die for a cause because they'd never learned they deserved to live."
"You're wrong," Dumbledore said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Am I?" Amelia asked. "Because from where I'm sitting, you created the perfect martyr. A boy who would grow up thinking he owed the world everything. Who would sacrifice himself without hesitation because he'd never been taught he mattered. That's what you wanted, isn't it? Not a warrior. Not a Black. A weapon you could aim at your enemies and fire."
"ENOUGH!" Dumbledore's voice cracked like thunder, and magic sparked around him. "You go too far, Amelia. You accuse me of monstrous things based on speculation and conjecture. I saved Harry. I protected him. I gave him a chance at life—"
"You gave him a cupboard," Amelia said, her voice cutting through his fury like ice. "You gave him malnutrition and abuse and years of thinking he was worthless. That's what you gave him, Albus. And now you're going to answer for it."
"I am Chief Warlock—"
"Not in this office, you're not," Amelia said. "In this office, you're a subject of investigation. And you will answer my questions, or I will hold you in contempt and have you detained. Your choice."
The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
"What questions?" Dumbledore asked finally, his voice hollow.
"Did you deliberately keep Charlus and Dorea Potter unconscious? Did you interfere with their treatment or prevent curse-breakers from attempting to wake them?"
"No," Dumbledore said. "I swear on my magic, I did not deliberately keep them unconscious. I believed they would wake naturally when the curse faded. I was... I was wrong about that, clearly."
The words hung in the air—an admission wrapped in justification.
"Did you know about the abuse at the Dursley home? The cupboard? The malnutrition? Any of it?"
"I knew they were resistant to magic," Dumbledore said carefully. "I knew they wouldn't be warm or welcoming. But I didn't know—I swear, Amelia, I didn't know about the cupboard. About the physical abuse. Mrs. Figg never reported anything like that."
"Because Mrs. Figg never looked," Amelia said. "Because you told her to monitor for Dark activity, not for Harry's welfare. Because you were more concerned with external threats than internal ones."
Dumbledore didn't deny it.
"One more question," Amelia said. "The simplest one. When Charlus and Dorea Potter petition for custody—and they will petition, I guarantee it—will you contest it?"
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment.
"They're dangerous," he said finally. "The Black Dragon Legion was responsible for some of the most brutal actions during the Grindelwald wars. They used Dark magic. They killed without hesitation. They—"
"They won," Amelia interrupted. "They held the line when everyone else was falling back. They bought Grindelwald's enemies time to regroup. They saved countless lives through their actions, however brutal. And more importantly—they're Harry's family. His blood. They love him."
"They'll train him to be a weapon," Dumbledore said. "They'll teach him Dark magic, political manipulation, all the skills they used during the war. He'll become dangerous."
"Good," Amelia said flatly. "He should be dangerous. He's the Boy-Who-Lived. He defeated Voldemort as an infant. When he grows up, people will look to him. They'll expect things from him. He needs to be strong enough, dangerous enough, to handle that pressure. He needs to be able to defend himself."
"He needs to be kind," Dumbledore countered. "Compassionate. Willing to sacrifice for others—"
"He needs to be *alive*," Amelia interrupted. "Everything else is secondary. And the Potters will keep him alive. They'll train him, protect him, teach him to be strong. That's what he needs. Not humility and martyrdom. Strength and family."
"I disagree," Dumbledore said quietly. "I believe—"
"I don't care what you believe," Amelia said, her voice final. "I care what the law says. And the law says blood family has priority in custody matters. Especially when the current guardian has demonstrably failed in their duties. You're going to lose this, Albus. The only question is how much political capital you're willing to spend fighting it."
Dumbledore stood slowly. "You're making a mistake," he said. "Harry needs—"
"Harry needs his grandmother and grandfather," Amelia interrupted. "He needs family who will love him unconditionally. He needs to be treated like a child, not a weapon or a symbol or a martyr in waiting. And he needs people around him who understand that his life has value beyond what he can do for the wizarding world."
She stood as well, meeting his eyes across the desk.
"I'm recommending to the Wizengamot that your guardianship be terminated immediately," she said formally. "Emergency custody will be granted to Charlus and Dorea Potter pending a full custody hearing. You'll have the opportunity to present your case, but I warn you—the evidence against you is damning. If you fight this, you're going to lose. And you're going to lose publicly, with everyone knowing what happened to Harry Potter under your watch."
"You're destroying my reputation," Dumbledore said quietly.
"You destroyed it yourself," Amelia countered. "I'm just making sure everyone knows. Now get out of my office. I have work to do."
Dumbledore stared at her for a long moment. Then, without another word, he turned and left, his robes swishing behind him.
Alone in her office, Amelia sat down heavily. Her hands were shaking—from anger, from adrenaline, from the sheer audacity of what she'd just done.
She'd essentially declared war on Albus Dumbledore. The most powerful wizard in Europe. The man who'd defeated Grindelwald. The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.
And she'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Because at the end of the day, Harry Potter was a five-year-old boy who'd been sleeping in a cupboard. And no amount of political power or past heroics excused that.
Her door opened. Dawlish stuck his head in. "Ma'am? Charlus and Dorea Potter are here. They said you were expecting them?"
"Send them in," Amelia said. "And Dawlish? Start drafting the formal petition for emergency custody transfer. I want it filed by noon."
"Already done, ma'am," Dawlish said with a grim smile. "Been working on it since I saw that cupboard. Figured you'd want it ready."
"Good man," Amelia said.
She stood as Charlus and Dorea Potter entered—both looking stronger than they had yesterday, but still bearing the marks of their long sleep. Dorea's eyes were fierce, burning with the intensity of someone who'd spent nine years unable to protect her family and was making up for lost time.
"Madam Bones," Charlus said, extending his hand. "Thank you for seeing us."
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Amelia replied, shaking his hand firmly. Then Dorea's. "Though I wish it had been under better circumstances."
"As do we," Dorea said. Her voice was controlled, but Amelia heard the rage underneath. "Have you spoken with Dumbledore?"
"Just finished, actually," Amelia said. "He was... less than cooperative. But he's not contesting the basic facts. He admits he didn't know about the abuse. Claims he would have intervened if he had."
"Do you believe him?" Charlus asked.
Amelia considered this. "I believe he didn't know the specifics," she said slowly. "The cupboard, the malnutrition, the physical abuse. But I also believe he didn't try very hard to find out. He wanted Harry raised a certain way, and he didn't question whether that was happening because he didn't want to know."
"Willful ignorance," Dorea said coldly. "That's still negligence."
"Agreed," Amelia said. "Which is why I'm recommending immediate termination of his guardianship and emergency custody transfer to you. The formal hearing will take time—probably a few weeks to schedule—but in the meantime, Harry stays with you. Officially. Legally."
"Thank you," Charlus said, and there was genuine gratitude in his voice. "We were prepared to fight this for months. Years, if necessary. To have it resolved so quickly—"
"Don't thank me yet," Amelia warned. "Dumbledore may not be contesting the facts, but he's still going to fight the custody transfer. He believes—genuinely believes—that you're the wrong choice for Harry. That you'll train him to be too dangerous, too dark. He's going to make that argument publicly."
"Let him," Dorea said. Her smile was sharp. "We'll make our own arguments. About a five-year-old sleeping in a cupboard. About healed fractures and malnutrition. About a boy who thought he was a freak who didn't deserve food. Let's see which argument the public finds more compelling."
"There's something else," Amelia said. "Something I need to tell you. Dumbledore mentioned that he consulted with Healers about your condition. About the curse Voldemort left you under. But he couldn't remember their names. Couldn't provide documentation."
"Meaning he didn't actually try to wake us," Charlus said. His voice was flat, emotionless. "Meaning he left us sleeping because it was convenient."
"I can't prove that," Amelia warned. "He swore on his magic that he didn't deliberately keep you unconscious. But the lack of records, the inability to recall details... it's suspicious."
"We'll investigate it ourselves," Dorea said. "Through our own contacts. If Dumbledore left us sleeping deliberately, if he prevented curse-breakers from attempting to wake us, we'll find evidence. And when we do..." She smiled, and it was terrible. "When we do, we'll make sure everyone knows."
"Just be careful," Amelia warned. "Dumbledore is still powerful. Still respected. If you push too hard, if you're seen as vindictive rather than justified, public opinion could turn against you."
"We'll be careful," Charlus promised. "But we won't be quiet. Harry deserves justice. We all do."
"Agreed," Amelia said. She pulled out the formal paperwork. "Now, let's make this official. As of this moment, by emergency order of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, custody of Harry James Potter is transferred from Albus Dumbledore to Charlus and Dorea Potter, pending formal Wizengamot review. You have full legal authority over all decisions regarding Harry's care, education, and wellbeing."
She signed the documents with a flourish, then handed them to Charlus.
"Congratulations," she said. "You're officially Harry's guardians."
Dorea's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you," she whispered. "You have no idea what this means to us."
"I think I do," Amelia said gently. "I have a niece. Susan. She's everything to me. If someone hurt her, if someone locked her in a cupboard..." She trailed off. "I'd burn the world down. I understand."
"Then you understand why we can't let this go," Charlus said. "Why we're going to fight. Why we're going to make sure everyone involved answers for their choices."
"I do," Amelia confirmed. "And I'll support you. Within the bounds of the law, I'll support you. The DMLE will conduct a thorough investigation. We'll interview everyone involved. We'll build an airtight case. And when it goes to trial—because it will go to trial—you'll have everything you need."
"What about the Dursleys?" Dorea asked. "What happens to them?"
"Once we've completed our investigation and gathered all necessary testimony, they'll face formal charges," Amelia continued. "Child abuse, child endangerment, child labor violations—the list is extensive. Given the severity and duration of the abuse, they're looking at significant prison time."
"Muggle prison or wizarding?" Charlus asked.
"That's the complicated part," Amelia admitted. "They're Muggles who abused a wizarding child. Technically, that falls under our jurisdiction—any crime involving magical persons or magical children is handled by wizarding law. But there are treaties about prosecuting Muggles who have no knowledge of our world."
"They knew Harry was magical," Dorea said coldly. "Petunia knew about magic. About Lily. About everything. She made a deliberate choice to abuse a magical child. That's not ignorance—that's malice."
"Agreed," Amelia said. "Which is why I'm recommending they be tried under wizarding law. We have the jurisdiction, we have the evidence, and frankly, our sentences for child abuse are more severe than Muggle ones. Vernon Dursley is looking at fifteen to twenty years in Azkaban. Petunia, probably similar. Dudley..." She paused. "Dudley's six. Still a minor himself. His sentence will be lighter, possibly time in a juvenile facility with mandatory counseling. He's a product of his parents' teachings."
"I want them to suffer," Dorea said quietly. "I want them to understand what they did. What they took from Harry."
"They will," Amelia promised. "Azkaban isn't kind to those who hurt children. Even the Death Eaters have standards. Someone who tortured their own family member, who starved a child, who locked a five-year-old in a cupboard..." She smiled grimly. "They won't have an easy time of it."
"Good," Dorea said simply.
"There's one more thing," Amelia said, pulling out another file. "The investigation into Sirius Black's imprisonment. Arcturus Black filed a formal motion this morning demanding a trial. I wanted to discuss it with you before we move forward."
"What about it?" Charlus asked.
"Do you believe he's innocent?"
The question hung in the air.
"I don't know," Charlus admitted. "James trusted him completely. Would have died for him—did die for him, in a way. But people change. People break under pressure. The evidence against Sirius is... extensive."
"All circumstantial," Amelia countered. "Witnesses who saw him laughing. A finger belonging to Peter Pettigrew. But no body. No confession. No trial. Just Crouch's emergency decree and five years in Azkaban."
"You think he might be innocent," Dorea said slowly.
"I think he deserves a trial," Amelia said. "Every person deserves that, no matter how damning the evidence appears. And there are... inconsistencies. Things that don't quite add up."
"Like what?" Charlus leaned forward, interested now.
"Like the fact that Peter Pettigrew was supposedly blown to bits, but only one finger was recovered," Amelia said. "Like the fact that Sirius never tried to escape, never tried to defend himself. Like the fact that he was laughing—but trauma can make people react in strange ways. Grief can look like madness."
"You think Peter staged his death," Dorea said.
"I think it's possible," Amelia said carefully. "And I think if there's even a chance Sirius Black is innocent, we owe it to him—and to James and Lily—to find out. The DMLE will support the motion for trial. We'll provide full cooperation with the investigation. If Sirius is guilty, he goes back to Azkaban. If he's innocent..." She paused. "If he's innocent, then Harry has a godfather. Family who loved his parents. Someone else who can help raise him."
"And if Peter Pettigrew is alive?" Charlus asked quietly.
"Then we hunt him down," Amelia said flatly. "And we make sure he pays for every moment of suffering he caused. For James. For Lily. For Harry. For Sirius. For everyone."
"We're already looking," Dorea said. "The Legion is searching. If Peter's out there, we'll find him."
"Just be careful," Amelia warned. "If he's been hiding for five years, he's dangerous. Desperate. Cornered animals bite."
"Then we'll bite back," Charlus said simply. "Harder."
Amelia nodded slowly. "I'll support the trial motion. Might take a few weeks to get it scheduled—the Wizengamot moves slowly. But we'll push it through."
"Thank you," Dorea said. "For everything. For believing us. For acting so quickly. For—" Her voice cracked slightly. "For caring about Harry."
"Every child deserves an advocate," Amelia said gently. "Harry more than most. He's been through hell, and he's only five years old. Making sure he's safe, that he's loved, that he grows up knowing he matters—that's not just legal duty. It's moral imperative."
"You'd have made a good member of the Legion," Charlus observed.
"I'll take that as the compliment it was intended," Amelia said with a slight smile. "Though I prefer working within the system rather than around it. Someone has to make sure the laws actually protect people."
"The system failed Harry," Dorea pointed out.
"It did," Amelia acknowledged. "Which is why I'm fixing it. Starting with formal policies about oversight for magical guardians. Regular welfare checks. Mandatory reporting. No more placing children with families and just hoping it works out. If I have anything to say about it, what happened to Harry will never happen again."
"Reform takes time," Charlus said.
"Then I'll spend the time," Amelia replied. "I've got the position. I've got the authority. And after this case becomes public, I'll have political support. No one wants to be seen defending child abuse. Even Fudge will back me on this—he's not brave, but he's not stupid. He knows which way public opinion will flow."
She stood, extending her hand again. "I'll keep you updated on the investigation. The custody hearing is scheduled for three weeks from now—November 6th. That gives you time to settle Harry in, get him comfortable, maybe start some healing. It also gives us time to build an airtight case."
"We'll be ready," Dorea promised, shaking her hand firmly.
"I know you will," Amelia said. "Now go home. Be with your grandson. He's been through enough official business for one lifetime. He needs family time. Love. Normalcy."
"Normalcy," Charlus repeated with a slight smile. "I'm not sure the Black Dragon Legion does normal."
"Then improvise," Amelia suggested. "You defeated Grindelwald. You survived Voldemort. You woke from a nine-year coma and immediately went to war with Dumbledore. I think you can manage storytime and tucking a child into bed."
"When you put it that way," Dorea said, "it does sound simple."
"Parenting is never simple," Amelia said wisely. "But it's worth it. Every moment."
—
**Black Manor - The Gardens**
**October 16th, 1985 - 2:47 PM**
Harry Potter stood in the gardens of Black Manor, staring at flowers whose names he didn't know, and tried to understand that this was real.
He'd woken that morning expecting the cupboard. Expecting darkness and hunger and the sound of Aunt Petunia's shrill voice demanding he start breakfast.
Instead, he'd woken to sunlight streaming through actual windows. To Kreth appearing with a breakfast tray laden with eggs and toast and bacon and fresh orange juice. To his grandmother knocking gently on his door—*knocking*, asking permission to enter his room—and sitting on his bed while he ate, telling him about the day's plans.
"We have to go to the Ministry for a little while," Dorea had said gently. "Just to make some papers official. Papers that say you live with us now. That you're our family. Is that alright?"
Harry had nodded, not quite believing it, but not wanting to argue in case they changed their minds.
They'd left him with Melania and Arcturus—his great-uncle, who was tall and stern but had spent an hour showing Harry the library and telling him stories about his father at Hogwarts. About pranks and adventures and a young James Potter who'd been brave and funny and loved.
Now Dorea and Charlus were back, and they'd brought papers that made everything official.
Harry had his own room. His own bed. His own *family*.
"It's a lot to take in," Charlus said, settling onto the garden bench beside Harry. "All of this. Yesterday you were in Surrey, and now you're here. It's alright to be confused. Or scared. Or whatever you're feeling."
"I'm not scared," Harry said quietly. Then, more honestly: "Well, maybe a little. What if... what if you wake up tomorrow and decide you don't want me anymore? What if I do something freaky and you send me back?"
Charlus's expression went very soft. "Harry, look at me."
Harry turned, meeting his grandfather's hazel eyes.
"We will never send you back," Charlus said, speaking each word clearly. "Never. No matter what. You're our grandson. Our family. And family doesn't abandon each other because of magic or mistakes or anything else. Do you understand?"
"But what if I'm bad? What if I break things or make messes or—"
"Then we'll clean them up together," Charlus interrupted gently. "Harry, you're five years old. You're supposed to make messes. You're supposed to break things occasionally. That's what children do. It's how you learn."
"The Dursleys said I was expensive to fix things after I broke them," Harry said quietly. "That I cost too much money. That I should be grateful they fed me at all."
Charlus was quiet for a long moment, and Harry worried he'd said something wrong. Then his grandfather spoke, and his voice was rough with emotion.
"The Dursleys were wrong about everything," he said. "You don't cost too much. You're not a burden. You're—" His voice cracked. "You're precious, Harry. You're our grandson. Our James's son. You're family, and family is the most important thing in the world."
"But I'm just me," Harry said, confused. "I'm not special. I'm just... Harry."
"You're *everything*," Dorea's voice came from behind them. She'd approached silently, settling on Harry's other side. "You're brave and kind and strong. You survived five years in that house, and you're still able to trust us. Still able to hope. That's extraordinary, Harry."
"I made Aunt Petunia's hair turn blue once," Harry admitted, as if confessing a terrible crime. "I didn't mean to. She was yelling at me and I got scared and it just... happened. She was so angry. Uncle Vernon locked me in the cupboard for a week."
"A week?" Dorea's voice went very cold. "He locked you in there for a *week*?"
Harry nodded miserably. "No food except water and some bread crusts. It was because I was bad. Because I did freaky things."
"Harry, listen to me," Dorea said, taking his small hands in hers. "You weren't bad. You were magical. There's a difference. All young wizards and witches do accidental magic when they're emotional. It's completely normal. Your father once made his teacher's wig fly off when she was scolding him in primary school."
"Really?" Harry looked up, eyes wide.
"Really," Charlus confirmed with a smile. "He was seven. The teacher—Mrs. Pemberton, I think—had been particularly nasty to him about his handwriting. James got angry, and suddenly her wig went flying across the room. Landed in the fishbowl, actually. The goldfish was very confused."
"What happened to him?" Harry asked. "Was he in trouble?"
"We had to have a conversation with the school," Dorea said. "And we explained to James that he needed to be more careful with his magic around Muggles. But we weren't angry at him, Harry. We were proud that he was coming into his power. That's how it should be. Magic is a gift, not a curse. It's wonderful."
"But the Dursleys said—"
"The Dursleys are Muggles who fear what they don't understand," Arcturus said, appearing from the house with a tea tray floating behind him. "Their fear made them cruel. But their cruelty doesn't define you, Harry. Your magic is beautiful. Natural. Something to be celebrated."
He set the tea tray on the garden table, and Harry watched in fascination as cups and saucers arranged themselves without being touched.
"Is that magic?" Harry breathed.
"Simple levitation charm," Arcturus said. "You'll learn it in your first or second year at Hogwarts. Along with hundreds of other spells. Useful ones. Fun ones. Dangerous ones, eventually, when you're older and more responsible."
"I get to learn magic?" Harry's voice was small, hopeful. "Really? They'll teach me how to make it happen on purpose instead of by accident?"
"They will," Dorea promised. "When you're eleven, you'll get a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The same school your father attended. The same school we attended. You'll learn everything—charms, transfiguration, potions, defense against dark magic. You'll make friends. You'll have adventures. You'll be brilliant at it."
"How do you know I'll be brilliant?" Harry asked.
"Because you're a Potter," Charlus said simply. "And Potters are always brilliant at magic. It's practically genetic."
"And because you're part Black," Dorea added. "And Blacks are even more brilliant. So really, you're doomed to excellence."
Harry absorbed this, turning the idea over in his mind like a shiny stone. "What if I'm not good at it? What if I'm rubbish?"
"Then we'll help you practice until you're better," Arcturus said practically. "Magic is like any skill—it requires practice. Some people have more natural talent than others, but everyone can learn. Everyone can improve."
"And if you're bad at some things, that's fine too," Melania added, emerging from the house with what looked like medical supplies. "I'm terrible at Divination. Absolutely rubbish. Can't read tea leaves to save my life. But I'm brilliant at Healing. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses."
"What was my dad good at?" Harry asked suddenly.
The adults exchanged warm, sad smiles.
"Flying," Charlus said immediately. "Your father could fly like he'd been born with wings. Best Seeker Gryffindor had seen in decades. He could spot the Golden Snitch from halfway across the pitch and catch it before anyone else even saw it was there."
"What's a Seeker? What's a Golden Snitch?"
"Quidditch positions," Dorea explained. "Quidditch is the wizarding sport—played on flying broomsticks. The Seeker's job is to catch the Golden Snitch, a tiny golden ball that flies around trying to avoid capture. Catching it ends the game and earns your team 150 points."
"That sounds amazing," Harry breathed.
"It is," Charlus promised. "And when you're old enough, we'll teach you to fly. Your father's old broomstick is in storage—a Nimbus 500. Bit outdated now, but still flies beautifully. It's yours if you want it."
"Really?" Harry's eyes went wide. "My dad's actual broomstick?"
"Really," Dorea confirmed. "Everything your father owned—his school trunk, his books, his cloak, his broomstick—it's all yours, Harry. We've kept it safe all these years. We'll show you when you're ready."
Harry was quiet for a moment, processing this. "What else was he good at?"
"Transfiguration," Melania said, settling beside Arcturus. "Your father could turn a matchstick into a needle by second year. Professor McGonagall said he had real talent for it."
"And pranks," Arcturus added with a slight smile. "Your father was legendarily good at pranks. He and his friends—Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew—called themselves the Marauders. They created a magical map of Hogwarts that showed every person's location in real-time. Absolute genius work, really, even if they used it primarily for mischief."
"Sirius Black," Harry repeated slowly. "Is he... is he related to you?"
The adults went very quiet.
"He's my great-nephew," Arcturus said carefully. "Your father's best friend. Closer than brothers, they were. Sirius was supposed to be your godfather—the person who would take care of you if something happened to your parents."
"But he's in prison," Harry said. It wasn't a question—he'd overheard enough of their conversations last night to know.
"He is," Arcturus confirmed. "He's accused of betraying your parents. Of telling the bad wizard—Voldemort—where they were hiding. But..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But we're not certain he actually did it. We think there might have been a mistake. So we're trying to get him a trial. To find out the truth."
"What if he did do it?" Harry asked quietly. "What if he's bad?"
"Then he stays in prison," Charlus said firmly. "But if he didn't—if he's innocent, if he was your father's best friend and godfather and he's been locked away for something he didn't do—then we get him out. We bring him home. And you get another person who loved your parents. Another person who will love you."
Harry considered this. "I hope he didn't do it," he said finally. "I hope he's good. I'd like to have a godfather."
"We hope that too," Dorea said softly. "We really do."
"Now then," Melania said briskly, opening her medical bag. "I need to do a proper examination. Yesterday was emergency treatment. Today I want to do a full work-up, make sure we're not missing anything. Is that alright, Harry?"
Harry tensed immediately. "Will it hurt?"
"Not at all," Melania promised. "Just spells that tell me how you're healing. How your bones are. Whether your nutrition is improving. Nothing invasive. You can sit right here in the garden with your grandparents. They'll hold your hand if you'd like."
"I'd like that," Harry said quietly.
Dorea took one of his hands, Charlus the other, and Melania began her examination.
Her wand moved in practiced patterns, casting diagnostic charms that manifested as ribbons of silver light. They wrapped around Harry, sank into him, emerged carrying information that only Melania could fully interpret.
"Good news," she said after several minutes. "You're already putting on weight—probably half a pound since yesterday. The calorie-rich potions are working. Your fractures are healing nicely. No signs of infection or complications. Your vitamin levels are still low, but improving."
"That's all good?" Harry asked.
"That's excellent," Melania confirmed. "Your body is responding beautifully to proper nutrition and care. Keep eating regularly, taking your potions, and resting, and you'll be healthy in no time."
"How long is no time?" Harry asked.
"A few weeks for the malnutrition to fully resolve," Melania said. "A few months for your bones to be completely healed and strengthened. Probably a year before you're physically where you should be for your age. But you'll get there, Harry. Your body is resilient. It's already working hard to repair itself."
"What about the psychological trauma?" Arcturus asked quietly.
Melania's expression grew more serious. "That will take longer," she admitted. "Years, probably. Harry's experienced systematic abuse for most of his life. That doesn't heal quickly or easily. He'll need time. Patience. Consistency. Professional help, potentially—there are Mind Healers who specialize in childhood trauma."
"I don't want to see another healer," Harry said immediately, pulling his hands back. "I don't want to talk to strangers about—about the Dursleys. About the cupboard. I just want to forget."
"You don't have to do anything you're not ready for," Dorea said gently. "If you don't want to see a Mind Healer, you don't have to. We can wait until you're comfortable. Or never, if that's what you choose."
"Really?" Harry looked between them. "You won't make me?"
"We won't make you," Charlus promised. "Your healing is your choice, Harry. We'll give you every option, every resource, but ultimately, you decide what you need."
Harry relaxed slightly. "Thank you."
"However," Melania said carefully, "it might help to talk to someone eventually. Not necessarily a professional—just someone you trust. Your grandparents, maybe. Or Kreth. Or me. Keeping everything locked inside can make it harder to heal."
"I'll think about it," Harry said, which was probably the best they were going to get.
"That's all I ask," Melania said. She began packing up her supplies. "Now, I believe Kreth mentioned something about chocolate cake for tea? I strongly recommend you eat some. Doctor's orders."
Harry's face lit up. "Really? I can have cake?"
"As much as you want," Dorea said. "Though maybe not so much you make yourself sick. There's a balance."
"I've never had cake before," Harry admitted. "Except once, at Dudley's birthday party. I took a small piece that fell on the floor and Aunt Petunia saw and she—" He stopped, his face closing off.
"She what?" Charlus asked gently.
"She hit my hands with a wooden spoon," Harry said quietly. "Said I was stealing. That I didn't deserve cake. That freaks didn't get treats."
The silence that fell was profound.
"Harry," Dorea said, her voice shaking with barely controlled fury, "I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to say. You are not a freak. You never were. The Dursleys were wrong about everything—about magic, about you, about what you deserve. You deserve cake. You deserve treats. You deserve every good thing in the world. Do you understand?"
"I'm trying to," Harry whispered. "But it's hard. They said it for so long. Sometimes I think... what if they're right? What if I am bad and you just don't know it yet?"
"Then we'll love you anyway," Charlus said simply. "That's what family means, Harry. We don't love you because you're perfect. We love you because you're ours. Because you're James's son. Because you're Harry. Nothing you could do would change that."
"Nothing?" Harry asked skeptically.
"Nothing," Dorea confirmed. "You could turn the whole manor pink. You could accidentally summon a dragon into the library. You could hex Arcturus's beard blue—"
"I'd deserve that," Arcturus muttered. "Been meaning to try a different style anyway."
"—and we'd still love you," Dorea continued. "We'd be mildly exasperated, certainly. We'd probably have words about using magic more carefully. But we wouldn't stop loving you. Love doesn't work that way."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this radical concept: *unconditional love*.
"Can I really have cake?" he asked finally, his voice small and hopeful.
"You can have an entire cake if you want," Charlus said. "Though again, probably not advisable from a digestive standpoint."
"Just some cake then," Harry decided. "And maybe... maybe you could tell me more stories about my dad? While we eat?"
"We can tell you stories all evening," Dorea promised. "Stories about your father and mother. About their time at Hogwarts. About how they fell in love. About how happy they were when you were born. All of it, Harry. You deserve to know."
"I'd like that," Harry said.
And as they walked back toward the manor—Harry between his grandparents, their hands gentle on his shoulders—he thought that maybe, just maybe, this was real.
Maybe he really did have a family who wanted him.
Maybe he really could stay.
Maybe, for the first time in his life, he was actually home.
Behind them, Arcturus and Melania followed at a discrete distance.
"He's going to be alright," Melania said quietly. "It'll take time, but he's resilient. And with proper care and love..." She trailed off, smiling slightly. "He's going to be more than alright. He's going to be extraordinary."
"Like his father," Arcturus agreed. "Like his whole bloody family. The Potters and Blacks breed extraordinary children." He paused. "Though I could do without the drama. Nine years of comas and secret abuse and custody battles. Can't we have one generation that's just... normal?"
"Where would be the fun in that?" Melania asked dryly.
"I'm eighty-seven years old," Arcturus said. "I've earned normal. I've earned boring. I've earned sitting in my study drinking expensive whiskey and complaining about politics."
"And yet here you are," Melania observed, "reforming the Black Dragon Legion, planning to take down Dumbledore, and searching for a potentially dead traitor who might be hiding as a rat."
"Someone has to do it," Arcturus grumbled.
"And you wouldn't have it any other way," Melania said knowingly.
Arcturus didn't deny it.
Because she was right.
The Black Dragon Legion was awake.
Harry was home.
And there was work to be done.
The war wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
---
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