Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

The Potter Keep.
29 July, 1996

It is a truth historically acknowledged that a man’s greatness is defined by how much land he can amass and how many men he can kill.

It is of course universally true for the mundane men. The men who have nothing but the might of their own muscles and the loyalty of their men to count on. The men who are defeated by nary but a curse or an arrow or a shrapnel or a bullet.

The men who are in the end, simply men. They breathe, eat, sleep, fight and breed like men. They also die like men.

The pages of history remember them and either detest them or love them. But they do forget them. Great men from history are at the mercy of the new generation who could never experience their greatness firsthand, but could only hear stories from their fathers and grandfathers. They’re at the mercy of the pen of fickle, dishonest, casual, and prideful men. The men who could never achieve a fraction of their greatness and so in their envy marginalise, twist, and diminish their life.

Men are erased with time and their achievements are weathered by generations. They are temporary.

God is absolute.

Harry Potter is absolute.

This is the story of Harry Potter and how he was born a man but became the God.

“Ma’am? We must hurry. His Imperial Highness will be looking for you soon,” urged attendant Bell.

Daphne Greengrass put her quill down and blew some air at the half-full parchment. Her mahogany desk was a testament to her studious pursuits and hosted a meticulously organised chaos of papers, parchments, quills, pens, and leather-bound notebooks.

Her eyes were slightly lidded from not sleeping her regular hours the other night but her mind was alert. Sounds of laughter came from beyond the tall windows and her eyes immediately filtered the sounds, searching for a particular voice through the muffled mixture that reached her ears, courtesy of the floor to ceiling drapes pooling on the rich, burgundy carpet near her naked feet.

“Is it time already?” she murmured and put a weighty hourglass upon the fold of parchments to protect them from the wind.

She made her way through the double doors of her study and took to the stairs as fast as she could. Although the battle was clearly far from over, the tradition dictated that celebrations begin as soon as the capital was captured.

“Tessa!”

Her elf answered immediately. “You called, Lady Daphne?”

“I’ll take tea for the guests,” Daphne instructed.

Tessa vanished for a second before reappearing and bringing her a tray filled with tea and an assortment of light snacks.

“Thank you!”

The entrance to the study was crowded by some of the Gryffin soldiers in their maroon fur coats. They stood at attention as she approached. One of them opened the door for her.

She murmured a quick thanks and entered the study. There were six men in similar coats standing around the room while Harry leaned against the desk as he studied the Map on the wall.

The air was heavy with positive anticipation. She could feel almost giddy at how much a good news at this time would benefit them.

Upon reaching him, she bobbed a formal curtsey.

“Daphne,” Harry greeted as she placed the tray on the side table. He picked up a biscuit—a coconut flavoured one—and brought it to her lips. She took a bite and with a fond smile.

She took another, a treacle flavoured one this time, and made him eat it. Predictably, his eyes lit up.

They all collectively waited until he’d tasted and had his fill with his favourite biscuits.

And then his men jumped on the tray as if they hadn’t seen any food in days.

“Goddammit Neville, not again! Give me that!”

“Ouch—you bastard!”

“I’m not gonna apologise. You were slow.”

And thus began the back and forth of who could act more childish while bargaining for more Daphne-special biscuits.

Harry exchanged an affectionate smile with her and cleared his throat.

“The Eagles are in position, it seems?”

Neville swallowed his mouthful before nodding. He went to stand by the map and pointed to a series of light blue eagles hovering in an area labelled Potsdam. “Awaiting signal from the Griffins, not that we’ll need them.”

“Nonetheless, they’ll stay until we have the clear from the capital,” Harry said firmly.

“Understood. As are their orders,” Neville assured.

Harry sat down. Daphne went and stood behind his chair, one hand on his shoulder and one in his hair. Feeling the soothing fingers on his scalp, he placed a kiss on the knuckles of her other hand.

He waved his hand and the Map shifted to display their homeland. “Any other issues I should know?”

Neville sighed. There are signs that the Order of the Phoenix is readying for an attack on the Sunderland Manufacturing Units.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “To what end?”

“No idea yet. But their numbers are boosted by some local mages from the villages that are… discontent with us.”

“And the reason for that is?”

Neville made a face. “Sirius not awarding the status of International Travel Station to their city.”

“They were given subsidised rates of travel to Newcastle for that very purpose. Since the traffic is barely enough to justify more personnel,” Harry protested.

“Tell that to the Muggleborns.” Blaise spoke for the first time. “The purebloods and half bloods understand that it’s unjustifiable. The muggleborns thought it best to join the cause.”

Harry shook his head, disappointed. “They’re being paid by the Muggle government.”

“We suspect so,” Zabini agreed, “and possibly the Americans.”

“So they got some cash and promptly decided it was the best course of action to join a mage terrorist group led by prime schoolyard bullies?”

Neville winced. Zabini tried not to laugh but failed miserably in disguising it as a cough. Neville threw him a dirty look.

“It’s a shame,” Harry said finally. “Do what you must.”

His generals nodded.

“Anything else?” Harry prompted.

Neville shook his head.

They were about to leave when another figure came into the study. Neville and his companions immediately bowed.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” they addressed him.

Harry rushed to embrace his godfather.

“Ow pup! You’ve grown too strong!” Sirius Black moaned, patting his back.

Harry grinned and let go to give him the good news. “We’re on the verge of victory.”

Sirius grinned back, his godson’s enthusiasm making his exhaustion flee like a boggart near a patronus. Ruffling his already messy hair, Sirius leaned against the desk. Harry groaned, rolling his eyes. His friends grinned.

“Tell me in detail.”

Harry launched into a play by play description of what had transpired over the last twenty-four hours. Sometime in the middle of his eight minute speech, Harry had summoned another chair beside himself and wordlessly signalled Daphne to sit.

She then took it to the other side of the desk and sat down. Harry gave her an exasperated smile but said nothing.

Sirius was nodding along, occasionally linking their exploits to the Magical and Muggle governments and asking questions. At the end of it all, he looked visibly impressed.

“Good job, Neville, Blaise. Your leaderships are already bearing fruits.” Sirius complimented.

Neville grinned and sat erect, puffing his chest. Blaise nodded proudly, not losing his composure.

And then they lapsed into silence.

Blaise descended into his thoughts while Neville resumed monitoring the Map and scribbling notes into his notebook. Their trusted men simply stood behind, awaiting directions. Sirius had sat back in his cushioned chair and closed his eyes in what felt like a while to Daphne. The man had been running ragged for as many years as Harry was alive.

Fortunately and unfortunately, Harry had borrowed the same work ethic from him.

Her eyes finally found him reading through a mix of papers and parchments on his desk.

The zone of tranquillity lasted for five minutes after which Daphne felt that it was precisely her moment to interject.

“Dinner is served. I hope everyone is hungry?” she prompted.

That signalled the end of formal affairs for the day and Harry stood up, followed by his friends, his fiancée and his godfather.

~~ .

Later that night, when Harry retired to his chambers, he saw Daphne sitting on their bed, her feet covered with a duvet while she worked on her secret project.

He tiptoed behind the bed to take a look but she shut her notebook at just the right time.

“Harry! I told you, no peeking!”

Harry climbed onto the bed and pulled her onto his lap. She gasped as her legs ended up on either side of him so she was effectively straddling him.

“His Majesty’s intentions don’t feel so pure tonight,” she purred.

Harry smirked as he nuzzled her neck, his growing beard bearing some fruitful results on her sensitive skin. She squealed.

“At least give me a hint as to what you’re working on?” he asked.

Daphne looked into his green eyes with a look that screamed her exasperation. “I told you I’ll show it to you first when I have a part of it done.”

“But what is it?” he asked stubbornly.

Daphne rolled her eyes and he once again applied his ticklish chin to her poor neck. The devil.

“It’s a surprise,” she said.

Harry pouted. “I know.” Then he seemed to remember something. “I’ve told you so many times, Daphne, you don’t need to do a curtsey for me. And what was that chair business in the study? Did you think I didn’t notice it?”

Daphne met his eyes boldly. “I do it because you’re the Crown Prince. You deserve our respect in public. And as for the chair, I will always stand by you, Harry, not because of my vow but I’ve given you my heart and you’ve accepted it most graciously. However, taking a seat beside you will make me be perceived as of equal position and authority to you. It’s disrespectful and unacceptable. Even the Emperor himself didn’t try to stand beside you as he addressed your generals.”

“Sirius cares about this formality even less than me. In his public dealings, he already refers to the little old me as the Emperor,” he smirked. “It’s funnier when he does that in front of the Muggle governments where the median age is more than thrice that of mine.”

Daphne pursed her lips. “They’ll learn to respect it. Respect you. In their experience, sixteen year old boys are only capable of speaking in hyperboles and chasing skirts. They’ll know that you are incomparable.”

She could only maintain her passive face and her firm composure for so long because Harry looked at her with so much love that it hurt.

He captured her lips in a needy kiss and her arms encircled his neck. By the time she was breathless and wanting, he let go. Her head was swimming.

“And in private?” he breathed.

Daphne, now thoroughly disarrayed, stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“How are you supposed to behave in private?” he repeated, his voice taking on that lilt of authority that she absolutely loved and desired so much.

She tucked her head under his chin, her temple against his heart.

“In private, you’re my Lord.”

The authority in his eyes soon transformed into his actions as well as his lips claimed hers hungrily again. What started as sweetness had soon turned into passion, and all she could do was surrender to his mouth and his touch.

It was later that night when Daphne was putting another filled parchment to rest while her Harry was asleep. She’d put off sleep to work for just an hour on her book away from the noise of the day undisturbed.

One of the greatest wizards in history of magic has said that Love is the most powerful magic of them all. Its surplus and scarcity both have their own effects and uses.

Harry Potter has had an abundance of both.

His parents gave him love but war took it prematurely away.

His godfather gave him love while the world made him learn to enjoy its lack thereof.

Love of knowledge gave him a surplus of hunger. Breaches of trust gave him a surplus of willpower.

Enemies loved to hurt him, but his anger led to a surplus of ambition.

The time had never seemed right to be Harry Potter. But he transformed fate and enslaved destiny through his sheer will and hunger.

It is on its precipice that we stand. The pages of history that will be written by the victor himself.

It is the time of prosperity. It is the time of happiness. It is the time of magic.

It is the time of the God-Emperor.

~~ .

When Daphne did go to sleep again, she didn’t get too much of it. At exactly 4:54am, she and Harry were roused by her attendant rushing unceremoniously into the room.

“What is it, Katie?” Harry, still shirtless from beside her, had sat up. His tone was sharp, having already erased the drowsiness from itself by then. Every little thing like this made her admire him so much.

Blinking in the dark, Daphne turned to stare at her attendant who had her eyes cast downward, respecting their privacy. She had to use all her willpower to resist her yawn as she waited for the urgent message.

“His Imperial Majesty’s procession has been attacked on his way to the ICW Headquarters!” Katie blurted out.

“Sirius!”

The name, a raw cry torn from Harry’s lips, echoed in the pre-dawn stillness of their chambers. Daphne’s heart seized in her chest.

In an instant, the warmth of their bed became a freezing expanse. Harry was already moving, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a fluid grace that belied the violent shock of the news. The muscles in his back, which she had traced with her fingertips only hours ago, were now corded with tension.

He snatched a heavy silk robe from a nearby valet stand, shrugging it on as if it were armour.

“Where is he, Katie? What’s his last known position?” His voice was dangerously low, a blade honed by years of command. All traces of the man who had held her with such tenderness were gone, replaced by the Crown Prince of the Albion Imperium.

Katie flinched, her hands wringing the fabric of her apron. “We don’t know, Your Highness! The entire procession went dark. No magical signatures, no communication… nothing. It’s as if they vanished off the face of the earth.” The frantic edge in her voice grated on Daphne’s nerves, a stark contrast to Harry’s lethal calm.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along the sharp line of it. He was already striding towards his wardrobe, pulling on trousers and a tunic with brisk, efficient movements. “Get me Neville. Now.”

“He’s already waiting in the strategy room, sir,” Katie stammered. “He was alerted the moment we lost contact and is awaiting your instructions.”

Of course Neville was there. Bless him! Their entire chain of command was built on such unflinching readiness.

Harry gave a curt nod, not even breaking his stride as he fastened the last buckle on his boots. Daphne scrambled out of bed, grabbing her own robe. The chill on her bare feet was nothing compared to the ice forming in her veins. She rushed after him, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs as they navigated the torchlit corridors, which were already beginning to stir with the quiet, urgent movements of guards.

They found Neville standing before the grand map in the strategy room, his expression a grim mask. He didn’t even look up as they entered.

“Report,” Harry commanded, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

“The attack was precise and magically overwhelming,” Neville said, his finger tracing a route just outside of Lyon. “They bypassed all our primary wards. The only clue we have is a single capture. One of our patrols found a known Order member lurking near the ruins of the old Macnair estate, not ten miles from the ambush point. He was trying to destroy a portkey when we apprehended him.”

A terrible silence descended upon the room. Daphne watched Harry’s face, seeing the flicker of fear harden into something immutable and cold.

“So it is the Order,” Harry said, the words falling like chips of ice.

And then he turned his gaze from the map to meet Neville’s, and Daphne saw a storm gathering in his emerald eyes, a storm she knew would not break until it had washed the world clean.

“They’ve hidden in the shadows for too long, nipping at our heels like curs. After Dumbledore, we recognized them, gave them their sovereignty, protected them form prosecution, and yet, they keep wanting more. More rights, more land, more independence, and it never ends. But this is enough.”

His voice had an undercurrent of finality in it that chilled her.

“I’m going to finish this today. Once and for all.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - The Transaction of Blood

Godric’s Hollow
31 October, 1981

One Hour to Ruin

The little cottage was an island of defiant warmth against the cold, creeping mist of Halloween night. Inside, the crackle of the hearth and the soft glow of enchanted lamps kept the encroaching shadows at bay.

James Potter swirled the deep red liquid in his glass, the stem held loosely between his fingers as he watched his wife.

“You know,” he began, a lazy smile playing on his lips, “for a Muggle invention, this Cabernet stuff isn’t half bad. A bit stuffy, the whole ‘letting it breathe’ business, but the end result…” He took a slow sip. “Decidedly magical.”

Lily, curled on the opposite end of the sofa with her own glass, offered a faint smile in return. “Muggles have their own kind of magic, James. You just have to know where to look for it.” Her gaze was distant, fixed on the dancing flames.

“And you always do,” he said softly, his own smile fading slightly as he studied her. The Fidelius Charm was a masterful piece of magic, a fortress of secrecy, yet it had become their gilded cage. He could see the strain of their confinement etched in the fine lines around her eyes, in the way her shoulders never fully relaxed.

He moved to sit beside her, draping an arm around her. “Hey. We’re safe here. He can’t find us.”

“I know.” Her voice was a near-whisper. She leaned into his embrace, her head resting on his shoulder. “I just… I feel it sometimes. Like the world is holding its breath.”

“Then let it,” James murmured, pressing a kiss to her fiery red hair. “We’ll be right here when it breathes again. You, me, and Harry. And old Padfoot will finally stop sending us letters that howl insults at the post owl.”

A genuine laugh, soft and musical, escaped her. “He’s worried.”

“He’s dramatic,” James corrected with a grin. “Always has been.” He raised his glass. “To a quiet night. And to Padfoot’s impending lecture on proper owl etiquette.”

Lily raised her glass to meet his. “To a quiet night,” she echoed.

She took a delicate sip of the wine, its rich, earthy flavour a welcome distraction.

But as the liquid went down, a sudden, violent chill seized her, radiating from her core outwards. It was colder than the autumn air, colder than a Dementor’s passing.

It was the cold of absolute certainty.

She choked, a strangled gasp escaping her as the wine glass slipped from her numb fingers, shattering on the stone floor. Dark red liquid, thick as blood, pooled on the flagstones.

“Lily!” James was on his feet in an instant, his wand in his hand, his eyes scanning every shadow in the room. “What is it? What happened?”

“Nothing,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her throat as she fought for breath. The feeling was already fading, leaving only a trembling in its wake. “It wasn’t…I don’t know—just…. a feeling.”

His eyes bore into hers.

She trembled. “James, he’s coming.”

“Who’s coming? Lily, the charm is holding. We’d know if—”

“He’s coming tonight,” she insisted, her green eyes wide with a terror that stole his breath. She grabbed the front of his robes, her knuckles white. “I know it. I can feel it in my bones. The charm won’t be enough.”

James’s face hardened, the easygoing humour of moments before vanishing completely. He knelt before her, taking her shaking hands in his. “Alright. Alright, I believe you. What do we do? Do we run?”

She shook her head, a single tear tracing a path down her pale cheek. “There’s nowhere to run, not in time. We knew this day might come. We… we have to do the ritual.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and dreadful.

James stared at her, his expression a mixture of disbelief and horror. “Lily, no. We agreed that was an absolute last resort. It’s theoretical. You said so yourself, it’s magic no one has used in centuries. What if it goes wrong? What if it kills us?”

“What if it’s the only thing that can save Harry?” she countered, her voice gaining a sliver of its usual strength. “We talked about this. It will be a sacrifice. Not of life, but of what makes us us. Us, James. All of it. And our Harry will be the only one who can access it.”

“And it would leave us… with what? Squibs? Muggles?” He recoiled from the word, the very idea a physical blow. “We should at least retain a fighting chance against him!”

“It would leave Harry with a fighting chance!” she cried, her voice cracking. “A reservoir that no one, not even Voldemort, could comprehend. A legacy. Our love and our magic, intertwined, protecting him when we can’t.”

He looked away from her desperate, pleading eyes, his gaze falling on the shattered glass and the dark stain on the floor. All the prowess, every skill, all the bravado, all the years of fighting… it had all led to this. A choice between trying to protect his family and giving his son the chance in case of the—

“You’re sure?” he asked, just one more time.

She nodded, her face deathly pale.

It wasn’t a choice at all, he realized. It this was needed, he will do it happily.

“Okay,” he breathed, his shoulders slumping in defeat before squaring with new resolve. He met her gaze, his hazel eyes clear and determined. “Okay, Lily. Let’s do it. Tell me what you need.”

They moved with the desperate, efficient grace of two soldiers who knew their time was short. Lily raced to her small study, returning with a leather-bound book so old it looked as though it might crumble to dust if the wind picked up. James cleared the space before the hearth, his wand movements sharp and precise.

Lily knelt, flipping the book open to a page marked with a single, pressed petal from a white rose. She began to draw on the floor with a piece of chalk, her hands moving swiftly, sketching a complex array of runes, some familiar, others completely foreign and archaic looking, at least to his eye.

“The circle represents eternity,” she explained, her voice steady now, focused. “The runes of Uruz and Algiz for strength and protection. And this one…” she traced a spiraling, intricate symbol in the center, “...this is Soteria. The Rune of Sanctuary. It doesn’t just protect; it preserves. Do you understand?”

He saw it all then, this absurd, risky, and insane but extremely comprehensive path to not just defeating Voldemort, but ensuring that their only child got to live.

And not just live, but live happily and with a vigour that nobody could match.

Has it even been attempted before? He didn’t voice it.

Once the circle was complete, they stood in the centre, facing each other. James placed their wands on the floor, side by side, pointing towards the hallway that led to Harry’s nursery.

“We have to be sure, James,” Lily said, taking his hands. Her palms were cold. “This is a willing sacrifice. No regrets. No hesitation. It’s the only way the magic will hold.”

“No regrets,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. He squeezed her hands. “Never.”

Lily took a deep breath. She reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then looked towards the nursery. She walked softly to the door, pushing it open just a crack. Inside, bathed in the soft moonlight filtering through the window, their son was sleeping peacefully in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

She tiptoed in, leaning over the wooden bars. She didn't dare touch him, lest she wake him. “Hello, my love,” she whispered, her voice aching with all the things she would never get to say. “Mummy and Daddy are right here. We’re always going to be here. We’re going to wrap you in so much love that nothing will ever hurt you. You are going to be safe. You are going to be so, so loved. Always.”

She watched him for a moment longer, memorizing the curve of his cheek, the tuft of untameable black hair so like his father's. Then, with a final, silent promise, she returned to the circle.

She took out a small silver knife. Without flinching, she drew a thin red line across her left palm, then handed the knife to James, who did the same without hesitation. They clasped their bleeding hands together, their blood mingling over the central rune.

“I, Lily Evans Potter,” she began, her voice ringing with a power that had nothing to do with a wand, “give of myself. I give my magic, my power, my essence. I give it all freely, for the protection of my son, Harry James Potter.”

“I, James Charlus Potter,” he followed, his voice strong and unwavering, “give of myself. I give my magic, my power, my essence. I give it all freely, for the protection of my son, Harry James Potter.”

They closed their eyes. The air in the room grew thick and heavy.

A soft, golden light emanated from their joined hands, flowing down to illuminate the rune of Soteria. The light spread, tracing the entire chalk circle, pulsing like a heartbeat. They felt it then, a profound, hollowing emptiness. It was like a vital organ being scooped out, leaving a cold, aching void. Their connection to something tangible, something powerful in the world, a sense they had lived with their entire lives, being severed.

The room, which had always felt alive with latent energy, was suddenly silent and inert.

The light flared once, bright and blinding, then vanished.

James staggered, his legs weak. Lily swayed, and he caught her, holding her upright. They were still themselves, yet fundamentally less. The air they breathed was just air now, no longer a sea of infinite possibility.

The magic had done its job.

And outside, beyond the failing wards, a gate creaked open.

~~ .

Albus Dumbledore sat in the throne-like chair of his office, the gentle whirring and puffing of his silver instruments the only sound in the vast, circular room. His ancient hands, long and thin, rested on the polished wood of his desk.

He had done all he could. The pieces were set. The warnings had been given, ignored, and subverted. Now, there was nothing left to do but wait.

Fawkes trilled softly from his perch, a single, questioning note. The Headmaster did not look up. He reached over, his fingers stroking the phoenix’s magnificent scarlet plumage, the warmth of the magical creature a small comfort against the chill that had settled deep in his bones.

“Patience, my friend,” he murmured, his voice a low, tired rumble. “The turning of the wheel is upon us. It cannot be stopped. It can only be endured.”

He knew. He had seen the inexorable path of the prophecy laid out before him, a tapestry of loss and sacrifice. He had tried to weave in threads of hope, to alter the pattern where he could, but the great, bloody knot at its centre was unavoidable.

A boy had to be marked as an equal. A sacrifice had to be made. A legend had to be born from tragedy.

There was no other way.

He felt a pang of profound sorrow, a familiar ache for the two bright, brave souls he had sent into hiding, knowing their protection was flawed, a lie held together by a single, fragile secret. Their trust in him was a weight upon his soul.

But then the fate of the world, he reminded himself, was a heavier one. A single family, even one he cared for, could not be allowed to outweigh the whole.

Fawkes nudged his hand, sensing the old wizard’s grief. Dumbledore offered a sad, weary smile.

“It is a terrible thing, to play with lives as though they mean nothing, as if they’re mere pieces on a chess board,” he whispered, more to himself than to his only companion. “But the board must be set for the game to come. And tonight… tonight, the opening gambit will be played.”

His gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the last light of day had surrendered to the night. And in the very air, in the subtle currents of magic that only he could feel, there was a tremor. A cold, dark thread of intent was drawing itself taut across the map of Britain, aimed directly at one small, defiant point of light in Godric’s Hollow.

It had begun.

~~ .

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - The Unwanted Burden

The Price of Normalcy

The engine of the BMW sedan whined in protest as Vernon Dursley took a corner with more speed than was strictly necessary. His large, beefy hands were clenched so tightly on the steering wheel that his knuckles were white islands in a sea of mottled red.

“I still don’t see why we have to be the ones to do this,” he grumbled, his thick moustache bristling with indignation. “It’s been a week, Petunia. A week! And not a single peep from… from them. They dump him on our doorstep and just vanish!”

Petunia stared straight ahead, her thin face a mask of grim determination. She didn't look at her husband, nor did she glance at the bundle wrapped in a blue blanket in the back seat, from which a small, contented gurgle occasionally emanated. “Because there is no one else, Vernon. They’re all gone. Dead. That’s what the letter said.”

“Good riddance, I say!” Vernon sputtered. “But that doesn’t make him our problem. He’s one of them. He’s a freak, just like your sister was.”

The word hung in the air, sharp and ugly. Petunia’s lips thinned into a bloodless line. “She was my sister, Vernon.”

“And she got herself blown up playing with things that aren’t natural! Now we’re stuck with the consequences. What will the neighbours say? What will we tell them when he starts… you know.” He shuddered, unable to bring himself to say the word. “Making things float? Talking to snakes?”

“He won’t,” Petunia said, her voice brittle as autumn leaves. “He won’t be given the chance. That’s the entire point of this trip.” She finally turned to him, her pale eyes glinting with a cold, hard light he’d rarely seen. “I am not having that in my house, Vernon. I am not having my Dudley grow up next to that… that abnormality. I spent my entire life trying to be normal, to be better than she was. I will not have her hell spawn poison my home.”

Vernon seemed taken aback by the sheer venom in her tone, but it quickly morphed into grudging agreement. “Well… quite right. Can’t have Dudley tainted. So, this place you’re talking about. Are you sure they’ll take him?”

“They’re bankers,” she said with a sniff of disdain. “They’ll do anything if there’s money involved. And from what Lily used to boast about, the Potters had plenty of it. We’ll tell them to use the boy’s own accounts to find him a proper place. A school, or an institution… I don’t care. As long as it’s far away from us.”

“And they won’t try to… do anything to us?” Vernon asked, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper as he slowed the car, navigating the unfamiliar, grimy streets of London.

“We’re not the ones they want,” Petunia said, a flicker of her old fear showing through. “We’re just Muggles. We don’t matter to them. Just pull over here, behind that pub. The Leaky Cauldron.”

Vernon eyed the dingy, crooked building with profound disgust. “Looks like it ought to be condemned. You’re not expecting me to go in there, are you?”

“No,” Petunia said, unclasping her seatbelt. “You’ll wait here. This is mine to deal with.”

She got out of the car and opened the back door, deftly lifting the sleeping baby into her arms. For a single, fleeting moment, she looked down at the boy’s face, at the lightning-bolt scar peeking out from under the blanket. There was no softness in her expression, only a final, weary determination.

She was closing a door, and she intended to lock it for good.

“I won’t be long,” she said, and with a firm click of the car door, she turned and walked towards the pub, a perfectly normal woman carrying a most abnormal secret, ready to make her final transaction with a world she despised.

She slipped through the door of the Leaky Cauldron without drawing a single glance, her plain, neat clothes a stark contrast to the bizarre robes of the patrons.

Ignoring the loud, celebratory atmosphere, she moved directly to the back alley, her memory of a trip made years ago with her sister serving her well.

She tapped the bricks in the correct sequence with her car key, and the wall folded away, revealing the impossible, chaotic splendour of Diagon Alley.

But Petunia did not marvel. Neither did she look at the shops selling cauldrons or owls.

Her focus was absolute, fixed on the great, white marble building that loomed at the end of the street. She walked with a brisk, determined stride, the baby in her arms nothing more than a parcel to be handed over to the midget bastards.

Inside Gringotts, the silence was a stark contrast to the noise outside. Goblins with clever, dark eyes peered down from their high stools, their long fingers counting galleons and making notes in massive ledgers. Petunia marched directly to the head teller’s podium.

“I am here about the Potter accounts,” she announced, her voice clear and sharp.

The goblin barely looked up. “And you are?”

“Petunia Dursley. I am Lily Potter’s sister.” She adjusted the baby in her arms, revealing his face and the famous scar. “This is her son. I need to make arrangements for him.”

The goblin’s eyes flickered to the scar, and his demeanour shifted almost imperceptibly. He snapped his fingers, and another, younger goblin appeared at his side. “Take Madam Dursley to his account manager. The matter of the Potter estate requires his attention.”

She was led through the winding corridors of stone and gold to a set of imposing obsidian doors. Inside, a goblin with a shrewd, lined, and calculating face sat behind a desk of polished granite.

He did not rise.

“Director Ragnok,” the younger goblin announced, to Petunia’s surprise.

The old goblin, Ragnok, gestured to a hard-backed chair opposite his desk. “Leave us.”

Petunia sat, placing the still-sleeping Harry on her lap.

“I am here to relinquish custody of the boy,” she stated, wasting no time on pleasantries. “I am his last living relative, but I am… unable to care for him. His parents’ estate must be used to provide for his placement in a suitable institution.”

Ragnok steepled his long fingers, his black eyes glinting. “An unusual request, Madam Dursley. Gringotts is a bank, not a social service. On what authority do you, a Muggle, make decisions regarding a magical inheritance?”

“On the authority of Albus Dumbledore,” Petunia said, retrieving the letter that had been left on her doorstep. She pushed it across the desk. “It names me as his guardian by blood. I am exercising that authority by refusing the duty.”

Ragnok picked up the letter, reading it with a speed that belied his age. A slow smile spread across his thin lips.

Petunia had no idea what she’d done or if it was something she’d said, but that smile looked absolutely deranged on the goblin’s face.

“I see,” he said, setting the letter down. “This does indeed complicate matters. The Potters are deceased. Their chosen guardian, Sirius Black, is a wanted fugitive and traitor. And you, the designated blood-kin, are formally rejecting your charge.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “By all Gringotts laws, this means the Potter line is currently in abeyance. It has no magical guardian to act on its behalf.”

“I don’t care about the legalities,” Petunia said impatiently. “Just take him. Use the Potter money and put him somewhere he will be taken care of. Somewhere… away from us.”

“Oh, we will do far more than that,” Ragnok said smoothly. “Our most ancient charters contain a clause for just such a tragic eventuality. When a Noble line becomes dormant, with no magical claimant to direct its assets, Gringotts is legally bound to assume stewardship of the entire estate to prevent its misuse. We will, of course, deduct a nominal fee for the boy’s placement and upbringing.”

The meaning was clear, even to her.

They weren’t just taking the boy; they were taking everything.

For a moment, she thought of Lily, of the pride she had in her family's history. Then she thought of her own life, of her clean house, her lovely Dudley, and the blissful normalcy she craved.

“Fine,” Petunia said, standing up. “That is your affair. My part in this is done.”

She placed the baby, Harry, on the cold granite desk, pulling the blanket tight around him. She did not look at his face. She did not say goodbye. She didn’t want to.

She simply turned around, walked out of the office, and did not look back.

Ragnok watched her go, the smile never leaving his face. He looked down at the sleeping infant, the last scion of a great house, now a penniless orphan.

“Gornuk,” he barked. “Liquidate all Potter and Peverell assets and transfer them to the Gringotts main treasury vaults. And send the boy to Wool’s. They owe us a favour.”

~~ .

A Legend Named in Ale

The Leaky Cauldron was overflowing.

Witches and wizards, young and old, were packed shoulder to shoulder, raising glasses of firewhisky, butterbeer, and gillywater. The air was thick with smoke, relief, and the thunderous noise of celebration.

Voldemort was gone. Dead.

They were free!

“To the Ministry!” someone shouted from a corner table.

“To Dumbledore!” roared another.

In the centre of it all, his massive frame taking up four stools, was Rubeus Hagrid. His face was flushed, his beard was damp with spilled mead, and his eyes were swimming with tears.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he boomed, his voice cracking with emotion as he slammed a tankard the size of a bucket onto the bar. “Seventeen years of terror… gone. Just like that.”

“But how, Hagrid?” asked a young witch with bright blonde hair, leaning in eagerly. “The Prophet’s just sayin’ he’s gone. It doesn’t say how!”

Hagrid took a great, shuddering breath, overwhelmed by the secret he was carrying. He looked around at the hopeful, cheering faces. “It wasn’t Dumbledore, not this time,” he slurred, his voice dropping slightly. “It was… it was their boy.”

A hush fell over the immediate area. “Whose boy?” Tom the barman asked, pausing in polishing a glass.

“James and Lily’s,” Hagrid blurted out, “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… he went fer them, fer little Harry. An’ he killed ‘em. But when he turned his wand on Harry… the curse rebounded! Just bounced right off him Dumbledore said! Great man, Dumbledore! Little fella ain’t got more’n a scratch on his forehead! The boy lived!”

A collective gasp went through the crowd, followed by a moment of stunned silence, and then an explosion of sound louder than anything before.

“He lived?”

“A baby stopped You-Know-Who?”

“The boy lived? How?!”

“The boy who lived!” someone yelled, and the name caught like wildfire, a new legend being forged in shouts and spilled ale.

Amid the renewed, even more frantic celebration, a wizard in the corner lowered his copy of the Daily Prophet.

“A legend is born, but the work’s not over,” he muttered to his companion, tapping a small column on the back page. “Says here Minister Bagnold’s given the Aurors clearance to use the Unforgivables. They’re not taking any chances with the Death Eaters who are left.”

His friend nodded grimly, taking a long pull of firewhisky. “The war is over,” he said, looking around at the cheering crowd. “But the hunt has just begun.”

~~ .

Please reply with your thoughts! Your comments bring a smile to my face, and motivate me to write more!

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - The Uncaged Dog

The air in the Ministry holding cell was cold, heavy, and dead. It smelled of stone, despair, and the faint, cloying scent of ozone from the numerous wards that pulsed within the walls.

Sirius Black sat on the edge of a stone slab that passed for a cot, his head in his hands. He hadn't moved in hours. He was the very picture of a broken man.

A sharp rap on the cell’s iron bars made him flinch. A young Auror with a smug, ruddy face peered in, his wand held casually in his hand. “Enjoying the accommodations, Black?”

Sirius didn't look up. “Go away, Proudfoot.”

“That’s Auror Proudfoot to you, traitor,” the man sneered, rattling the bars again. “Big shot Lord Black. Look at you now. Your little Death Eater friend got what was coming to him, and you’re next. They say the Dementors are looking forward to meeting you. A real feast.”

A muscle feathered in Sirius’s jaw, the only sign that he’d heard those venomous words.

He remained silent, his shoulders slumped. He had spent the last week doing this, playing the part.

He’d wept, he’d raged, he’d fallen into silent catatonia. He had given them the exact show they expected from a man who had lost everything after betraying his best friend.

They saw grief. They saw madness. They never thought to look for the cold, calculating fury that was burning beneath it all.

“Nothing to say?” Proudfoot taunted, enjoying his power. “Cat got your tongue? Or did you finally realize you’re going to rot in the worst hell imaginable? I hear you scream their names in your sleep. James. Lily. Harry Potter, the little boy you almost got killed. Good. You should suffer more.”

Proudfoot lingered for another minute, hoping for a reaction, a flicker of the arrogant Lord he’d heard stories about.

When he got nothing, he sighed in disappointment.

“Pathetic,” he spat, and with a final, contemptuous look at Sirius, he turned, his heavy footsteps receding down the stone corridor.

The moment the sound faded, Sirius’s head lifted.

The broken man was gone. In his place was a predator. His grey eyes, clear and sharp as splintered ice, scanned the cell.

The Ministry, in its arrogance, had made a mistake. They’d placed him in a temporary holding cell, one not meant for long-term containment.

The wards were powerful, yes, but they were old. And like all old things, they had a rhythm.

And he was a master of all things rhythm.

He could find one in any charm, any curse, any enchantment, and even in a simple harmless jinx. He could do it all blindfolded.

He was a Black, and for the first time ever, he felt like his childhood lessons from his grandfather had borne fruit.

He’d not wasted his talents. He’d been useful, from day one, to his friends, as an integral part of the Marauders, and later, to the war as an Auror.

And now, stuck here, he knew exactly what he needed to do to get out of this hellhole.

He had spent a week timing it. A surge of power for fifty-eight seconds, followed by a two-second flicker as the magical capacitors recharged.

Two seconds. That was all he would need.

He closed his eyes, not in despair, but in concentration. He listened to the hum of the wards, feeling the pulse of their magic. Fifty six…fifty-seven… fifty-eight…

Now.

In the single, silent second of the flicker, he poured his will into the transformation.

There was no flash of light, no grand display. One moment, a man sat on the cot. The next, a large, black dog, gaunt and silent as the grave, stood in his place. The surge of magic returned, washing over him, but the Animagus transformation was an internal, deep magic of the self. The wards were designed to suppress spellcasting, not the very nature of one’s being.

So the wards pressed on him, an uncomfortable weight, but they could not break the change.

As a dog, he was large, but much more flexible. The food slot at the bottom of the cell door, designed for sliding in a tray of slop, was just large enough. He squeezed through, his bones compressing painfully, and emerged into the empty corridor.

He didn't run.

He trotted, his paws making no sound on the cold stone. He knew the layout of this level from his younger, more reckless days. He navigated the labyrinthine corridors with an unerring sense of direction, a silent shadow in a place that thought it had him caged. He found a supply closet, slipped inside, and transformed back.

A moment later, he emerged wearing the nondescript grey robes of a Ministry maintenance worker, his face artfully smudged with dirt. He walked with a slight stoop, carrying a bucket and mop he’d found inside.

No one gave him a second glance. He was invisible, another cog in the great, grinding machine of the Ministry.

He walked out the public entrance in the Atrium, nodding to the night-watch wizard, and vanished into the cold, Muggle streets of London.

His first stop was not a place, but a person. An old informant from his Order days, a squib named Fletcher who knew the whispers of the underworld.

Sirius found him in a dingy pub in Knockturn Alley, cornering him in the loo. He didn’t use his wand. He didn’t need to.

“Fletcher,” Sirius said, his voice a low growl. “I need information. A child. An orphan. Magical. Dropped off somewhere in the last week.”

Fletcher gasped and then Sirius lifted his sleeve as a warning.

The threat alone was enough.

Fletcher, pale and trembling, stammered, “I dunno nothin’, Lord Black, I swear!”

Sirius’s hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar. He leaned in, his grey eyes boring into Fletcher’s watery ones. “You are a dealer in secrets, Fletcher. And I know you just sold a set of enchanted baby blankets with the Potter crest on them to a pawn shop down the lane. You will tell me where you got them, or I will perform an organ-rearranging jinx I learned from my dear cousin Bellatrix. She was always so very creative with torture.”

The squib’s resistance crumbled. “Wool’s!” he squeaked. “In South London! A matron there sometimes sells off the belongings of the new arrivals. That’s all I know!”

Sirius released him. “Good boy.” A flick of his wrist, and a wordless Confundus and an Obliviate left Fletcher staring blankly at the grimy wall, the memory of their conversation dissolving like smoke.

Wool’s Orphanage was a monument to misery. A tall, grim building of soot-stained brick, surrounded by a rusty iron fence.

Sirius felt a wave of nausea. To think that Harry, James and Lily’s son, was in this place.

He didn’t knock. His grandfather wouldn’t do that, so he wouldn’t.

He strode through the front door as if he owned the building. A stern-faced woman with a tightly wound bun looked up from her desk, her expression souring.

“We’re closed to visitors today,” she said in a nasal voice.

“I’m not a visitor,” Sirius said, his voice unnervingly calm. He walked towards her desk, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m here to collect my godson. Harry Potter.”

The matron, Mrs. Cole, scoffed. “We have no boy by that name. Now if you’ll kindly—”

She stopped. Sirius hadn’t drawn his wand, but she felt a sudden, immense pressure on her mind, a powerful suggestion that was impossible to resist. It was not a request; it was a command that bypassed her will entirely.

“You’re mistaken,” Sirius’s voice was soft, but it echoed in her mind like a gong. “You do have a boy named Harry Potter. He arrived a few days ago. You will check your records. You will find that his guardianship has been transferred to me. You will bring him to me now, along with all of his belongings.”

Mrs. Cole’s eyes glazed over.

And then her jaw went slack and she nodded.

“Of course,” she said, her voice a monotone. “Forgive me, sir. The paperwork must have been misplaced.” She stood robotically and walked to a filing cabinet, her movements stiff and unnatural. She pulled out a folder, then turned and walked down a long, dark hallway.

A few moments later, she returned, carrying a small, bundled infant. The baby was awake, his green eyes, so much like Lily’s, wide and curious. Sirius’s breath caught in his throat.

He took Harry from her arms, the small, warm weight a grounding force in the storm of his rage. He looked at the scar on the boy’s forehead, a dark, angry red. Proof.

“His things,” Sirius said, his voice tight.

Mrs. Cole handed him a small, worn satchel. “This is all he came with.”

Sirius looked inside. A few spare nappies and the enchanted blankets Fletcher had mentioned. Nothing else. No letter. No toys. Nothing from his parents. He felt a fresh wave of fury.

He turned his attention back to the matron. He needed to be a ghost. He looked into her eyes again, his magic sinking deeper, rearranging her thoughts with surgical precision. “You will go back to your desk. The boy who was in cot seven was collected by a nice, ordinary couple from Surrey this afternoon. You were very happy to see him go to a good home. You have never seen me. You will never remember this conversation.”

“A nice couple from Surrey,” she repeated blankly. “Yes. I remember.”

“Good,” Sirius said. He turned and walked out of the orphanage, holding his godson close to his chest.

He Apparated from a nearby alleyway with a sharp crack, vanishing from the world that had tried to erase him.

He reappeared in the dusty, silent parlour of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The house had been dormant for years, but it was unplottable, shielded by the most powerful wards the Noble and Ancient House of Black could muster.

It was safe.

He gently placed the sleeping Harry in the centre of a large, damask sofa. He looked down at the tiny, perfect face, the son of the brother he had chosen. And in that moment, the full, crushing weight of his loss, of Peter’s betrayal, of Dumbledore’s manipulations, of the Ministry’s blind injustice, and the goblins’ rapacious greed, coalesced into a single point of pure, unadulterated resolve.

He drew his wand. The black, elegant wood felt warm and familiar in his hand. He pointed it to the heavens, though the ceiling was in the way.

“I, Sirius Orion Black, Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, do swear upon my life and my magic,” his voice was low, but it resonated with power, the very air in the room vibrating with the force of his oath. A thread of brilliant, white-hot light erupted from his wand tip, twisting around his arm.

“I swear to protect Harry James Potter, my godson and heir, with every fiber of my being. I swear to hunt down the rat who betrayed his parents and see him suffer a fate worse than death.”

The light on his arm burned brighter.

“I swear to dismantle the corrupt Ministry that condemned me without trial and allowed this to happen. I swear to break the power of the Goblins who would profit from an orphan’s blood. I swear to expose the lies and manipulations of Albus Dumbledore, who left a child on a doorstep as a pawn in his great game.”

The light was now a searing band of fire, but he did not flinch. His eyes were fixed on Harry.

“I will not raise a hero. I will not raise a martyr. I will forge a Lord. I will teach him our ways, our magic, our cunning. I will make him a weapon so sharp no one will ever dare to threaten him again. I will build an empire on the ashes of our enemies and place him on its throne. This I swear.”

The band of light flared, blindingly bright, then sank into his skin, leaving a faint, shimmering scar coiling around his forearm. The Vow was made. The pact was sealed.

He had wanted, no, needed to do this for so long. Now, his heart breathed its first sigh of relief. He had his duty as the paramount goal within his brain now.

No external force, magical or otherwise, could ever repudiate or subjugate this vow.

It was absolute. Set in stone of magic too ancient for anyone living to comprehend.

His grandfather, Arcturus Black, had once done the same for his brother in all but blood, Charlus Potter, when they had lost all hope of fighting Grindelwald and emerging victorious.

Now, decades later, once again, a Black had performed this vow for a Potter.

A small smile graced his lips.

Sirius looked down at the boy who was now his only reason for living.

The world wanted a saviour. He would give them a conqueror.

~~ .

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 - The Guiding Light

The faculty lounge at Hogwarts, usually a place of quiet contemplation and the rustle of turning pages, was brimming with a low, anxious energy.

Minerva McGonagall paced before the fireplace, her tartan robes swishing with each agitated step.

“It’s not just the grief, Albus,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “It’s something… uglier. A seventh-year Slytherin put a Hufflepuff fourth-year in the hospital wing yesterday over a perceived slight. Said he was ‘celebrating too loudly’. The hex he used was needlessly cruel.”

“And I had two Ravenclaw prefects break down in tears this morning,” Filius Flitwick added from his oversized armchair, his tiny hands wringing a silk handkerchief. “They’re terrified. The older students are forming cliques, whispering in corridors. The sense of unity we had during the war has completely curdled. It’s turning into suspicion.”

Albus sat at the centre of the room, his teacup resting untouched on the small table beside him.

He listened with an air of serene patience, his gaze moving from one concerned face to the next. He let the anxiety fill the room, letting it crest before he spoke.

“The war is over,” he said, his voice calm and steady, instantly commanding the room’s attention. “But the peace has not yet begun. We are standing in the echo of a great and terrible storm. It is only natural that the boards will creak and the windows will rattle.”

“This is more than creaking boards, Albus!” Minerva countered, her lips pursed. “This is the foundation showing cracks. The children are reflecting the mood of the country: vengeful, paranoid, and looking for someone to blame. They need direction. They need reassurance.”

“And they shall have it,” Dumbledore said, a gentle smile touching his lips. He finally picked up his teacup, taking a slow, deliberate sip. “Fear, my dear Minerva, is a fog. It distorts and it disorients. But what is the best way to dispel a fog?”

He looked around the room, his piercing blue eyes holding each of their gazes for a moment. Flitwick, still nervous, shook his head.

“You shine a light,” Dumbledore answered his own question. “You give them a symbol. A beacon of hope to focus on, to remind them that even in the deepest darkness, the smallest light can prevail.” He placed his cup down with a soft click and stood, his magnificent robes settling around him. “It is time we reminded our students, and indeed ourselves, what we were fighting for. And what was saved.”

He walked towards the door, his presence filling the room with a renewed sense of purpose. “Let us all assemble in the Great Hall in one hour,” he proposed, “All students, and all staff. It is time for a story.”

Minerva shook her head, glancing at her colleagues who had no idea what the Headmaster was talking about. “Albus, what are you saying?”

“I will be saying the words that need to be said, Minerva,” he said with a smile, “Let us meet in an hour.”

An hour later, the Great Hall was packed. The enchanted ceiling mirrored a grey, overcast sky, reflecting the somber mood of the student body.

Whispers died down as Albus approached the golden lectern. He surveyed the hundreds of young faces turned towards him, faces etched with fear, confusion, and a grief too large for their years.

“Tonight,” he began, his magically amplified voice reaching every corner of the hall, “we do not gather to learn a new charm, or to practice a difficult potion. We gather to remember. And to understand.”

He paused, letting the silence settle. “Just over a week ago, our world was held in the grip of a great darkness. Lord Voldemort was a shadow that touched every family, that instilled fear in every heart. We fought, we resisted, but the shadow grew. And then, it was gone.”

A murmur went through the crowd.

“It was not a powerful army that defeated him,” Dumbledore continued, his voice soft but resonant. “It was not a complex spell from an ancient tome. It was, in the end, a force more powerful than any other. It was love.”

He looked out at the students, his expression one of profound sadness and wisdom. “James and Lily Potter were two of the brightest students to ever walk these halls. They were brave, they were brilliant, and they loved each other fiercely. But their greatest love was for their son, Harry.”

They trusted me, he thought, a familiar, sharp pang of regret mixing with the cold steel of resolve. They trusted me, and I sent them to their deaths.

He tried not to let it falter him.

But it was a necessary sacrifice. A painful, but vital move to protect the wizarding world.

“When the darkness came to their door,” his voice swelled, filling the hall, “they did not falter. They did not flee. They stood their ground. And Lily Potter made the ultimate sacrifice. She gave her life to protect her son, and in doing so, shielded him with an old and powerful magic. A magic that Lord Voldemort, in his arrogance, could not comprehend. A mother’s love. And that love… was his undoing.”

He saw the students leaning forward, captivated. The fear in their eyes was being replaced by wonder, by hope.

“Harry Potter lives,” Dumbledore declared, his voice ringing with triumph. “He carries the scar of that night, not as a mark of tragedy, but as a symbol of victory. A testament to the fact that love will always triumph over hatred, that light will always banish the dark. He is boy who lived that night, despite the darkness that threatened to engulf him, and he is a promise to us all that this peace, won at so great a cost, will endure!”

And he is safe, Dumbledore thought, the image of a neat, suburban street flashing in his mind. Tucked away from all of this. The fame, the whispers, anything that would destroy him.

But with his mother’s blood, in her sister’s home, the blood wards will hold. He will be protected. He will grow up humble, knowing nothing of this world, until the time is right. Until we need him again.

The blood of the Dursleys, however unpleasant, will keep him alive.

It is for the greater good.

“Let us not dwell on the shadows of the past,” he concluded, his arms opening wide as if to embrace the entire school. “Let us instead look to the light of the future. A future paid for by the sacrifice of heroes like James and Lily Potter. Let us be worthy of that sacrifice. Let us be kind. Let us be united. Now and always.”

A wave of applause, hesitant at first, then thunderous, erupted through the Great Hall.

The fear had been replaced with purpose. The fog had been burned away by the brilliance of a perfectly crafted legend.

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling.

The shepherd had successfully calmed his flock.

~~ .

A Spectacle of Justice

The main courtroom of the Wizengamot was a cauldron of controlled fury.

Every seat in the public gallery was filled. Witches and wizards stood three-deep against the back walls, their faces a mixture of morbid curiosity and righteous anger.

Down in the pit, four figures sat chained to enchanted chairs, their faces illuminated by the grim, green light of the magical torches.

Bellatrix Lestrange’s wild, dark hair was a tangled mess around her sunken face, but her eyes burned with an unholy fire.

Her husband Rodolphus and brother-in-law Rabastan were stoic, sneering masks of pureblood arrogance.

And beside them, the youngest, Barty Crouch Jr., trembled, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and fanatical devotion.

At the head of the chamber sat Minister Millicent Bagnold, her expression severe. But the proceedings were being led by the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bartemius Crouch Sr. His face was a chiseled slab of granite, showing no emotion, even as he stared down at his own son.

“You are accused of the capture and torture of the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom,” Crouch Sr. boomed, his voice magically amplified to fill the chamber. “You are accused of using the Cruciatus Curse, an Unforgivable, to drive them to insanity in your quest for information on the whereabouts of your fallen master. How do you plead?”

Bellatrix threw her head back and laughed, a high, shrieking sound that scraped against the stone walls. “Plead? We are proud! The Dark Lord is not gone! He will rise again, and he will reward us for our loyalty! We did what was necessary for the cause!”

A roar of outrage erupted from the galleries. In a raised section reserved for the Lords, Lucius Malfoy sat impassively, his gloved hands resting on his silver-topped cane. He leaned slightly towards Lord Nott beside him.

“Disgraceful,” Malfoy murmured, his voice a low hiss of disapproval, yet loud enough for those around them to hear. “This is the kind of fanaticism that gives a bad name to those of us who simply believe in the preservation of our pureblood traditions. They should be dealt with swiftly.” It was a masterful performance of distancing himself from his former associates.

In another section, Amelia Bones, the new Head of the DMLE’s dark magic investigative division, watched with a frown. Beside her, Lord Greengrass, a man known for his shrewd neutrality, observed the proceedings with cold, analytical eyes.

“There’s been no Veritaserum,” Amelia whispered, her voice tight with professional indignation. “No formal interrogation. They were captured last night and dragged here this morning.”

“This isn’t a trial, Madam Bones,” Greengrass replied, his voice equally low. “It’s a performance. The Ministry needs to look strong. Decisive. Bagnold needs to show she is purging the rot, and Crouch is a willing instrument. He’s sacrificing his own son to prove his commitment.”

“But this isn’t right!” Amelia whispered furiously, “this isn’t the way the law works!”

Greengrass snorted, making her look at him in surprise. “Didn’t you arrest Sirius Black without any evidence?”

Amelia said nothing. Greengrass chortled. “Oh dear me. He really is missing, isn’t he? That’s why the trial hasn’t been held yet. The rumours are true.”

Down in the pit, Crouch Sr. seemed to grow in stature. “You confess to these heinous crimes?”

“We confess to our loyalty!” Barty Jr. screamed, finding his voice at last. “He will return, Father, and you will all be—”

“I have no son!” Crouch Sr. bellowed, his voice cracking like a whip. The entire chamber fell silent. He looked down at the boy, his face a mask of utter repudiation. “You are no longer a member of the House of Crouch. You are nothing.” He then turned to the other three. “You have heard the confession. The verdict is immediate. The sentence is for life. You will be taken from here to the Dementors in Azkaban, where you will remain until you rot. There will be no appeal!”

The gavel banged, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

The crowd exploded into a cacophony of cheers and applause. It was the roar of a mob that had been granted its bloodlust. As Aurors moved in to haul the four prisoners away, Bellatrix’s mad laughter rang out one last time.

“He will rise! The Dark Lord will come for us! He will free us all!”

Lord Greengrass watched the spectacle, his expression unreadable. He saw the cheering crowds, the grimly satisfied Minister, and the broken man who had just condemned his own child to a living hell.

“And there you have it,” he murmured to a silent Amelia Bones. “Not justice, but vengeance. And it has been deemed far more satisfying by all.” He knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that a system that ran on vengeance was a system that was ripe for the taking.

~~ .

AN: Thank you for the overwhelming support on this story! Wow!

You can now read 10+ chapters ahead from the link in my profile. Once again, thank you for giving this so much love so early. 

We are just beginning the epic saga of Harry Potter, the Emperor. :)

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 - The Gilded Cage

Sirius Orion Black was a capable wizard. It was not due to the fact that he was the son of a wizard who never disobeyed orders from his wife. It wasn’t also because he was the son of a witch whose sole purpose in life was to torment her children. 

Fortunately, he was also the grandson of a wizard who everybody feared. 

So he knew that laying in this particular wizarding establishment for the time being wouldn’t get him into more trouble with the law. He was already neck-deep in trouble, and the only thing that was left was him being carried away in golden magic-restraining handcuffs. 

Looking through the window of a one bedroom suite in the Babbage Inn in Diagon Alley, he couldn’t discern any Auror presence nearby. Things looked as normal as they had ever been before the dark lord had come about—people bustled in and out of shops and restaurants and a cheer of celebration rang out every few minutes. The foeglass on the window sill was also another way to alert him of any trouble. So far, he hadn’t had any. 

He took a break from watching the street and sat upon the bed where his one-year old godson was sleeping peacefully in a bundle of blankets. A mixture of guilt, anger and hatred filled his psyche as soon as his eyes landed on the dark, almost disfiguring mark on his godson’s forehead. 

No matter how much control he tried to exert on his emotions, it still overpowered him any time he sat still. Keeping himself busy and making plans was the only thing he could do to not break down and do something foolish and break his promise to his best friend. His late best friend. 

He gritted his teeth and went into the mini kitchen to prepare some food instead, both for himself and his godson. His charge would need it as soon as he woke up, which could be anytime within the next hour. 

“Infants from 6 months to a year old need to eat every 4-5 hours during the day…” Lily would explain. 

He took the baby bottle drying on the counter and went ahead and began to clean it thoroughly with hot water. Beside the hot water, he also lit up another stove and put a few cups of water into a pot. 

“Spinky Noodles it is again for you Black,” he muttered to himself. 

Ten minutes later, he was pouring the prepared baby food in a bottle and applied a warming charm to keep it ready and at the right temperature. Satisfied, he set about preparing his own dinner, his stomach growling from his prolonged fast. 

He had just sat on the chair near the window to eat when a knock sounded on the door. 

Despite telling himself repeatedly that no one knew his whereabouts this time, he was still on hyperalert. Wand at the ready, he opened the door from a distance, a stunning charm on the tip of his tongue. 

The wooden door swung open to reveal a witch in deep red barmaid clothes, looking shocked to the core. She didn’t enter, just raised both her hands in surrender. 

“Name?” Sirius growled.

The woman seemed to come out of the daze she was in and said nervously, “Jane, uhh Nurse Jane, sent by Lord Black to help.” Sirius took a step forward and the witch suddenly seemed to remember something else, “Toujours pur!”

Sirius visibly relaxed, although his wand never lowered. Motioning for her to enter, he closed the door silently. 

“Lord Black wanted me to ask you if I could help with anything…” she began. 

Sirius quickly threw a weak legilimency probe and was relieved to find no barriers at all and thoughts that sort of verified that she was indeed sent by his cousin Andy.

“You can help with bathing him after he wakes up,” he said, gesturing to the bed. 

The witch gasped and her eyes lit up as they were drawn to the little bundle snoring adorably on the bed. She nodded. 

“Until then, I’ll help prepare some food for both of you, if that’s okay?” she asked. 

He nodded, appreciating her no-nonsense attitude and watched her go into the kitchen. He returned to his usual seat by the window.

The streets became busier as the sun set. Loud music and cheers of men and women enjoying themselves could be heard from the nearest watering hole. Not even a full week had passed since that night and Diagon Alley looked like it had never shut down in the first place.

Thirty minutes past seven, Harry woke up and began to cry. The next few minutes were spent properly attending to his needs by the two adults. 

“Da!” Little Harry clapped as he was soon absorbed by the miniature toy broomstick flying around him in circles. His hands flailed around in an attempt to catch it, making the game fun for the soon to be toddler. It was a gift Sirius had conspiratorially bought with James and actively hidden from Lily for his first birthday. 

Sirius looked at his charge with a smile on his face, hoping that one of the plans he’d thought of would rid him of his fugitive status. He just wanted to raise Harry in peace, unafraid of being arrested by Aurors for a crime he didn’t commit. If not, there was always the default plan.

Inwardly, he seethed at the avenues he couldn’t explore to get himself acquitted. The irony of being pursued as a criminal for betraying the same family whose heir he wanted to protect only made him more determined.

The nurse proved to be useful. She prepared enough food for him to last at least two days and taught him better ways to prepare toddler food. She also taught him how to clean and replace clothes for Harry too. He had been grateful for her help but not so much that he’d abandon his planned security measures. 

“Anything else, Sir?” she asked again.

After a sincere thank you, he was compelled to charm her memory into a lock that he then pushed to the deepest recesses of her mind. Slightly less risky and immoral than completely erasing it since he wasn’t dealing with an enemy here. It would take a few years but she’d gain these few hours back in the end. 

It was near Harry’s bedtime at 8pm when a nondescript owl flew in through the window. Sirius took the letter attached to its leg and the owl took flight immediately. 

The letter was a single folded piece of parchment with nothing written on it. He held the tip of his wand on the surface and quickly muttered the family motto. 

He quickly read through the news, finding nothing surprising. His last remaining family, including his cousins, had been questioned by the Aurors, as he’d expected. His last two hideouts had also seen Aurors crawling in search of him, like he’d expected. He’d been seen by a single waiter and a third year Hogwarts student of all people and the Aurors had dug them up somehow and now he was properly out of hideouts.

His grandfather had once told him that the best place to hide in times of peril is within a pureblood’s home. It requires more than a ninety percent majority vote of the Wizengamot to even request a search warrant for a pureblood’s home, not to mention, nobody would dare try to bring up the Black name in relation to a crime anytime soon. 

Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t just stay in Grimmauld for years on end. It’s location may be hidden, but that didn’t stop the Aurors from deciphering its general location from various sources and putting a patrol outside. His floo was cut off from the outside world too, and therefore, before they could find him, he’d packed up and gone away.

Kreacher, the wretched elf, was nowhere to be found too, which was also concerning. Was he in cahoots with the Malfoys, or worse?

He didn’t know.

The last sentence on the letter did surprise him however and his plans solidified. 

“There are heavy Auror patrols everywhere except the main Diagon Alley district where some popular music band was about to perform, right near the stairs of Gringotts. The party is supposed to continue until dawn…”

Sirius stood up and began to pack again. This time, he decided, nobody in the British Wizarding Society will hear from him for at least a few years. 

This time, he was forgoing all his morals in favour of doing right by his godson. 

This time, he was going to trust no one.

~~ .

Contrary to Diagon Alley, King’s Cross station was deserted at midnight so Sirius had no trouble in navigating through the barrier onto the Muggle side. The notice-me-not charms around the pillars were helpful enough that he was able to enlarge the stroller and walk out of the station with no one being the wiser. 

The navy blue muggle overcoat that he had on over his robes looked mundane enough that not a single head turned in his direction. His wand stayed in his sleeve and his shrunken bags in his inner coat pockets.

Little Harry was looking around at the busy station with wonder in his eyes. His mouth was half open, his eyeballs never resting on a single thing for more than a second. Sirius couldn’t help but think that as far as circumstances went, his godson was being extremely well-behaved. Not once had he cried during the entire time he’d been busy packing, checking the streets, and making his way out into the muggle world. 

Or as Lily would say it, the real world. 

The real world was indeed quite different. For starters, it looked much bigger both in expanse and in population. He’d only visited two places outside the wizarding world before and this was equally daunting and exciting. 

Daunting because he really didn’t have a clue as to what to do except go to a hotel. Even this idea had come from one of the earlier conversations they’d had in the Potter Manor, just before his late friends went into hiding. 

It shouldn’t be that hard to navigate this world with magic at disposal though. Especially with a permanent licence to do as he pleased with absolutely no one being the wiser. 

As Lily used to say, A magical person has more freedom to do as he pleases in the muggle world, than in the magical world. 

He’d taken her words at face value at the time, not really having the experience required to know exactly what she meant. There had been enough freedom available to him in the magical world after he’d run away from his parents’ in their fifth year. The Potters had shown him what family should be like and he didn’t think that it could get any better than that.

The streets were bustling with cars as Sirius turned his head around. Three hotels in the vicinity, and judging by the sheer enormity of the third, it looked the finest. At least from the outside with its extravagant marble stairs at the front covered by a light red carpet, elegant gold coloured custom employee uniforms and probably more than a hundred front facing rooms (more on the sides and the back) as he estimated. 

Navigating his way across from throngs of people coming in and out of the station, he was promptly on his way to the Grand Ritz hotel. 

As he made his way to the front stairs, he was glad to see a series of men in business attire milling around, getting in and out of their cars. It seemed like he’d been right and this was it.

Sirius started climbing up the steps just as a tall, young brown-haired fellow in the hotel uniform intercepted his path. 

“May I take your bags, Sir?” he asked.

Sirius signalled to his godson’s trolley. “For now, you can help me with this.”

The porter was glad to fold and pick up the trolley after Sirius picked up Little Harry in his arms and began to make his way upstairs to the reception. 

The double doors to the entrance led into an enormous room, close to the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. For a moment, Sirius simply took in the sights of dozens of people crowding around the reception, the phone booths, and the sofas. 

Unfolding the trolley, he made sure his godson was comfortable before he began to look around. 

The ambiance screamed a veneer of sophistication wrapped in bold and vibrant colours of deep blue with subtle touches of gold and bronze. The furniture and decor was a mix of contemporary and art deco influences. Plush velvet sofas and armchairs, often in jewel tones, arranged to create conversational seating areas. Glass and mirrored surfaces also added a touch of modernity and reflected the ambient light. The reception desk sat grandly in the centre, with uniformed hotel staff welcoming the guests. 

The porter came to him and asked if he’d like to sit while he arranged for a member of staff to attend to him. Sirius refused. 

“There’s a reward with your name on it if you can take me to the best suite in the hotel within the next five minutes.”

The porter nodded jerkily and hurriedly made his way to one of the receptionists and began to talk. Sirius kept his eyes on him as he returned with a smartly dressed woman who looked to be in her early thirties. 

“Welcome to Grand Ritz sir, my name is Isabella. Will you be alright with one of our suites?” she asked with a smile. 

Sirius was escorted to one of the empty spaces behind the reception desk. The woman went around to stand on the opposite side.

Sirius looked her dead in the eye and said without expression. “Is that the best one you have?”

She shook her head, her eyes drifting down momentarily to his coat and to his charge.

“Our Presidential suites are only for reserved guests, sir. I’m sure one of our suites will suit you just fine.”

Sirius said nothing. Instead, he reached into his jacket and slammed a thick roll of ten pound notes unceremoniously upon the wooden counter. 

The woman looked at the cash speechlessly for a few seconds before regaining her bearings. 

“I’ll be sure to put you on our special list, sir,” she spoke with a new spark in her eyes.

“You do that,” Sirius drawled. 

The woman shuffled around a few documents and quickly made her way over. “May I escort you to your room now sir?”

“Lead the way.”

The ride to the topmost floor was done in a lift that supported twelve people. Sufficiently large that they didn’t feel too packed although the woman seemed to be standing closer than required in the otherwise empty lift.

The Presidential suite was less of a room and more of a small country. The lift opened directly into a private marble foyer.

Isabella gestured them through a set of double doors into a sprawling living area with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of London’s glittering nighttime sprawl.

“The main drawing room, sir,” Isabella said, her voice a smooth, practiced purr. “The dining room is through to the left, with a fully stocked kitchen for your private use. There are three bedroom suites, each with their own ensuite bath.”

Sirius gave a cursory glance around, his expression unreadable. He took Harry from the porter’s arms, who had followed them up with the stroller. He pressed a crisp fifty-pound note into the young man’s hand. “That will be all. Thank you.”

The porter’s eyes widened at the amount, and he stammered his thanks before making a hasty exit.

“Isabella,” Sirius said, turning to her as he gently placed Harry, who was now fast asleep, into a plush armchair. “You’ve been very helpful. I will likely require your assistance arranging a few things in the morning. For now, I’d like some privacy.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, handing him a golden keycard. “Simply use the private line by the desk. We are at your service twenty-four hours a day.”

With a final, professional smile, she let herself out, the heavy doors closing with a soft, satisfying thud.

Silence descended. For a moment, Sirius just stood in the center of the vast, opulent room, a ghost from another world. This was his new fortress. A gilded cage, but one of his own choosing.

He walked over to the grand, mahogany desk that stood before the window. It was elegant, modern, and held nothing of interest except a telephone and a leather-bound blotter. But he wasn’t looking at the desk.

He was looking at the antique, lacquered wood box that sat beside it, placed as if it were a mere decoration. It was jet black, inlaid with a subtle, silver serpent eating its own tail.

An Ouroboros. A symbol his grandfather had been fond of.

He ran a finger over the smooth, cool surface. This was a fail-safe Arcturus Black had established decades ago, a contingency for a day when the wizarding world turned on them. A way to survive, and thrive, in the world of Muggles.

Leaning down, he whispered a single, quiet phrase in French, a language he’d forced himself to learn. “Where power lies, shadows follow.”

There was a soft click. The top of the box slid open silently.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, was not gold, but paper. A deed to a small, unplottable property in Switzerland. A birth certificate and passport for a Muggle-born wizard Arcturus had once financially supported, a man named Caspian Sterling who had died without issue ten years ago. And beneath that, a single, ornate key attached to a small, leather fob embossed with a crest he didn't recognize.

He picked up the key. This was the foundation. The beginning of their new empire.

He turned as Isabella let herself back in after a soft knock. "Forgive the intrusion, sir. You mentioned needing arrangements. I took the liberty of bringing our concierge's direct contact information."

"Perfect," Sirius said, pocketing the key and documents. He looked at her directly, his tone casual, as if he were asking for directions to the nearest park. "There is one thing you can help me with now. I need the address of a bank. Rothwell & Crest."

Isabella's professional smile faltered for the briefest of moments, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes. It wasn't a name you heard from just anyone. It wasn't a high-street bank with cash machines. It was a bastion of old money and impenetrable discretion.

"Of course, sir," she recovered smoothly, her respect for him visibly deepening. "Rothwell & Crest. Their main branch is in Mayfair. Shall I have a car ready for you in the morning?"

"Nine o'clock sharp," Sirius said, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "That will be all."

~~ .

You can now read 10+ chapters ahead from the link in my profile. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 - First Sparks

The Price of Purity

The Minister for Magic’s office was a fortress of mahogany and tradition.

Bookshelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound law tomes, and stern-faced portraits of previous Ministers watched with silent disapproval.

Millicent Bagnold sat behind her enormous desk, her expression as unyielding as the granite in the Ministry’s foundations.

Across from her, Lucius Malfoy sat with an air of practiced elegance, his hands resting calmly on the silver serpent head of his cane. He looked less like a man being interrogated and more like one conducting a business negotiation.

“The evidence is substantial, Lord Malfoy,” Bagnold said, her voice devoid of warmth. “Multiple witnesses saw you at the Dark Lord’s side. Your… enthusiasm… was noted by several Aurors during multiple raids in ‘79.”

“A performance, Minister, I assure you,” Lucius said, his voice a silken, condescending drawl. “One always plays the part convincingly when under the Imperius Curse. My only thoughts were of survival, of protecting my wife and my young son. I did what I had to do. Now that our world is free of that tyrant, I am here to offer my complete and unwavering support to your Ministry.”

Bagnold let out a short, humourless laugh. “Your ‘support’? How generous. The Wizengamot is calling for trials, Lucius. They are screaming for blood. The Imperius defense is wearing thin after the fifth time we’ve heard it this week.”

“Perhaps the Wizengamot needs to be reminded that a lasting peace is built not on vengeance, but on stability,” Lucius countered smoothly. He leaned forward, his grey eyes locking with hers. “And stability requires resources. The Ministry’s coffers, I imagine, have been bled dry by this war. The country needs rebuilding. Azkaban needs reinforcing. You need gold.”

The unspoken offer hung in the air between them, thick and potent. Bagnold’s expression didn't change, but she didn’t dismiss him either. “Go on.”

“My family has always been a great supporter of a strong, traditional Ministry,” Lucius continued, sensing his opening. “I would be prepared to make a most significant donation to a… ‘Ministry Reconstruction and Orphan Relief Fund.’ Let’s say, enough to fund the entire Auror department for the next five years. A gesture of my family’s relief and renewed loyalty.”

Bagnold was silent for a long moment, tapping a perfectly manicured finger on her desk.

The bribe was audacious, immense.

But it was also enough to solve a dozen of her most pressing political and financial problems at once.

“A donation would be… welcome,” she said carefully. “But it does not erase the evidence.”

“Evidence can be re-evaluated,” Lucius said with a slight, knowing smile. “And to show my commitment to our new, peaceful society, I might be persuaded to… recall… certain information. The locations of a few genuine fanatics who lacked the foresight to protect themselves. Men like Rookwood, Dolohov. Their capture would give you the public victories you need, while allowing more… reasonable… families like my own to aid in the rebuilding.”

It was the perfect deal. She got her gold, she got a handful of high-profile arrests to appease the public, and she secured the political backing of one of the most powerful and influential pureblood houses.

The price?

It was simply looking the other way.

“Your cooperation in the ongoing investigation is noted, Lord Malfoy,” Millicent Bagnold said, her tone crisp and final. She pushed a small, unmarked Gringotts vault key across the desk. “I trust your donation to the fund will be deposited by morning.”

Lucius Malfoy stood, giving a slight, gracious bow. “For the good of the wizarding world, Minister. Of course.”

He walked out of her office, his face a mask of aristocratic calm. He had not only bought his freedom; he had just purchased his first piece of the new Ministry of Magic.

~~ .

Villa Sterling, Swiss Alps
1984

The sunlight that streamed through the panoramic windows of the villa was thin and crystalline, carrying none of the humid weight of England.

It fell across the polished pine floors, illuminating the grand, minimalist space Sirius, or rather, Mr. Caspian Sterling, now called home.

Three years had passed. Three years of careful investments in a burgeoning Muggle technology called 'microcomputing', of quiet consolidation, and of absolute, untraceable isolation.

Outside, the Alps stood like silent, white-robed sentinels. Inside, the only sound was the soft, rhythmic clacking of wooden blocks.

A four-year-old Harry was on the floor, his small face a mask of intense concentration. He was trying to build a tower. A very tall tower. His tongue was poked out from the corner of his mouth, and his emerald-green eyes were narrowed as he carefully placed another painted block onto the precarious structure. It wobbled.

“Easy does it, pup,” Sirius murmured from a nearby armchair, not looking up from the financial report he was reading. “A good foundation is everything.”

Harry didn’t answer. He held his breath, his small hand hovering, then retreating. The tower stood, a testament to his ambition, reaching almost as high as his shoulders. He reached for the final block, the one painted with a bright yellow sun. He stretched, placing it gently on the very top.

For a glorious second, it held. Harry beamed, a wide, triumphant grin. “I did it, Padfoot! Look!”

And then, with the slow, agonizing inevitability of a collapsing dream, the tower began to lean. The yellow sun tipped, slid, and tumbled to the floor with a loud clatter. The rest of the structure followed in a cascade of colourful wooden chaos.

Harry stared at the heap of blocks, his triumphant smile crumbling. “No,” he whispered.

He tried again. And again. Each time, his frustration grew. The blocks seemed to have a mind of their own, refusing to cooperate.

“It’s not fair!” he finally wailed, his small fists clenched. He swiped at the pile, sending blocks scattering across the floor. “Stupid blocks! I just want it to stay!”

“Harry,” Sirius said calmly, setting his papers aside. “It’s just a game. Take a breath.”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He was consumed by the fierce, towering injustice of it all. He glared at the blocks, his whole being focused on them with a burning, desperate desire. He didn't just want the tower to stand; in that moment, he needed it to, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

“Stay. UP!” he screamed, his small voice filled with a surprising amount of fury.

There was a sound like a sharp crack of static electricity in the air. The temperature in the room plummeted.

The scattered wooden blocks all lifted off the floor at once. They hung in the air for a half-second, vibrating with a visible, humming energy. Then, with a violent SLAM that shook the windows in their frames, they converged on the spot where the tower had been.

It was not a tower of stacked blocks anymore.

Where the pile had been, there now stood a single, seamless spire of wood. It was unnaturally smooth, the colours of the individual blocks melted and swirled together into a grotesque, psychedelic pattern. The joints, the edges, the very concept of them being separate pieces, were gone. They had been fused into one solid, warped object by a force of raw, petulant will.

The room fell silent, save for Harry’s ragged, shocked breaths. He stared at the impossible wooden spike, his anger instantly replaced by a wide-eyed, trembling fear. He looked at his hands, as if they had betrayed him, then up at Sirius.

“I… I broke them,” he whispered, his bottom lip quivering. “I’m sorry, Padfoot. I didn’t mean to.”

He thought he was in trouble. He had done something loud and strange and he had ruined his toys.

Sirius didn't move for a long moment. He stared at the fused spire, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. He had seen powerful accidental magic before. He had seen James turn their Transfiguration professor’s hair blue out of sheer boredom. He had seen Lily make a flower bloom in the dead of winter just by wishing for it.

He had never seen anything like this, though.

This wasn't a gentle nudge from a gifted child. This was a brutal, overwhelming display of raw, untamed power. The kind of power that didn't just influence reality, but bludgeoned it into a new shape.

He slowly let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He slid out of his chair and knelt on the floor in front of his godson, making sure he was at eye level. He pushed all of his shock, all of his awe, deep down. Harry’s fearful, tear-filled eyes were all that mattered.

“Shhh, pup,” Sirius said, his voice soft and steady. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t break anything.” He reached out and gently touched the smooth, warped surface of the spire. “You just… changed them.”

Harry sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “But… how? It went bang.”

“Yes, it did,” Sirius agreed, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. He looked from the spire back to Harry. “That feeling you had, Harry? That big, angry feeling inside you when the tower fell? The one that felt like you were going to pop?”

Harry nodded timidly.

“That’s your magic,” Sirius said simply. “It’s a part of you. Like your hands, or your eyes. And when you feel something really, really strongly, your magic listens.”

He picked up one of the blocks that had escaped the fusion, a simple red cube. “Magic isn’t good or bad, Harry. It just is. It’s a tool. Think of it like a hammer. You can use a hammer to build a beautiful house for us to live in. Or you can use it to smash a window. The hammer isn't bad. It just does what the person holding it wants it to do.”

Harry looked from the block in Sirius’s hand to the strange spire. “I… I wanted the tower to stay up.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, his expression turning serious. “You wanted it more than anything in that moment, didn’t you? You didn't just wish for it. You commanded it. You felt it in your gut. And your magic did exactly what you told it to do. It made the blocks stay up. Permanently.”

He gently cupped Harry’s cheek, turning the boy’s face to look at him directly. The fear in those green eyes was slowly being replaced by a dawning, profound curiosity.

“What you did just now… that was strong, Harry. Very strong,” Sirius said, his voice filled with a quiet pride that made Harry’s chest puff out slightly. “It’s a gift. It’s your birthright. But right now, it’s like a wild animal. It listens to you, but it doesn’t have any discipline. It roars when it should whisper. It smashes when it should build.”

He stood up, pulling Harry up with him. He led him over to the window, and they looked out at the immense, silent power of the mountains.

“We are going to mould it,” Sirius said, his voice a low, determined vow. “You and me. We’re going to teach your magic how to listen properly. How to be a tool that you control completely. We’re going to train it, so you can build whatever you want, whenever you want, and it will never fall down unless you command it to.”

He looked down at his godson, at the boy who was meant to be a hero, a sacrifice. The boy who had just reshaped matter with a tantrum.

“No more simple games, cub,” Sirius said, his grey eyes glinting with the promise of a new, dangerous future. “Tomorrow, our real lessons begin.”

~~ .

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 - The Fortress of the Mind

Villa Sterling, Swiss Alps
1 November, 1984

The day after his explosive display of accidental magic, Harry did not wake up to his usual routine of breakfast followed by play.

Instead, Sirius led him by the hand to a room at the far end of the villa. It was empty. There were no toys, no books, no comfortable chairs. There was only a plain, woven rug on the polished pine floor and the same breathtaking view of the mountains through a large, floor-to-ceiling, undraped window.

“This is your new classroom,” Sirius announced, his voice devoid of its usual playful warmth. It was the voice of Mr. Sterling, the serious, calculating man who moved fortunes around the Muggle world.

Harry looked around the empty space, confused. “Where are the books?”

“The first lesson doesn't come from a book,” Sirius said, gesturing for Harry to sit in the centre of the rug. He sat opposite him, cross-legged.

“It comes from in here.” He tapped his own temple gently. “We are going to learn about the mind, Harry. Your mind.”

“Why?” Harry asked, fidgeting. The hard floor wasn't nearly as fun as the soft carpets in the drawing-room.

“Because your magic lives in your mind,” Sirius explained patiently. “Right now, your mind is like your bedroom after you’ve been playing all day. Your thoughts and feelings are like your toys, they’re scattered everywhere, the door is wide open, and anyone can look in. To control your magic, you first have to learn to tidy your room.”

He saw the flicker of understanding in Harry’s eyes. The analogy was simple enough. “Like when Brutus gets mad?”

Sirius couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Exactly like when Brutus gets mad.”

A soft pop announced the arrival of the house-elf in question.

Brutus was an ancient elf, his skin the colour and texture of wrinkled parchment. He had belonged to the Black family for centuries, and when Sirius had claimed the Head of House ring, Brutus’s loyalty had transferred to him. He was fiercely devoted, deeply traditional, and perpetually grumpy. He placed a small tray with a glass of juice and some sliced apples on the floor.

“The Young Master must keep up his strength for his… sitting,” the elf grumbled, his large, bat-like ears drooping with disapproval at the lack of comfortable seating. He doted on Harry, but he did not approve of what he considered lax parenting.

“Thank you, Brutus,” Sirius said dismissively.

“Is Master Black going to be starving the Young Master all day?” Brutus pressed, wringing his bony hands. “Boys need to run and play, not sit on cold floors like monks.”

“Brutus,” Sirius said, his voice quiet but laced with iron. “Leave us.”

The elf bowed so low his nose nearly touched the floor and vanished with another pop.

Harry giggled. “He doesn’t like you being the boss.”

“He doesn’t like anyone being the boss,” Sirius corrected. “Which is why he is the perfect example. His mind is his own. Now, let’s begin. I want you to close your eyes and do nothing.”

“Nothing?” Harry echoed, sounding surprised. “Is that possible?”

“It’s the hardest thing in the world,” Sirius said. “Close your eyes. I want you to listen to your own breathing. Feel the air go in your nose, and feel it come out of your mouth. That’s all. Just for one full minute.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. For ten seconds, he was perfectly still. Then his nose twitched. He shuffled his position. He peeked through one eye. “Is it a minute yet?”

“No,” Sirius said calmly. “Try again.”

They repeated this for what felt like an eternity to Harry. His mind, so used to constant stimulation, rebelled against the stillness. He thought about his toys, about Brutus, about the funny-looking bird he’d seen outside.

“This is weird,” he finally said, his eyes flying open. “Why do I have to be quiet? My magic was loud yesterday! It went bang!”

“To make a truly loud noise, you must first learn the value of silence,” Sirius said, his gaze unwavering. “You have to gather your power before you can release it. Yesterday, you didn’t command your magic; you had a tantrum and your magic threw a tantrum with you. Right now, your power is leaking out of you all the time in little bits. We are going to seal the cracks.”

“So I’m putting my thoughts away?” Harry asked, connecting the ideas.

“Exactly. You’re putting your thoughts away, neatly, in a box,” Sirius affirmed, seizing on the image. “And then we are going to build a very, very strong lock for that box.”

This seemed to satisfy Harry for a moment. He fell silent, his brow furrowed in thought. Then, he looked at Sirius, his green eyes startlingly intelligent for a four-year-old. “Who would want to look at my thoughts, Padfoot?”

The question was so simple, yet so profound. And it cut right to the heart of the matter.

Sirius took a breath, choosing his words carefully. This was the moment that would define Harry’s view of the world.

“Some people, Harry,” he began, his voice low and serious, “are nosy. They like to look into other people’s minds to find their secrets. They can use your own thoughts, your own memories, against you. They can see who you love, what you fear… and they can use it to hurt you.”

He saw the fear in Harry’s eyes and immediately softened his tone. “But we aren’t going to let them. A person’s mind is the only thing that truly belongs to them. It is your most private, most important place. And strong people don’t let anyone, ever, walk into that place without an invitation. This isn't about being scared, Harry. This is about being strong. This is about being in control.”

He leaned forward, his expression intense. “This lesson, this art of tidying your mind and locking the door, is called Occlumency. It is the foundation upon which every other thing I teach you will be built. Before you can command a single spell, before you can face a single enemy, you must first learn to command yourself. Your mind must become a fortress. Do you understand?”

Harry looked from Sirius’s determined face to the vast, unyielding mountains outside the window. They looked like a fortress. He nodded slowly, the playful pout gone from his face. In its place was a look of solemn, focused determination.

“Okay,” he said, his small voice firm. “I’ll try again.”

He closed his eyes. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t peek. He just breathed, beginning the long, arduous process of building his first wall.

~~ .

The Theatre of Prejudice

Lord Greengrass sat in his family’s designated section of the Wizengamot, his face a mask of polite neutrality.

He watched the proceedings below with the detached amusement of a man watching a particularly bad play.

Today’s performance was titled “The Werewolf Problem”.

On one side of the stage was Elphias Doge, a staunch Dumbledore loyalist with a wispy white beard and an air of sanctimonious virtue.

“Lycanthropy is a tragic affliction, not a moral failing!” Doge proclaimed, his voice ringing with an almost rehearsed compassion. “We, as a society, have a duty to help these unfortunate souls. I propose the establishment of Ministry-funded rehabilitation and containment centres, where these individuals can be treated with dignity and supported through their difficult transformations!”

A smattering of applause came from the so-called ‘Light’ faction. Greengrass resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Dignity, he thought. What a lovely word that costs nothing.

He knew full well that Doge’s proposal contained not a single galleon of actual funding. It was a purely performative gesture, designed to make Dumbledore’s camp look benevolent while accomplishing absolutely nothing.

As Doge sat down, Lord Nott rose to speak, his presence casting a palpable chill over the chamber. He was a pillar of the Dark faction, a man who saw the world in terms of predators and prey.

And he was right, except for his absolute desire to always be the former.

“Rehabilitation centres?” Nott sneered, his lip curling with disdain. “You would coddle these beasts? You would use good wizards’ tax galleons to build comfortable cages for monsters who would rip out your throat for a taste of blood and bite and afflict your children for fun?” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Last month, a family in Wiltshire was torn apart. A mother and two children. The Ministry report called it an ‘animal attack.’ We know what kind of animal it was. An animal that walks on two legs most of the month.”

A murmur of fear and anger rippled through the room. Nott had them.

“I propose a real solution,” he continued, his voice like the crack of a whip. “The Werewolf Registration and Containment Act. Mandatory, permanent silver-infused tracking marks for every last one of them. Restricted territories in the most desolate parts of our land where they can be contained. And any werewolf found outside these zones is to be put down on sight. For the safety of our children!”

The roar of approval from his faction was far louder than Doge’s had been.

Greengrass watched the ensuing debate, a pointless back-and-forth of predictable insults.

‘Barbaric!’ shouted the Light.

‘Sympathizers!’ screamed the Dark.

He saw the entire, pathetic game for what it was.

Doge and his ilk didn't care about the werewolves; they cared about feeling virtuous.

Nott and his followers didn’t care about public safety; they cared about consolidating their power by defining an enemy for everyone else to hate.

Neither side wanted a solution. The problem was far too politically useful to them.

He caught the eye of Lord Fawley across the chamber, another pragmatist in the Neutral bloc. They shared a brief, knowing look of utter contempt for the whole charade.

This government wasn't just corrupt; it was incompetent.

A hollowed-out institution, so consumed by its petty factional wars that it was blind to its own weakness. It was a house of cards, Greengrass thought with a cold, clear certainty.

And a single, determined gust would be enough to bring it all down.

He idly wondered who would be the one to bring it forth.

~~ .

Chapter Text

Chapter 8 - A Story of Blood and Betrayal

The Weight of a Name

Villa Sterling, Swiss Alps
31 July, 1985

The library was Sirius’s sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed not with ancient magical tomes, but with Muggle books on history, economics, philosophy, and war. It was a room dedicated to understanding power in all its forms.

It was here, on Harry’s fifth birthday, that Sirius had decided the time had come for the most important lesson of all.

Harry was sat on a small stool, holding a beautifully wrapped present. He had already enjoyed a cake from a local patisserie, courtesy of a grumbling but indulgent Brutus who only wanted Harry to eat from his handmade meals.

And now was the time for stories.

“Padfoot,” he began, his voice bright with a child’s simple joy, “can you tell me the one about the knight and the grumpy dragon again?”

Sirius sat opposite him, not in his usual comfortable armchair, but on a matching stool, bringing them to eye level. There was a solemn, unreadable expression on his face that made Harry’s smile falter.

“Not today, Harry,” Sirius said, his voice quiet but firm. “Today, I’m going to tell you a different story. A true one. It’s the story of your name.”

He leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. “You are Harry James Potter. You were named for your father. His name was James. He was my best friend. My brother in everything but blood. He was the bravest, most loyal man I ever knew. He was funny, and brilliant, and he loved to cause trouble.” A flicker of a sad smile touched Sirius’s lips. “He would have taught you how to fly a broom before you could properly walk.”

Harry listened, his green eyes wide and unblinking. He already knew about his parents, and the moment, Sirius’ intense tone was enough to make him listen with rapt attention.

“And your mother,” Sirius continued, his voice softening, “was Lily Evans Potter. Fiercely intelligent, kind, but with a temper that could make dragons tremble. She had your eyes. And she loved you more than anything in the entire world.”

Harry nodded slowly. “The smartest witch of her age” they called her.

Sirius paused, letting the words settle. “They were heroes, Harry.” he said firmly, “Our world was at war, fighting a very evil, very, very powerful wizard named Voldemort. Your parents fought against him. They stood up to him when most people were too scared to even speak his name.”

Okay. He did not know this.

“Is that why they died?” Harry asked, his small voice barely a whisper. The wrapped present in his lap was forgotten.

Sirius nodded slowly. “Yes. Voldemort wanted to hurt you. We don’t know why. We hid, using a powerful magic to keep you all safe. But someone betrayed us. A man we thought was our friend.”

“Who?”

“His name was Peter Pettigrew,” Sirius said, and the name came out like a curse. “He was our friend. He was weak, and cowardly, and Voldemort promised him power. So Peter told Voldemort where to find you. He led the monster right to your front door.”

He watched Harry’s face, seeing the simple confusion of a child trying to understand an adult’s betrayal.

“Your father, brave as he was, stood between you and Voldemort. He had no wand. He didn’t have time. But he stood there anyway. And Voldemort killed him,” Sirius said, the words blunt and hard as stone. “Then he went to your mother. She begged him to take her instead of you. She stood in front of your crib, and she wouldn’t move. So he killed her, too.”

Tears welled in Harry’s eyes, fat and silent, and began to trace paths down his cheeks. He didn’t make a sound.

“Her love, her sacrifice, created a magic that saved you,” Sirius continued, his own voice thick with emotion. “When Voldemort tried to kill you, his curse broke. It destroyed him, and it left that scar on your forehead. You survived because they loved you enough to die for you. You must never, ever forget that.”

He let the silence hang for a long moment, allowing the terrible truth to sink in. “The wizarding world thinks I was the one who betrayed them,” he added, his voice turning cold. “They think I was Voldemort’s man. They locked me up, and I had to escape to find you. That’s why we hide here, son. Because the world is full of enemies.”

“Enemies?” Harry sniffled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Yes,” Sirius said, his tone hardening. “The followers of Voldemort, who hate you for what you did. The Ministry of Magic, who are fools that would rather hunt an innocent man than find the real traitor. And others. People who would try to use you, to control you for their own reasons.” He leaned closer, his grey eyes boring into Harry’s. “That is why we have our lessons. That is why your mind must be a fortress. Because our enemies are everywhere.”

The air in the room grew heavy. The story was over. The happy, five-year-old boy was gone, and in his place sat a child who had just been handed the entire, crushing weight of his legacy.

Then, without any warning, Sirius’s eyes went blank. He lunged.

Not with his body, but with his mind.

A swift, silent probe of Legilimency, a sharp needle of thought aimed directly at Harry’s consciousness.

Show me the memory of the cake. Show me your sadness. Show me what you are thinking RIGHT NOW—

He felt it instantly, the familiar, chaotic landscape of a child’s mind. But this time, it was different. Beneath the surface-level sadness, a furious, white-hot anger was coiling like a serpent.

There was an indignant rage that screamed, How dare you? You just told me this! You said my mind was mine and mine alone!

A wall, crude and poorly formed but humming with raw power, slammed up in front of Sirius’s probe. It was a barrier woven from pure, emotional outrage.

OUT! a thought that was not a word, but a feeling, a violent shove, screamed in his own mind.

Sirius pushed, gently at first, then with more force. This is a test, Harry. Show me you were listening.

He felt Harry’s anger swell. The terrible, painful memory of his mother and father dying, a story he had only just heard, became a shield.

The injustice of it, the betrayal, the pain, Harry grabbed onto those feelings, those new, terrible toys, and used them.

The mental wall solidified, turning from a rough barrier into a slab of jagged, angry obsidian.

For a moment, Sirius felt a flicker of a memory that wasn't his, a flash of brilliant green light, a high, cold laugh, and then he was violently ejected, the mental connection snapping with a force that made him physically recoil.

He blinked, finding himself back in the library, staring at his godson. Harry was panting, fresh tears streaming down his face, but they were tears of fury now, not just grief. His small fists were clenched, and his green eyes blazed with a fire that was all Lily.

Sirius stared for a second, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. It was a look of profound, unadulterated pride.

“Good,” he breathed, his voice filled with awe. “Very good. You took the pain, and you made it a weapon.” He stood up and pulled Harry into a fierce hug. “That is the most important lesson of all.”

Harry shook his head, as if forcing his tears away.

“Now, let’s open your present.”

~~ .

A Necessary Evil

The conversation, as Albus Dumbledore had known it would, was proving difficult. He sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled, projecting an aura of benevolent calm that he did not feel. Across from him, Minerva’s lips were a thin, furious line, and Filius Flitwick was practically vibrating with anxiety. Pomona stood in the corner, but said nothing, though, her presence was enough at the moment.

“You cannot be serious, Albus,” Minerva said, her voice dangerously quiet. “Severus Snape. A known Death Eater. You want to give him a teaching post? Here? With children?”

“He was a Death Eater, Minerva, yes,” Dumbledore corrected gently. “He saw the error of his ways. He came to our side before the end. He turned spy for us at great personal risk.”

“At the last possible second!” she shot back, her Scottish burr thickening with her anger. “After years of faithfully serving that monster! What kind of message does that send to the students? To their parents? That you can follow the darkest of wizards, and all will be forgiven with a simple, convenient change of heart?”

“I believe in second chances,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling, though the effect was lost on his furious Deputy. “Severus is a Potions Master of unparalleled skill. Our students deserve the best.”

And I need him, Dumbledore thought, his mind working on a separate, more complex level. I need his particular brand of loyalty. Not loyalty to me, or to the light, but loyalty born from a grief so profound it has poisoned his entire soul. A loyalty to a memory. To Lily.

That was a tether that would never break.

“But his temperament, Albus!” Flitwick squeaked from his chair. “His… reputation among the students even when he was one! He’s cruel! He has a deep-seated hatred for… well, for anyone not in Slytherin!”

“Severus understands the nature of the Dark Arts in a way few others do,” Dumbledore said, his tone turning grave. “He knows the minds of those who would practice them. That knowledge is an invaluable asset. Lord Voldemort is gone, but his ideology is not. Severus will be a bulwark against it.”

And when Voldemort returns, as I know he will, the internal voice continued, Severus will be my most vital piece on the board. He will be the spy who can walk back into the darkness, his past a perfect disguise. He will protect Harry, from the shadows, whether the boy knows it or not. He must. It is the price of his atonement.

“I have made my decision,” Dumbledore said, his voice leaving no room for further argument. “Horace is retiring. Severus Snape will be our new Potions Master, beginning next term.” He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “I trust you will both give him the professional courtesy his position deserves.”

Minerva stood stiffly, her face a thunderous mask. She gave a curt, angry nod and swept out of the office. Flitwick offered a small, nervous bow and scurried out after her along with Pomona.

The gargoyle door sealed behind them, leaving Dumbledore alone.

“You may enter, Severus,” he said to the empty room.

A section of the wall near the fireplace shimmered and dissolved, revealing a concealed alcove where Severus had been standing, silent and unseen. He stepped into the room, his black robes billowing around him, his sallow face an expressionless mask.

“They do not trust me,” he said, his voice a low, silky sneer.

“Trust must be earned, Severus,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “They will see, in time.”

“I care little for their opinions,” Snape shot back. “I am here to do what you asked. What I promised.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, walking over to the window and looking out at the calm, peaceful grounds of Hogwarts. “You know what is expected of you. You will teach and you will be harsh. And most importantly, you will watch over the boy when he comes. You will protect him.”

Snape’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer. “Potter’s son. I will do what is necessary.”

“Not just for me, Severus,” Dumbledore said, turning back to face him, his blue eyes piercing. “For her.”

The sneer vanished from Snape’s face, replaced by a flicker of raw, ancient pain. He gave a sharp, jerky nod.

“For her,” he echoed, and the promise hung in the air between them, a ghost binding a spy to his master.

~~ .

Now, you can read 11 chapters ahead from the link in my profile.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 - The Rules of the Game

The Constant Vigilance

Nymphadora Tonks was late. Again.

“Wotcher, Brenda!” she chirped, skidding to a halt in front of the Auror department’s reception desk, her normally bubblegum-pink hair a chaotic mess of violet and orange from her panicked run.

Brenda, a witch with a permanently unimpressed expression and a steel-grey bun, didn’t look up from her paperwork. “You’re late, Nymphadora.”

“I know, I know! My alarm clock decided to transfigure itself into a garden gnome and bury itself in the laundry basket,” Tonks explained in a rush. “Took me twenty minutes to find it.”

“Of course it did,” Brenda said, her voice dripping with dry disbelief. She stamped a form with unnecessary force. “They started the apprentice assembly ten minutes ago. You’d better hope Moody’s in a good mood.”

“Fat chance of that,” Tonks muttered, already moving. She took the corner at a half-run, her foot catching on the edge of the rug. She went down in a flailing pinwheel of limbs, landing with a loud oomph and scattering the contents of her bag across the corridor. “Bollocks!”

Scrambling to gather her things, she heard it through the thick oak door of the assembly room, the muffled but unmistakable sound of shouting. One voice was a low, angry growl she already recognized as Alastor Moody’s. The other was a sharp, clear contralto she knew very well.

“…damn the protocol, Amelia!” Moody’s voice barked. “We have three confirmed sightings of Rookwood! You want me to fill out a request form in triplicate while he slips away again?”

“I want you to bring me evidence that can stand up in front of the Wizengamot, Alastor!” the woman’s voice retorted, sharp as broken glass. “Not a pile of hunches and a body count! This department will follow the rules. That is my final word on it.”

“Damn your final word!”

Tonks’s eyes went wide. She shoved the last of her quills into her bag, scrambled to her feet, and burst into the assembly room just as the shouting match next door seemed to conclude.

The room was silent and tense. About a dozen other trainees stood in neat, nervous rows. They all turned to stare at her. She offered a weak, sheepish grin and tried to subtly join the back rank.

A moment later, the door connecting to the adjacent office slammed open. Alastor Moody stomped in, his magical eye whizzing and spinning in its socket, scanning every corner of the room, while his normal eye glared at them all with equal ferocity.

He looked like a thundercloud that had just been told it wasn’t allowed to rain.

“Right, you lot!” he growled, his voice like grinding rocks. “Welcome to the Auror department. Forget everything you learned at the Academy. You work in the real world now. Out there, it’s not about theory; it’s about survival. You hesitate, you die. You follow the book to the letter, you die. You trust the wrong person, you die. My job is to make sure you die a little bit slower than the other guy.”

His magical eye fixed on a cocky-looking lad in the front row. “Think you’re tough, do you, Williamson? Think your daddy’s seat on the Board of Governors means anything here? It means you’re a target. You’re dismissed. Go find Scrimgeour. He likes polishing his own wand.”

Williamson went pale and scurried out of the room. Moody’s gaze swept over the rest of them.

“This isn’t a gentleman’s club. It’s a war, and the other side doesn’t play fair. I need soldiers, not paper-pushers.” His whizzing blue eye locked onto Tonks, who was trying to make her hair a less conspicuous shade of brown. It settled on a nervous, mousy pink instead.

“You,” he barked. “The one who can’t decide what colour her head is. What’s your name?”

“N-Nymphadora Tonks, sir,” she stammered. “But I prefer just Tonks.”

“I don’t care what you prefer,” Moody grunted. “You’re clumsy. Your arrival was announced by a tidal wave of incompetence. But you’re a Metamorphmagus. That’s a weapon, if you’re smart enough not to trip over it.” He pointed a gnarled finger at a tall, stern-faced wizard. “You, Savage. And you, Yaxley.” He jerked a thumb at Tonks. “You three are with me. The rest of you, find Scrimgeour. Go learn how to file reports.”

A collective sigh of relief and disappointment went through the remaining trainees as they filed out. Tonks, Savage, and Yaxley were left alone with the most feared Auror in a generation.

“Constant vigilance!” Moody roared, making them all jump. “That’s the price of breathing. You’re going to learn it. Or you’re going to be the next name on the memorial plaque in the Atrium. Your training starts now. Try to keep up.”

~~ .

The Quiet Application of Force

The grand public library in Geneva was seven year old Harry’s favourite place in the world.

It was a cathedral of silence and knowledge, a vast, ordered universe where everything had its proper place. For a six-year-old boy whose mind was being systematically reordered into a fortress, the library was a reflection of his training. It was calm, controlled, and full of secrets waiting to be unlocked.

He sat at a large oak table in a secluded corner of the history section, a small, serious figure surrounded by a formidable stack of books. He was a familiar sight to the librarians, the quiet little boy with the shockingly green eyes and the insatiable appetite for books far beyond his years. They simply assumed he was a prodigy and left him to his own devices.

His current reading material was a dense, academic text on the logistical challenges of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps. On the table beside it lay a well-worn copy of Caesar’s Commentarii de Bello Gallico and a Muggle textbook on theoretical physics. He was cross-referencing military strategy with the unyielding laws of the physical world. Padfoot had taught him that magic could bend the rules, but only a fool ignored them entirely.

He was so engrossed in a passage about the morale of Carthaginian soldiers that he didn’t notice the girl until she was standing right beside the table, her hands on her hips.

She looked to be about his age, with blonde ringlets and a frilly pink dress that looked wildly out of place amongst the dusty tomes of the library.

“You’re in my seat,” she announced, her voice loud and imperious in the library’s hush.

Harry looked up slowly, blinking as he adjusted to the interruption. He looked at the empty chairs surrounding them, then back at her. He formulated a quick reply in his second language. To his annoyance, his thoughts still formed in English rather than French. “There are other chairs.”

“I don’t want other chairs,” the girl said, stamping a patent-leather shoe. “I want this one. This is my corner. I come here every Tuesday with Mummy. So move.”

His gaze was calm and analytical. He wasn't angry. He wasn't annoyed. He was observing. He saw a child who had never been told ‘no’, a small tyrant used to shaping her immediate environment through sheer volume.

It was a crude, inefficient application of will.

“The chair did not have your name on it,” he stated simply, and turned back to his book.

This was, apparently, the wrong answer. The girl’s face went from pink to a blotchy, furious red.

“Mummy!” she shrieked, the sound echoing through the cavernous room. “Mummy, this horrid boy won’t move!”

A flustered-looking woman rushed over. “Clarice, darling, what is it? Use your inside voice.”

“He’s in my seat!” Clarice wailed, pointing a chubby finger at Harry.

The mother offered Harry a strained, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “She gets rather attached to her routine. Would you mind terribly finding another spot? It would just be easier.”

Harry looked at the woman. He looked at the girl, who was now glaring at him with triumphant, tear-filled eyes. He saw the path of least resistance. He saw the adult appealing to him, the quiet one, to placate the loud one. It was a…wait, what was that word again? Ah yes! It was a microcosm of the world Sirius was teaching him about, people would always choose the easy path over the correct one.

“Very well,” he said, his voice flat. He began to gather his books, carefully stacking them in a neat pile.

He did not rush. He did not look at them. He was a picture of polite compliance.

He slid off the heavy oak chair, his small book pile in his arms. As he turned to walk away, his eyes met Clarice’s for a fraction of a second. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Harry’s expression did not change. But deep inside the newly ordered fortress of his mind, he gave a quiet, precise command. It was not a roar of anger like the day he had fused the blocks.

It was a whisper. A simple, elegant tweak to the rules of the world, aimed at a single, deserving target.

And then he walked away.

Clarice, victorious, plopped herself down onto the now-vacant chair with a satisfied huff. Her mother sighed in relief. “There now, darling. Was that so difficult?”

Harry counted to fifteen as he strode away.

And a moment later, Clarice decided she wanted a different book. She tried to stand up. She couldn’t.

She pushed with her hands. Her bottom remained firmly, immovably, attached to the polished wood of the chair. It felt less like she was stuck to it and more like the chair had decided she was now a permanent feature.

Her triumphant expression morphed into confusion, then panic. “Mummy?” she said, her voice wobbling. “I… I can’t get up.”

“Don’t be silly, dear, just stand up,” her mother said distractedly, looking at a shelf.

“I can’t!” Clarice wailed, her voice rising in hysteria as she struggled futilely. “I’m stuck! Help! I’m stuck to the chair!”

Her cries grew louder, attracting the attention of the entire library. People started to stare. The head librarian began to march over, a formidable expression on her face.

The mother’s face went from embarrassed to horrified as she tried, and failed, to pull her shrieking daughter from the seat.

At the checkout desk, Harry calmly placed his books on the counter. He didn't look back at the chaos erupting in the history section.

He didn't smile, instead, he weaved a small, confused expression upon his face that would appease the receptionist. And it did.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

He had identified a problem, analyzed the most efficient solution, and applied a quiet, proportional force to achieve his desired outcome. The girl had wanted the chair. Now she had it. Permanently.

He took his stamped books from the girl who looked to be in her twenties or something, gave a polite nod, and walked out into the bright afternoon sun, leaving a lesson in consequences echoing in the cathedral of silence behind him.

~~ .

Now, you can read 11 chapters ahead from the link in my profile.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter 11 - The Kingmaker and The Prince

A Matter of Stability

Lucius Malfoy swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the firewhisky catching the low, enchanted light of the private room at The Olympian Club.

The club was a bastion of old money and older secrets, a place where the true business of the nation was conducted over drinks, far from the prying eyes of the Wizengamot. Across the polished oak table, Lord Nott sipped his own drink, his expression one of bored amusement. They were waiting.

The door opened, and Cornelius Fudge bustled in, his pinstripe robes slightly askew, his face flushed with self-importance. “Lucius! Augustus! So sorry to keep you. The Bulgarian attaché was simply relentless. You know how it is, matters of international import.”

“Of course, Cornelius,” Lucius said, his voice a smooth, welcoming purr. He gestured to the empty chair. “We would never dream of rushing a man of your significance. Please, join us.”

Fudge preened, positively glowing under the praise as he settled into the plush leather. “Well, yes, quite. It’s a delicate business, keeping our European friends happy.”

“It is indeed,” Nott agreed, his voice a low rumble. “Which is precisely why we asked for this meeting. We have… concerns. About the stability of our nation.”

Fudge’s cheerful expression faltered. “Stability? My dear Augustus, the war is over! Bagnold has things well in hand. The Death Eater trials were a resounding success.”

Lucius exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance with Nott. The fish was on the line. Now, to set the hook.

“On the surface, yes,” Lucius conceded, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The common folk are celebrating. But behind the scenes… Cornelius, you work in International Magical Cooperation. You understand diplomacy. You know that true strength lies not in a heavy hand, but in a firm, steady one.”

He let that sink in before continuing. “Minister Bagnold is a wartime leader. She sees enemies in every shadow. This constant pressure, these aggressive purges… they are unsettling for the old families. The very families whose investments and ancestral alliances keep our world turning. They begin to feel persecuted, Cornelius. And when the bedrock of our society feels threatened, the entire structure becomes unstable.”

Fudge frowned, trying to look thoughtful. “I had heard some grumblings, of course. Lord Parkinson was complaining just last week about the new DMLE search protocols.”

“Exactly!” Nott boomed, slamming his hand on the table just hard enough to make Fudge jump. “It’s an atmosphere of suspicion! Bagnold trusts no one. She’s pressuring good, loyal men like Lucius here,”—he gestured grandly—“to dredge up every rumour, every bit of wartime gossip, to feed her paranoia. She wants him to name names, to find Rookwood and the others for her, as if he were their keeper! How can we rebuild, how can we look to the future, when our own Minister is obsessed with digging up the graves of the past?”

Lucius maintained a pained, dignified silence, playing the part of the wronged man perfectly.

He’d delivered two of the lesser fanatics to Bagnold on a silver platter last month, but it wasn't enough. She wanted more. She wanted Rookwood. And Rookwood was far too useful an asset to simply throw away.

Bagnold’s efficiency was becoming a liability.

“She’s alienating our international partners as well,” Lucius added, his voice low and concerned. “The French Ministry is hesitant to sign the new trade agreement. They see her aggressive policies as a sign of weakness, of a government that does not have control of its own people. It makes us look… provincial.”

Fudge puffed out his chest, his personal area of expertise having been invoked. “I told her that! I told her the French value subtlety, not strong-arming. She wouldn't listen, of course. Said I didn't understand the ‘domestic security situation.’”

“Because she doesn't respect you, Cornelius,” Nott said bluntly. Fudge’s face fell. “She sees you as a department head. A functionary. She doesn’t see what we see: a man who understands people. A man who can unite the factions, not drive them further apart. A man who can bring a sense of… well, a sense of comfortable order back to the Ministry.”

Lucius took a slow sip of his firewhisky. Comfortable order. Nott’s choice of words was perfect. It was exactly what a man like Fudge craved. Not greatness, but comfort. The prestige of the office without the messy, difficult business of actually governing.

“We need a leader, Cornelius,” Lucius said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not a general. The war is over. We need a Minister of Magic who can reassure our allies, calm the markets, and restore faith in the ancient families. Someone who can host a gala, not just a trial.”

Fudge was staring at them, his eyes wide, the gears in his slow, vain mind finally clicking into place. “But… Bagnold is the Minister. Her position is secure.”

“Positions are only as secure as the support they stand on,” Nott said with a predatory smile. “And her support is eroding every day she continues this crusade. The traditionalists are weary of her. The progressives feel she is too autocratic. She has very few true friends left.”

Lucius leaned in for the final, closing stroke. “But a man like you, Cornelius… you have friends everywhere. You are respected. Likeable. You represent a return to normalcy. If a man like you were to, say, consider a run for the office… I believe you would find a groundswell of support. Both financial and political. From parties you might not expect.”

He let his hand rest near his coin purse, a subtle but unmistakable gesture.

Cornelius Fudge stared into his drink, his mind probably reeling with visions of grandeur. Minister Fudge. The man who healed the nation. The man who brought peace and prosperity. The man who was guest of honour at every event and had the best box at every Quidditch match. And most importantly, the man who was rich and powerful.

“Well,” he said, a slow, foolish grin spreading across his face. “I have always believed that public service is the highest calling. If the people were to call upon me… how could I possibly refuse?”

Lucius raised his glass. “To the people,” he said, his eyes meeting Nott’s over Fudge’s head in a look of perfect, predatory understanding. “And to the leaders who heed their call.”

Cornelius nodded excitedly, taking a sip of his drink.

~~ .

The Art of Vengeance

Harry sat cross-legged on the library floor, a heavy book open in his lap. He was seven years old, but he carried himself with the quiet, unnerving stillness of a much older man.

The book was Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. And he had read it three times already. He didn’t understand a few things, but always took a note of them to revisit later or ask Sirius if he didn’t understand it for, say, a few weeks.

“Padfoot,” he said, not looking up from the page.

Sirius, who was reviewing a portfolio of Muggle stocks from a comfortable armchair, lowered his papers. “Yes, Harry?”

“‘All warfare is based on deception,’” Harry read aloud. “‘Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away.’”

He finally looked up, his green eyes sharp and analytical. “This is how you beat them, isn't it? Not with more power. With better thinking.”

Sirius felt a familiar surge of pride, mixed with a faint, unsettling chill. “That’s the idea, yes. The mind is the greatest weapon.”

“Then why haven't we found Pettigrew?” Harry asked, the question blunt and direct. There was no childish curiosity in his voice. It was the question of a strategist identifying an unresolved objective.

The question caught Sirius slightly off guard. They hadn't spoken of Pettigrew since Harry’s fifth or sixth birthday. He had assumed the story was a painful memory, locked away.

He had not realized it had become a target.

“Finding one rat in a world full of them is difficult, Harry,” Sirius said carefully. “He’s a coward. He’s hiding.”

“So we make him come out,” Harry countered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We create a situation where it is more dangerous for him to remain hidden than to show himself. Chapter five: ‘Energy’.”

Sirius closed his portfolio and gave Harry his full attention. The intensity in the boy’s gaze was startling. “And why are you so focused on finding him?”

“For vengeance,” Harry said, the word utterly devoid of emotion. It was not a passionate cry; it was a statement of fact. A debt to be collected. “He betrayed us. He is the reason my parents are dead. He is an enemy. And enemies must be eliminated. Completely.”

Sirius felt a cold knot in his stomach.

He had wanted to forge his will and magic, yes, but he was beginning to realize he had created something far more complex in Harry. He had created a mind that saw the world as a chessboard, and vengeance as a simple, logical move.

“Vengeance is a long game, Harry,” Sirius said, his voice gentle. “And we can’t play it from here. Not yet.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, his gaze unwavering. “Why don’t we ever go back to Britain?”

“Because, as I’ve told you, it’s not safe,” Sirius said, a hint of weariness in his tone. “It’s not just about Pettigrew, or the Death Eaters. There are powerful people there. The Minister of Magic. Dumbledore. People who think they know what’s best for you. People who would try to control you, to turn you into their symbol, their soldier. We are not strong enough to face them all at once.”

He expected the explanation to satisfy him, to be accepted as a necessary limitation.

But he did not see disappointment in Harry’s eyes. He did not see fear. He saw a flicker of something else. A quiet, calculating light.

Harry looked down at his book, at the ancient, ruthless wisdom printed on the page. Powerful people. The words echoed in his mind, not as a barrier, but as a benchmark. A level to be surpassed.

Sirius thought the conversation was over. He believed he had successfully managed his godson’s expectations.

But as Harry stared at the text, a new, unspoken objective crystallized in the core of his being. It was a goal born not of anger, but of cold, hard logic.

Because Sirius was right.

They couldn't go back because other people held the power. The solution, therefore, was simple.

He would just have to become more powerful than any of them.

~~ .

Now, you can read 10+ chapters (a month) ahead from the link in my profile. I am slowly building more backlog as well, so soon it'll be 20 chapters, or about 2.5-3 months ahead of here. 

And you'll also be able to vote on my next story idea.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12 - What We Do and Who We Are

The Illusion of Control

The Wizengamot chamber was a pit of boiling resentment.

Lucius Malfoy sat with his back ramrod straight, his gloved hands resting on his cane, projecting an aura of bored detachment he did not feel. The topic of the day was Augustus Rookwood, and ‘Director’ Bones was on the warpath.

“He is a known Unspeakable who turned his knowledge to the Dark Lord’s service!” she declared, her voice ringing with conviction as she stood before the assembly. “He is intelligent, he is ruthless, and he is still at large. The DMLE requires a formal mandate and a doubling of the budget for a dedicated task force to hunt him down. We cannot afford to let men like him regroup.”

Minister Bagnold, seated in her high-backed chair, looked severe. “The DMLE has my full support, Director Bones. The dregs of the Dark Lord’s forces must be scoured from our society.”

A wave of fervent agreement washed over the Light faction's benches. Elphias Doge rose with a self-important flourish.

“Hear, hear!” Doge proclaimed, his voice trembling with righteous passion. “Minister Bagnold is absolutely correct! We cannot show weakness! We cannot allow these vipers to remain in our midst, poisoning the well of our hard-won peace. Director Bones must be given whatever she needs to complete this noble and necessary task. Let it not be said that we faltered when courage was required!”

Lucius watched the performance with utter contempt, his fingers tightening slightly on the serpent head of his cane.

Fools, he thought, so eager to throw galleons into a fire to prove their own virtue. Their passion was a liability, an emotional indulgence the wizarding world could no longer afford.

His gaze flickered over to the Neutral bloc.

Greengrass, Fawley, and the others sat with passive, unreadable expressions. They were listening, observing, but they would not act. They were merchants of inaction, believing their passivity was a sign of shrewdness. They would sit on their hands and watch the Ministry bankrupt itself chasing shadows, content in their own perceived neutrality. Good-for-nothing cowards, the lot of them. They saw the problem but lacked the will to be the solution.

It was always the same. If you wanted something done correctly, you could not wait for the sentimental fools or the patient observers. You had to do it yourself. This whole tiresome debate was now a foregone conclusion unless someone with actual influence intervened.

With a sigh of performative reluctance that masked a cold resolve, Lucius rose smoothly to his feet.

“A noble sentiment, Minister,” Lucius began, his voice a silken drawl that commanded attention. “And one we all share. However, one must question the wisdom of such a… theatrical expenditure.”

“Theatrical?” Bones snapped, turning to glare at him. “Security is not theatre, Lord Malfoy.”

“Isn’t it?” Lucius countered, a faint, condescending smile on his lips. “We are pouring hundreds of thousands of galleons into chasing ghosts while the foundations of our economy crumble. Our trade agreements are stalled, the Gringotts exchange rates are abysmal, and the good, law-abiding families of our nation are being subjected to intrusive new security protocols. We are so busy hunting the last war’s monsters that we are creating the perfect conditions for the next one.”

Lord Nott grunted his approval. “Lord Malfoy is correct. We need stability. We need to rebuild confidence, not fund an endless, paranoid manhunt that will only serve to further unsettle the populace.”

Dumbledore, who had been observing the proceedings with a placid expression, chose that moment to speak. “Perhaps there is a middle ground,” he suggested, his voice calm and reasonable.

Bones turned to him furiously.

He continued. “Vigilance is essential, Amelia, as you so rightly point out. But Lucius raises a valid concern about the allocation of our resources. We must not allow fear to dictate our entire agenda.”

It was masterful, Lucius thought with a flicker of grudging admiration. Dumbledore had managed to sound wise while supporting both sides and committing to neither. He was pacifying Bones while giving a nod to the traditionalists, ensuring his own position as the voice of reason remained unassailable.

“The middle ground will get us all killed!” Bones argued, her frustration mounting. “Rookwood is not a common thug. He is a strategic threat—”

She never finished her sentence.

From the public visitors’ gallery above, a figure in a simple, grey cloak stood up. There was no shout, no warning. The figure’s arm rose, a wand clutched in their hand.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The shout was shockingly loud in the chamber. A bolt of blinding green light, impossibly fast, shot from the gallery directly towards the Minister’s chair.

Chaos erupted. Witches and wizards screamed, diving for cover. Lucius instinctively drew his own wand, his eyes fixed on the curse.

Minister Bagnold’s eyes went wide with terror, her body frozen in shock.

But the Aurors on duty were faster.

A young, pink-haired Auror, Tonks, Cissa’s niece, he vaguely recalled, leapt over a bench, conjuring a big wooden board that materialized a fraction of a second before the Killing Curse hit. The green light slammed into the surface, exploding in a shower of violent, emerald sparks that rained down on the empty floor and blackened the wood.

The assassin was already moving, shoving their way through the panicking crowd. Someone—Moody’s voice roared, “SEAL THE EXITS! NO ONE LEAVES!”

But it was too late. With a final, desperate shove, the grey-cloaked figure reached the gallery doors and vanished.

The chamber was in an uproar. Minister Bagnold was pale and trembling, being helped from her chair by two stern-faced Aurors.

“Order!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed, magically amplified. “ORDER! The session is adjourned! Aurors will secure the chamber!”

Lucius slowly sat back down, a look of profound, calculated concern on his face. He caught Nott’s eye across the room. Nott gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

A perfectly executed operation.

It was a brutal, audacious move, but it would serve their purpose beautifully. Nothing highlighted the need for ‘stability’ more than a brazen assassination attempt in the heart of their government.

~~ .

Thirty minutes later

In the silent, imposing sanctity of her office, Minister Bagnold sank into her chair, a trembling hand pouring a generous measure of firewhisky. The curse may have been blocked, but the ghost of that green light was still burned into her vision.

Her invulnerability, the very authority of her office, had been shattered.

She sat up, placing her glass aside to finally finish some work and go home. Her fingers trembled as she picked up her quill.

But then her eyes fell upon a single piece of folded parchment sitting squarely in the middle of her desk blotter. It hadn't been there when she’d left for the session. Her heart hammered against her ribs. With a shaking hand, she unfolded it.

The message was written in a clean, elegant script.

I hope you learned your lesson, Minister. Control is an illusion. Stability is everything.

She choked.

~~ .

The Speaker in the Grass

The walk home from the Geneva library was usually a quiet affair. Sirius, under his ‘Mr. Sterling’ glamour, would quiz Harry on his reading, and Harry, his mind sharp and precise, would answer.

But today, halfway through a discussion on the strategic use of cavalry, Harry stopped dead.

He tilted his head, his green eyes unfocused, as if listening to a sound only he could hear.

“Harry?” Sirius asked, stopping beside him. “What is it?”

“Someone’s calling,” Harry whispered, his gaze drifting towards a thick, manicured hedge bordering a small park.

Sirius strained his ears. He heard the distant chime of a city clock, the rumble of a passing tram, the laughter of children playing further down the path. He heard nothing that sounded like a voice. “Calling for whom?”

“For—I don’t know, but—” Harry said, his voice distant. He started walking towards the hedge, his small hand slipping from Sirius’s. “He’s scared. He’s lost.”

Sirius felt a prickle of unease. He followed his godson, his hand resting on the wand hidden in his sleeve.

They reached the dark green foliage of the hedge. Harry knelt, peering into the shadows at the base of the plants.

“It’s alright,” Harry said.

But it was not in English.

Neither in French or German, both of which he was learning.

The sound that came from his godson’s throat was something else entirely. It was a soft, flowing series of hisses, a sibilant whisper that sounded ancient and utterly alien.

Sirius froze, his blood turning to ice. He knew that sound. He had read about it in the darkest books of the Black family library.

Parseltongue. The sacred gift of Salazar Slytherin. The language of serpents.

And then from the dark leaves, a small, striped grass snake emerged.

It was no bigger than Sirius’s hand, a common, harmless creature. It slithered towards Harry and coiled up just before his knee, its tiny head raised, its forked tongue flicking out to taste the air.

The snake began to hiss, a sound only Harry could understand as words. Sirius saw the large, agitated hisses being exchanged between them and couldn’t even guess what they were talking about.

But thankfully, Harry was more than happy to relay.

“He says the cars are too loud,” Harry translated for Sirius, his tone conversational, as if he were talking about a new friend from school. “He’s from the big forest on the mountain, and he got trapped in a delivery carriage.”

Sirius could only stare, his mind reeling.

James had been a pureblood, but the Potters had no Slytherin connection. Then how?

This had to have come from Lily. A recessive trait, dormant for generations, that Voldemort’s dark magic had somehow awakened in the boy. Another gift from the man who had murdered his parents.

Harry hissed again to the little snake who seemed to be listening intently.

But then, his mind stopped at the words.

“Harry, did you say carriage?”

Harry nodded. Sirius swallowed. “So this is a magical snake. Ask him where he was living before?”

Harry obeyed and asked the snake. After a series of small hisses, Harry turned to him again. “He says it was a warm nest. Many of his brothers and sisters died in the nest and he tried to leave and got trapped in a delivery carriage.”

Well, Sirius thought, that didn’t say much.

He looked up at Sirius, his expression open and innocent. “Padfoot, can we take him with us? He could live in the gardens. Brutus could help me take care of him.”

Sirius looked from Harry’s earnest, pleading face to the small snake that was now resting calmly, trustingly, at his godson’s palm. He opened his mouth to speak but then Harry chuckled.

“Oh, he corrected me!” Harry said amusedly, “I mean it’s a she. Her name is—”

He saw no darkness, no evil. He saw a boy comforting a lost animal. But he knew how the wizarding world would see it. They would see the mark of a Dark Lord. Another reason to fear him. Another reason to hate him.

It was another secret they would have to keep. Another weapon they would have to sharpen in the shadows.

“Of course, Harry,” Sirius said, his voice easing, “Of course we can help your new friend.”

Harry had found a new gift.

How will it impact his future?

It was yet to be seen.

~~ .

Now, you can read 10+ chapters (1.5 months) ahead from the link in my profile. I am slowly building more backlog as well, so soon it'll be 20 chapters, or about 2.5-3 months ahead of here. 

And you'll also be able to vote on my next story idea.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13 - The Puppet's Platform

The Seat of Influence

The Chief Warlock, Albus Dumbledore, brought the session to order with a soft tap of his gavel.

“We now come to the election for the new Head of the Wizengamot Administration Committee. The candidates put forth are Lord Tiberius Ogden and Mr. Cornelius Fudge. Mr. Fudge, you have the floor.”

Cornelius Fudge, clutching his lime-green bowler hat to his chest like a shield, bustled to the centre of the chamber. He beamed at the assembled witches and wizards, looking like a picture of affable sincerity.

“My friends! Colleagues!” he began, his voice radiating warmth. “I won’t stand here and bore you with speeches about procedural bylaws and sub-clause amendments. Frankly, my eyes glaze over just like yours do!”

A few chuckles rippled through the Neutral bloc. Fudge’s smile widened.

“My business, as you all know from my time in International Magical Cooperation, isn’t paper. It’s people,” he said, puffing out his chest. “It’s about finding common ground, shaking a hand, and getting things done with a bit of common sense. And I think we can all agree that what our great nation needs now is a return to good, old-fashioned common sense! A firm, friendly hand on the tiller to guide us back to prosperity.”

He gave a slightly clumsy bow and practically bounced back to his seat, looking immensely pleased with himself.

Lord Tiberius Ogden rose next, his movements slow and deliberate. He was the physical opposite of Fudge: tall, thin, and radiating an aura of severe, intellectual gravity.

“With all due respect to my colleague’s charming personality,” Ogden began, his crisp, clear voice cutting through the chamber, “the tiller of this committee is not steered with a handshake. It is steered with an encyclopedic knowledge of magical law and Wizengamot precedent. For forty years, my entire career has been dedicated to the study and application of those very laws.”

He turned his gaze directly to Fudge. “My opponent, meanwhile, has spent the last decade negotiating the tariff rates on self-stirring cauldrons with the Bulgarian Ministry. I ask this body to consider a simple question: when the complex legislative machinery of our government requires a master technician, do we hire the man who has studied the engine his entire life, or do we hire the man who is good at hosting parties?”

The barb hit its mark.

Several members nodded in sober agreement.

Amelia Bones, from her seat as Head of the DMLE, gave a subtle but clear nod of support to Ogden.

Arthur Weasley, a staunch Dumbledore loyalist, stood. “A fair question, Lord Ogden. Mr. Fudge, how do you respond? The responsibilities of this office are immense. Can you assure us you are prepared for them?”

Fudge stood again, the cheerful confidence gone, replaced by a flustered panic. “Well, I… as I said, I believe in people! And in delegation! A good leader surrounds himself with experts, doesn’t he?”

“Delegation is not a substitute for qualification, Cornelius,” Amelia Bones called out, her voice sharp. “The Head of this committee must personally vet and approve the legislative schedule. This role has implications to the governance of this country that are too staggering to be taken lightly. Are you capable of that complex task?”

“I… I am a fast learner!” Fudge stammered, his face turning a blotchy red. “And I believe in a… a fresh perspective!”

“Procedure is the guardian of law, not a canvas for ‘fresh perspectives’!” Ogden retorted coolly.

The mood in the chamber was shifting decisively against Fudge. He was being exposed as a lightweight. In his family’s private box, Lucius Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

Fudge, seeing the signal, seemed to draw strength from it. His flustered demeanour vanished, replaced by a new, aggressive confidence. He drew himself up to his full height.

“A fresh perspective is precisely what this chamber needs!” he boomed, his voice suddenly filled with an authority that was not his own. “Lord Ogden speaks only of the past, of dusty rules and forgotten amendments! I am speaking of the future! A future of stability and prosperity that requires us to move forward!”

“And how do you propose to do that without respecting the very rules that govern us?” Ogden demanded.

“By building consensus!” Fudge declared, turning away from Ogden to address the wider assembly. “Something I have been doing while Lord Ogden has been memorizing footnotes! I have spent the last month in very productive conversations with members from every faction. I have spoken at length with esteemed lords who believe our economy should be our number one priority. Men of vision, like Lord Malfoy.”

A stunned murmur swept through the room. It was a brazen move, dropping the name of a man so recently accused of being a Death Eater.

Fudge pressed on, his voice ringing with power. “I have discussed the vital importance of preserving our pureblood traditions with respected leaders like Lord Nott. I have been assured that many of the ancient and noble houses are deeply concerned by the current divisive atmosphere. They are eager to support a candidate who can bring this chamber together. A candidate who will ensure the concerns of those who form the very bedrock of our society are heard, not buried under procedural nonsense!”

The subtext was as subtle as a Bludger to the face. The chamber fell into a tense, shocked silence. Lord Greengrass, in the Neutral bloc, leaned over to Lord Fawley. "Well," Greengrass murmured, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "The puppet has shown his strings."

Weasley stood again, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Mr. Fudge, are you suggesting your candidacy is contingent on the approval of certain… special interests?”

“I am suggesting, my dear Arthur,” Fudge said with a broad, triumphant smile, “that my candidacy is supported by those with a vested interest in a stable, prosperous, and unified wizarding world. I am that candidate. The unifying candidate.”

Dumbledore watched the entire exchange, his face a mask of placid disappointment.

The game was afoot, and the good candidate was being neatly outmaneuvered.

Lucius had not just backed a candidate; he had created a schism, forcing the uncommitted to choose between the illusion of stability and the reality of competence.

He knew which one the fearful and the opportunistic would choose. The rest would flounder and that is exactly what they didn’t need as a nation.

“The time for debate has concluded,” Dumbledore announced, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “We will now proceed to the vote. Let the wands of those in favour of Lord Tiberius Ogden be lit.”

A respectable number of lights, a brilliant silver, ignited around the chamber. Dumbledore’s eyes quickly scanned the assembly. As expected, the core of the Light faction and Ministry was unanimous, Amelia Bones, Elphias Doge, the Abbotts, the Macmillans. They were joined by four of the nine Ministry seats, those loyal to procedure and law over politics. A smattering of the more principled Noble Houses and one of the six Order of Merlin recipients, excluding himself, added their lights. A solid, but insufficient, bloc.

“And now, let those in favour of Mr. Cornelius Fudge be lit,” Dumbledore called, a note of resignation in his voice.

The change was immediate and overwhelming. A sea of golden lights flared to life, easily outnumbering the silver. The entire Dark faction, a solid block of the Ancient and Noble Houses of Nott, Parkinson, Yaxley, lit their wands as one, along with Noble Houses like Malfoy.

They were the anchor.

But the true victory came from the centre benches. The Neutral faction, the great mass of Ancient and Noble Houses who followed power, not principle, had been swayed. Greengrass and Fawley abstained, their wands remaining dark, but they were in the minority. The rest had seen the display of force from Malfoy and Nott and had chosen the winning side. They were joined by the remaining five Ministry seats, including Fudge’s own, and three of the Order of Merlin recipients who clearly valued a connection to the old families over Ogden’s dry competence.

Dumbledore watched the political map of his country redraw itself in real time.

The golden lights of Fudge’s supporters had drowned out the silver of Ogden’s.

It was a brutal, decisive victory. He called for the final tally from the Clerk.

The wizened old wizard floated the magical parchment before him. “Chief Warlock,” he announced, his voice heavy with resignation, “the votes are cast. For Lord Ogden: twenty-five. For Mr. Fudge: forty-eight. There are twelve abstentions.”

Dumbledore stood, his face betraying none of his inner turmoil. “By a clear majority, the new Head of the Wizengamot Administration Committee is… Mr. Cornelius Fudge.”

As Fudge beamed, accepting handshakes from his new, powerful allies, Lucius Malfoy allowed himself a small, satisfied smile from the gallery. The first piece had been moved.

The gate to power was now open.

The Dark Lord was gone. Good riddance to that. Bones was being handicapped one legislation at a time. Dumbledore still remained influential, but only in Hogwarts, and some circles outside of the country, which was not his focus right now.

No, Lucius knew that it was now only a matter of time.

In just a few years, he will rule this country.

~~ .

Whispers from Afar

The café in the magical quarter of Berlin was deliberately unremarkable. It was a place for quiet conversations and secrets traded over bitter, black coffee.

Albus Dumbledore, dressed in a muted grey traveling cloak that did little to hide his magnificent silver beard, sat in a secluded corner booth, the air around him laden with privacy wards.

The man who slid into the seat opposite him was stout, florid-faced, and radiated an aura of boisterous, predatory charm.

Ludo Bagman Sr. was a titan in the world of magical sports and entertainment, a man whose influence at the International Confederation of Wizards was built on a mountain of sponsorship deals and broadcast rights.

“Albus,” Bagman boomed, his voice a little too loud for the quiet café. “Always a pleasure. Though you look as grim as a Grindylow with a toothache.”

“These are grim times, Ludo,” Dumbledore said, his voice a low rumble. He gestured to the waiter for another coffee. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. My sources said you had information for me. Information regarding a fugitive.”

Bagman’s cheerful expression sharpened, the jovial mask slipping to reveal the shrewd negotiator beneath. “Information is a commodity, Albus. You know that better than anyone. And I do have something that might interest you. A credible sighting of your wayward dog, Sirius Black.”

Dumbledore’s placid demeanour didn’t change, but his blue eyes gained a new, intense focus.

For years, there had been nothing. Not a whisper. It was as if Sirius Black had vanished from the face of the earth. “Where?”

“Ah, ah,” Bagman said, holding up a pudgy hand. “First, let’s discuss the price. A small matter, really. The ICW is voting next month on budget allocations for the next five years. There’s a rather bloated proposal from the Department of International Magical Justice. All very boring. I, on the other hand, have a proposal to redirect a small portion of that funding to the International Magical Games and Sports Committee. Think of the upcoming Quidditch World Cup! The global unity! The revenue!”

“You want me to lobby the British delegation to vote against a justice initiative and in favour of your entertainment budget,” Dumbledore stated, his voice flat.

“I want you to see the bigger picture, Albus!” Bagman insisted. “What brings people together more? Lengthy extradition treaties or the shared thrill of watching the Cannons get thrashed by the Vratsa Vultures? I just need your support. A quiet word in the right ears.”

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment, the political calculus turning in his mind. Supporting Bagman was distasteful, a concession to the very commercialism he disliked. But finding Sirius… finding Sirius was paramount. The man was a loose cannon, a danger to the carefully constructed narrative he had built.

“You have my support, Ludo,” Dumbledore said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “Now, where was he seen?”

Bagman grinned, his victory assured. “Excellent! A wise choice. It was in Geneva. About a month ago. One of my contacts, a reporter for a Swiss wizarding paper, saw him. Couldn't believe his eyes.”

“Geneva,” Dumbledore murmured, his mind racing. “What was he doing?”

“That’s the odd part,” Bagman said, leaning forward. “He was in a public library. The big Muggle one downtown. My man said they were just sitting there, reading.”

Dumbledore froze, the cup halfway to his lips. He slowly set it down. “They?” he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.

Bagman, oblivious to the sudden, glacial chill emanating from the Headmaster, nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! That’s the detail I knew you’d want. He wasn’t alone.”

“Who was with him, Ludo?” Dumbledore pressed, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table.

“A child,” Bagman said with a shrug. “A little boy. Six or seven years old, the reporter thought. Quiet little chap, apparently. Dark hair.”

The blood drained from Dumbledore’s face. The quiet café, the smell of coffee, the entire city of Berlin seemed to fall away, leaving him in a silent, roaring void.

It couldn’t be.

The blood wards. The protection of his mother's kin.

The boy was supposed to be safe, ignorant, growing up humble and unknown behind the unassailable defences he had so carefully constructed.

He was supposed to be on Privet Drive.

The Dursleys never contacted me, a small, panicked voice screamed in the back of his mind. I never checked. I assumed the wards would hold. I assumed they would do their duty.

“A child,” Dumbledore echoed, his voice a hollow whisper. His carefully managed world, his long game, his strategy for the salvation of the wizarding world, it had all just been predicated on a catastrophic mistake.

Where was Harry Potter?

He stood up. “Thank you, Ludo. You’ve been very helpful.”

And then he disapparated.

~~ .

Now, you can read 10+ chapters ahead from the link in my profile.

And you'll also be able to vote on my next story idea. Polls are starting this weekend.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14 - The Unraveling and The Art of War

The Broken Ward

The quiet, manicured perfection of Privet Drive was an affront to the chaos storming inside Albus Dumbledore’s mind.

He apparated to the corner of the street with a sharp crack that made the neighbourhood cats scatter, his usual subtlety abandoned in the face of raw, visceral panic. The blood wards he had so carefully woven around Number 4 were not there.

There was no feeling of ancient magic, no warmth of protection.

There was absolutely nothing but a neat, painfully ordinary Muggle house.

He strode up the path, his grey cloak sweeping behind him, and knocked once, a sharp, peremptory rap on the door.

He waited for precisely three seconds.

When the door didn't open, he pointed his wand at the lock.

It clicked open with a soft, magical snap.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside, the carefully cultivated persona of the benevolent Headmaster replaced by an aura of cold, terrifying authority bubbling up within him.

Petunia was in the sitting room, dusting a porcelain figurine. She looked up, her horsey face paling in shock and terror at the sight of the tall, bearded wizard standing uninvited in her hallway.

“You!” she gasped, dropping her duster.

“Where is the boy, Petunia?” Dumbledore’s voice was low, but it vibrated with a contained power that made the polished glasses in a nearby cabinet tremble.

Vernon was at work. Dudley was at school.

Petunia trembled, both in affront and fear, realizing that they were alone.

“Boy? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered, trying to back away. “There’s no boy here. There never has been.”

“Do not,” Dumbledore said, taking a step forward, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees, “lie to me. I left your nephew, Lily’s son, on this doorstep six years ago. I have the letter I wrote to you. Where is he?”

Petunia’s face, a mixture of fear and a lifetime of resentment, finally crumpled.

The lie was too big to hold against the force of the man before her. “I got rid of him!” she shrieked, the words tearing from her throat. “Years ago! The day after you left him! I wouldn’t have it! I wouldn’t have that… that abnormality in my house, poisoning my Dudley, ruining my child’s life!”

Dumbledore stopped, his face a mask of cold disbelief. “You… did what?”

“I took him where he belonged!” she spat, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a wave of righteous indignation. “I took him back to your world! To those… creatures. The bankers, in that freak alley. I told them to take him, to use his parents’ money to put him somewhere proper. An institution or something, anywhere but here!”

The air seemed to rush out of Dumbledore’s lungs.

Gringotts.

This was horrifyingly bad.

A travesty of the greatest measure, a complete—

…she had taken an infant, the very saviour of the wizarding world, the last of the Potter line, and handed him to the goblins.

Dumbledore exhaled deeply through his mouth, his half-moon spectacles sagging against his nose.

The full, catastrophic scale of his miscalculation was suddenly crashing down upon him.

He had built a fortress to protect a priceless treasure, and the designated guardian had simply handed the key to the most notorious thieves in the world.

His control finally snapped.

“You foolish, foolish woman!” Dumbledore roared, and this time the glasses in the cabinet rattled violently, one of them cracking from top to bottom. “Do you have any idea what you have done? The protection I placed on this house, the only true protection he had, was anchored to you! To your blood, the last remnant of his mother! It was a magic Voldemort could not touch! And you threw it away!”

“I wanted to be normal!” Petunia sobbed, shrinking back from his fury, pressing herself against the wall.

“She was your sister!” Dumbledore thundered, his voice raw with a grief and fury he had not felt in decades. “Lily was your sister! She died to save that boy, she gave her life so that he might live, and you treated him not as family, but as a piece of rubbish to be disposed of! You have dishonoured her memory, you have spat on her sacrifice, and you have undone everything!”

He stared at her, this small, bitter woman who had, in her mundane desire for normalcy, potentially doomed them all.

But beneath his rage, there was a cold, sickening wave of self-recrimination.

It was his fault too.

A major one.

He had never checked on Harry. He had assumed.

He had placed the fate of the world on the unwilling shoulders of a woman consumed by jealousy, and he had never once returned to ensure the burden was being carried.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and swept out of the house, leaving Petunia sobbing amongst her pristine, perfectly normal furniture.

He did not say goodbye. He did not offer comfort.

He had no intention of doing anything kind for a woman like that.

He apparated from the sidewalk with a furious crack of displaced air that shattered the wooden fence of the house next door. But he didn’t wait to see it.

He had the information he needed about that man, the one who had seen Sirius and the ‘child’ with him. He had taken it from Ludo’s unprotected mind when they had met.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the destination, a place he had never been, fuelled by a desperation he had not known since the height of the war.

He twisted on the spot and vanished, leaving the scent of ozone and sheer panic hanging in the autumn air.

He appeared in a quiet, immaculate alleyway in Geneva. He smoothed down his robes, his face once again a mask of calm, grandfatherly concern, but his eyes were burning with a frantic, terrible light.

He found the apartment building, a respectable block of flats, and walked up to the door of one Jean-Pierre Dubois. He raised his hand to knock, his heart hammering against his ribs. The game was no longer his to control. He was no longer a player. He was a hunter, chasing a ghost.

~~ .

The Art of War

The black Mercedes-Benz 560 SEC, a masterpiece of German engineering, glided through the clean, orderly streets of Geneva.

Inside, the scent of rich leather and the quiet hum of the powerful engine created a capsule of serene, mobile luxury.

Caspian Sterling, his unremarkable brown hair and plain suit a perfect camouflage, drove with an easy, confident grace. Beside him, nine-year-old Harrison sat with a book open on his lap, a worn copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.

“‘The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting,’” Sirius said, his eyes on the road. “Give me a practical, modern application.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book. “Corporate acquisition,” he answered, his voice calm and precise. “Last year, you wanted to acquire a smaller technology firm, ‘Novatech’. Instead of engaging in a hostile takeover, which would have been costly and disruptive, we identified their key supplier of rare earth minerals. We then purchased a controlling interest in that supplier through a shell corporation. We restricted their supply, creating a production crisis within Novatech. Their stock plummeted. Three months later, we purchased the entire company for forty percent of its original value. The enemy was subdued. Not a single shot was fired in the boardroom.”

A flicker of pride mixed with a faint, familiar unease stirred in Sirius.

The seven year old boy’s mind was terrifyingly efficient.

Harry’s mind was truly a supreme mixture of James’ immense cunning and Lily’s sheer raw intelligence.

No other seven year old boy could think like that, let alone speak like that.

He nodded proudly.

“Good. Next. ‘In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.’ Explain.”

“The American stock market crash last year,” Harry said immediately. “October 19th. ‘Black Monday.’ The markets were in free fall. Global panic everywhere. Investors were dumping stocks based on fear, not on the fundamental value of the companies. You identified the chaos. While everyone else was selling, we used our liquid assets to buy controlling stakes in three undervalued robotics and micro-processing firms. The chaos of their fear was our opportunity. Our initial investment has already increased by three hundred percent.”

“And the most important part of that operation?” he prompted.

“That we had the liquid assets in the first place,” Harry answered. “‘An army marches on its stomach.’ A corporation cannot seize an opportunity without available capital. Preparation is everything.”

They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft swish of the tires on the asphalt.

“Sun Tzu says, ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles,’” Harry said, finally closing the book and looking at Sirius. “We know ourselves. We know our assets, our strategies, our objectives. But how do we truly know our enemies in Britain? We have been gone for years. The data we receive from your old network is filtered. It’s not direct observation.”

Sirius glanced at his godson.

The question was not one of idle curiosity. It was a strategic query, identifying a fundamental weakness in their position.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “Data is not the same as being on the ground. We see the moves they make on the board, but we don’t always see the expressions on their faces. That is a problem for another day.”

“A problem,” Harry recited, as if from a textbook, “is just an objective that hasn’t been met yet.”

Sirius pulled the sleek car to a smooth stop in front of the grand, columned entrance of the Geneva public library. “Three hours,” he said, his voice all business once more. “I want a one-page summary on the key differences between Clausewitz’s philosophy of ‘absolute warfare’ and Sun Tzu’s emphasis on deception and minimal cost. I have a meeting with the bank regarding our new South American acquisitions.”

“I’ll have it ready,” Harry said, gathering his leather satchel.

“And Harry?” Sirius said, stopping him before he opened the door.

Harry turned, his startlingly green eyes meeting Sirius’s.

“Constant vigilance.”

A ghost of a smile, cool and knowing, touched Harry’s lips. “Always.”

He opened the heavy car door, slid out, and walked up the wide marble steps of the library, a small, serious figure in a well-tailored coat, looking for all the world like the son of a diplomat or a banker. He pushed open the great oak doors and disappeared inside.

Sirius watched him go, a swell of pride warring with a deep, unsettling feeling he couldn’t quite name.

He was forging a prince, a strategist, a mind of cold, hard logic. More than anything, he was forging a conqueror, a boy who had the ultimate potential to be in control of anything and everything he wanted in life.

He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, heading for his meeting. He would be back in a few hours.

What he didn’t notice was the old, grey-cloaked man with a long silver beard who had just rounded the corner, his own blue eyes, burning with a frantic, desperate hope, fixed on the very same library doors his godson had just entered.

~~ .

Read the next 10+ chapters from the link in my profile. Also vote in polls for my next story.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15 - The Ghost in the Library

The library was his sanctuary.

It wasn't a home, not like the villa, but it was a fortress of a different kind. A place of absolute, predictable order. The Dewey Decimal System was a law more reliable than any passed by the Wizengamot. The hushed silence was a ward more potent than any charm he would learn at school.

Here, the chaos of the world was held at bay by the sheer, calming weight of accumulated knowledge.

Sometimes, he even wondered if he’ll ever have enough time to read everything in there.

However, he brought himself back to the present, his objective for the day was clear. A one-page summary on Clausewitz for Sirius. He walked past the main circulation desk, giving the librarian a polite nod, and headed towards the military history section in the west wing. The route was ingrained, efficient.

That's when he saw them.

Standing near the fiction aisle was the girl with the blonde ringlets and the frilly dress. Clarice. Her mother stood beside her, looking harassed.

His internal threat assessment immediately went to low-level alert.

An annoying, illogical variable. Best avoided.

He altered his course, intending to circle around through the biography section. As he drew nearer, keeping a row of shelves between them, he overheard the girl’s loud, whining voice.

“But Mummy, Hermione said he was real! She read all about him in a book. Gandalf the Grey! He has a big white beard and a pointy hat and a staff!”

“Darling, that’s from a story,” her mother sighed, her voice weary. “Your friend Hermione reads too many fantasy books. Not everyone with a long beard is a wizard from a book.”

He processed the new information. Hermione. A new name. She read books. But she filled Clarice’s head with nonsense about fictional characters being real. He categorized her immediately: another Clarice. Another loud, illogical variable. A person who couldn't distinguish between data and fantasy. He filed the name away under contacts to be avoided and continued his flanking maneuver.

He was almost clear. His corner table was just two aisles away. He had successfully navigated the obstacle.

Then, from behind him, Clarice’s voice shrieked, shattering the sacred silence of the library.

“Mummy, look! It’s him! It’s Gandalf! I told you he was real!”

Habit, a simple, reflexive response to a sudden loud noise, made him turn.

His eyes followed the direction of Clarice’s pointing finger towards the grand main entrance of the library.

And his world stopped.

Standing there, framed by the great oak doors, was a man.

He looked very old, with a silver beard so long it was tucked into his belt. He wore a simple, grey travelling cloak. But it was his eyes that held Harry. Piercing, brilliant blue eyes that were scanning the room with a sharp, searching intelligence.

He didn't need to guess. He didn't need to wonder. Sirius had made sure of that. For years, he had shown him the photographs, the moving images from old copies of the Daily Prophet, some books, and even some of his parents’ photos.

He had pointed to that face, to those twinkling, assessing eyes, and he had given him a name.

Albus Dumbledore.

His blood went cold. He was a ghost from a story, a phantom from a past he only knew through Sirius’s lessons.

And he was here. He was real.

As if feeling his stare, Dumbledore's scanning gaze stopped. It locked directly onto Harry's.

Across the cavernous room, their eyes met.

Harry saw a flicker of shock in them, a jolt of pure, unadulterated recognition. Then, it was replaced by something else, something he couldn't immediately categorize. A look of desperate, aching hope.

His training slammed into place, a steel wall crashing down over the sudden, childish urge to scream.

Threat identified. Location compromised. Primary objective: Evade.

He didn’t think. He didn't hesitate. He spun on his heel and he ran.

It wasn’t the clumsy, panicked scramble of a normal child. It was a silent, purposeful flight. His soft-soled shoes made no sound on the polished linoleum. He ducked behind a towering shelf of encyclopedias, using it as cover, and made a direct line for the back of the library.

For the restrooms. For a defensible, temporary position.

The women’s restroom was cool and blessedly empty. He ducked into the furthest stall and slid the bolt across. The heavy clack of the lock was the loudest sound in the world. He pressed his back against the cold, tiled wall, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

For a moment, the seven-year-old boy he was supposed to be clawed its way to the surface.

He was scared. The man from the pictures, the ghost, the grandmaster of the other side of the board, was in the same building as him. He had seen him. The sanctuary was breached.

Then suddenly, the strategist that Sirius had forged into him took control.

Panic was a luxury. Panic was a tactical error.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, forcing his heart rate down. Assess. Plan. Act.

He was already safer here than he was outside. Dumbledore won’t look for him the women’s restroom.

He slid his leather satchel off his shoulder and pulled out the small, silver-backed mirror. Its surface was cool and smooth against his trembling fingers. He held it up, his own pale, wide-eyed face staring back at him.

“Sirius Black,” he whispered, his voice barely a tremor.

The surface of the mirror turned transparent, clouding over like a misty morning before resolving into the familiar, concerned face of his godfather. He was in the car, the leather headrest visible behind him.

“Harry? What is it?” Sirius asked, his voice sharp with concern. “Is something wrong?”

“He’s here,” Harry said, his voice low and tight, forcing the words past the lump of fear in his throat.

Sirius frowned in the small mirror. “Who’s here, pup?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Him. Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore is in the library, looking for me.”

There was a half-second of silence. In the mirror, Harry saw all the warmth drain from Sirius’s face. His handsome features hardened into a mask of cold, absolute fury. “Dumbledore?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “He saw me. We looked right at each other. He knows it’s me. I ran. I’m in the ground-floor women's restroom, in the back corner stall.”

“Okay, good, that’s good,” Sirius’s voice was suddenly calm, the calm of a commander in the field, all emotion stripped away. “Listen to me, Harry. Listen very carefully. Did he follow you?”

Harry dropped to his knees, pressing his cheek to the cool, dirty floor to peek under the stall door. The main door to the restroom was closed. He saw no shadows, heard no footsteps. “I don’t think so. The main door is still shut. I was fast and he doesn’t know I’m in the women’s.”

“Good. You stay there. The stall is locked?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have your wand?”

A flash of pure frustration shot through him. “No. You said not to carry it for public outings. Only the mirror.”

“A wand won’t do anything extraordinary anyway,” he heard Sirius curse, a low, vicious sound. “Damn. Okay. My mistake. New plan, then. I’m coming. I’m less than five minutes out. When I get there, I am going to create a distraction at the front of the library. A big one. Unmistakable. When you hear it, you walk, do you hear me, walk, do not run, to the emergency exit at the back of the building. The one near the loading dock. Do you know its location?”

“Yes,” Harry answered immediately. “I mapped all primary, secondary, and tertiary exits on our first visit. It opens into the west alley.”

“Good boy,” Sirius said, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Wait for the signal. Do not move from that stall before you hear it. Do you understand me, Harry?”

“I understand,” Harry said, his own voice steadier now. A plan was a weapon. He had a weapon.

“I’m on my way now, Harry. Stay hidden and silent.”

The connection didn’t just cut out. Through the small mirror, Harry's ears caught the sound of the engine, a sound not of ignition, but of detonation. It was immediately followed by the high-pitched, violent screech of tires torturing asphalt as Sirius spun the car in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in, what looked like the middle of the street.

It was the sound of pure, controlled chaos.

The mirror went dark.

He was alone again, in the echoing silence of the restroom. He slid back up, pressing his back against the wall, controlling his breathing.

In, out. In, out.

Just like the lessons.

Keeping his mind in check, his fortress ready to think clearly rather than be panicked and useless.

~~ .

Zerina normally wouldn’t poke her head out of the satchel, warm as it was for her to sleep while her master was in a muggle place and she had to be “careful” for some reason to not be seen around them.

She had asked her master why just on her third day with him, and he’d said something about “not wanting to draw attention to himself”, and “you will unintentionally scare the muggles”, and a few others, none of which made sense for her. At all.

All she wanted to do was be near to him to protect him. She was small, sure, but she had some venom already. One of her brothers had once tested it on them, and he’d died within minutes.

Escaping them had become the best decision she’d ever made, truly. But no, maybe that was second place, the first being meeting her little master for the first time.

Her little master who was always trying to be so grown up all the time. It was nice to be treated with so much care; she now had her master’s complete garden to herself!

She still remembered how he’d been surprised when he’d wanted to name her with a male name, and she’d already told him her name, the one that her mother had called her at birth. He’d been less surprised at her name, to be honest, and more surprised at the fact that she was female.

Master’s parent had still not been able to identify her ‘breed’, whatever that meant, but he’d thankfully not tried to use magic on her like them, she’d be very disappointed and would probably run away if that had been the case.

But master was the best.

He was nice, disciplined, acted mature and grown-up, and always took some time to talk to her every day. Which, considering how busy he was already, was incredible.

So she tried to prolong their time together by staying with him when they were in public, at least when he was alone without his parent, so that she could keep an eye on him.

In just seven days, she had gotten an idea that they were in hiding and she would always try to help her master when she could.

And now, when she poked her head out of the satchel, she saw his panicked and fearful face and felt angry.

§ Master, what is it? Why are you hiding in this cold place? § she hissed, her voice a whisper in his mind as she coiled up his arm to rest on his shoulder.

He swallowed, the sound loud in the silent restroom. “Some people are after me, Zerina,” he whispered back in English, his hand instinctively coming up to stroke her smooth scales. “Looking for me.”

§ Then do not let them see you, Master, § she replied, her logic simple and absolute. § Make yourself unseen. Become a shadow.

Harry shook his head, a fresh wave of panic cresting within him. “How?” he whispered desperately. “I’ve never done any real magic, Zerina. Not on purpose. Padfoot is still teaching me control, Occlumency… not spells.”

§ Rules are for when you are safe, Master, § she hissed, her small head nudging his cheek. § Magic is not just words and sticks. It is in your blood. In your breath. When a human is cornered, truly scared, their magic does not wait for a rule. It acts. You have done it before. I can feel it in you. A great, sleeping power.

She was right. The blocks. The chair. Those had been outbursts of raw, unfocused will. This was different. This required control.

§ You must feel it, § she urged, her voice now steadying. § Feel the fear, but do not let it own you. Own the magic instead. Tell it what you need. Tell it to hide you. To make you a shadow that walks.

~~ .

Harry hesitated, a new fear warring with the first. “But what about you?” he asked, his voice a low whisper. “If I… go…if I vanish… will you still be visible? I won’t leave you behind.”

A soft, warm feeling, a mix of pride and deep affection, radiated from the snake. § I am with you, Master. Your magic touches me. Where you go, I go. If you are a shadow, then I am a shadow’s shadow. Now, be strong. Do it.

He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He did not try to empty his mind as Sirius had taught him for Occlumency. Instead, he did the opposite. He let the fear in, let the image of Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes fill his consciousness. He embraced the cold dread, but he did not surrender to it. He used it. He molded it into a command.

Hide me. Make me unseen. I am not here.

A strange, cold tingling, like static electricity, washed over his skin. The edges of his vision seemed to blur and fold inwards, the solid lines of the stall door becoming hazy and indistinct. He opened his eyes. He looked down at his own hands. They were still there, but they were faint, translucent outlines, like smoke against the dark fabric of his trousers.

He pushed the stall door open. It made no sound. He walked to the sinks and looked in the mirror. There was no reflection. Only the empty, tiled wall behind him.

He took another breath, his heart a steady, cold drum now. He walked to the main door of the restroom, Zerina a silent, invisible weight on his shoulder. He pushed it open and stepped out into the main library.

Albus Dumbledore was standing not ten feet away, speaking in a low, urgent voice to the head librarian. He had his back mostly to the restroom, but his powerful magical aura was a palpable pressure in the air.

Harry walked forward, his steps silent. He passed directly behind the old wizard, so close he could almost hear the words being spoken.

“—and I really need you to—”

As he passed, Dumbledore paused mid-sentence. He half-turned, his blue eyes scanning the empty space where Harry stood. A flicker of confusion, of profound certainty that something was there, crossed his ancient face.

But he saw nothing. Shaking his head slightly, as if dismissing a stray thought, he turned back to the librarian.

Harry didn't look back. The exit was his only objective now.

And then in less than a minute, he was finally outside.

~~ .

AN: Enjoy the next 10+ chapters, plus sneak peeks, character images, and bonus scenes from the link in my profile.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16 - The Burdens of Children

A Hero’s Bedtime Story

The lamps in Bones Manor were dimmed, but the light in the DMLE Director’s home office was still burning.

Amelia Bones rubbed the bridge of her nose, her desk buried under reports detailing the catastrophic security breach in the Wizengamot. Bagnold was terrified, Lucius Malfoy was posturing, and Dumbledore was… unhelpfully serene.

Her head was pounding, but there was no relief to be found.

A small, creaking sound from her doorway made her look up. Her seven-year-old niece, Susan, stood there in her nightgown, clutching a stuffed badger.

“Susan, honey. What did I tell you? Auntie ‘Melia is working.”

“You promised,” Susan whispered, her lower lip trembling just enough to be effective. “You promised you’d read to me if I finished all my vegetables.”

Amelia sighed, the steel in her spine melting. She looked at the mountain of paperwork, then at her niece.

The paperwork could wait.

She pushed back her chair. “Alright, you little terrorist. You win. But one story, and then straight to bed. No arguments.”

Susan beamed and scrambled back to her room, diving under the covers. By the time Amelia entered, the girl was already patting the space beside her on the bed.

“Okay, which one is it tonight?” Amelia asked, sitting on the edge of the mattress and rubbing her tired eyes. “‘Babbitty Rabbitty and the Cackling Stump’?”

“No!” Susan giggled, as if the suggestion was absurd. “That’s for babies. I want a real story. I want Harry Potter!”

Amelia’s hand, reaching for the small stack of books on the nightstand, froze.

A familiar, cold knot tightened in her stomach. The Boy-Who-Lived. The entire wizarding world was obsessed with the boy, but for Amelia, the name was inextricably linked to her greatest professional failure.

“Which… which Harry Potter story, Susan?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“You know!” Susan said, bouncing slightly. “The one where he escapes the bad Ministry men! The one where he flies away with the Grim!”

The cold knot became a spike of ice. Sirius Black. Her predecessor’s mistake, and her inheritance.

The only man to ever escape Ministry custody before being sent to Azkaban. He’d vanished, disappearing to Merlin knows where, and in doing so, had made a complete mockery of her entire department.

And now, witches and wizards were writing subversive, romanticized storybooks about it.

“That one again?” she said, forcing a smile. “I thought you’d be tired of it.”

“It’s my favourite so far!” Susan declared.

Amelia picked up the thin, brightly-illustrated book. The title, written in whimsical, curling letters, was The Boy-Who-Lived and the Grim Guardian. She opened it, her expression hardening just slightly.

She would read the story of her own failure to her niece to put her to sleep. The irony was bitter enough to taste.

“Alright,” she sighed, clearing her throat. “A long time ago, in a land of magic, a brave little boy was left all alone…”

~~ .

The Price of Neutrality

The drawing room of Greengrass Manor was a masterpiece of old, quiet money.

The colours were muted greens and silvers, the furniture was ancient but impeccably maintained, and the air itself seemed to hum with the reserved power of a family that had outlasted wars, ministries, and dark lords by simply refusing to be drawn into their messy, emotional conflicts.

“Daphne, Astoria! Quickly now!” Lavinia Greengrass hissed, her hands fluttering at her perfectly coiffed hair. “Lord Malfoy and his son are at the Floo. You must look presentable. First impressions are everything.”

Seven-year-old Daphne, already dressed in a smart, dark blue robe, held her five-year-old sister’s hand. Astoria coughed, a dry, rattling sound that was far too old for her small body. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and when she raised her hand to cover her mouth, it trembled.

The blood curse, the ancient malediction that had haunted her mother's line for a thousand years, was already making itself known.

“Mother,” Daphne said, her voice clear and firm, stepping slightly in front of her sister. “Astoria is not well. The Floo-smoke makes her cough worse. She needs to rest.”

“Daphne, don't be difficult,” Lavinia snapped, her eyes darting nervously towards the fireplace. “Lord Malfoy expects to see the whole family. It is a slight if we do not present both our daughters. He is a powerful man.”

“She is sick,” Daphne insisted, her grey eyes, so like her father's, flashing with a cold, protective fire. “She will not be paraded like a prize foal. Please, excuse her.”

Lavinia looked at her eldest daughter's unyielding expression, then at Astoria's frail form. The social embarrassment was great, but the battle with Daphne, she knew, would be greater.

“Fine,” she conceded, her lips thinning. “Fine. But you, Daphne, will come down, and you will be perfectly polite. Do you understand me?”

Daphne nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

She gave her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze before following her mother from the nursery. When she entered the drawing room, the guests had already arrived. Her father, Lord Greengrass, was standing by the fireplace, a glass of elf-made wine in his hand.

Opposite him stood Lucius Malfoy, who held his silver-topped cane as if it were a sceptre. Beside him, silent and pale, stood a boy with white-blonde hair, who looked at Daphne with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

“Ah, and this must be the lovely Daphne,” Lucius drawled, his voice a silken, condescending purr. “A credit to the Greengrass line.”

Daphne performed a perfect, shallow curtsey. “Lord Malfoy. Draco.”

She then went and sat on the small, needlepoint stool beside her father’s chair, folded her hands in her lap, and proceeded to become invisible.

She will watch and listen.

“Challenging times, Cyrus,” Lucius was saying, swirling the wine in his own glass. “Bagnold is rattled. That attack in the Wizengamot, which, I might add, Dumbledore did nothing to prevent, proves that she has lost control. She’s grasping at straws. This new budget for Bones’s department? It’s a desperate, costly mistake.”

“All times are challenging, Lucius,” her father replied, his voice calm and even. “The attack was regrettable, but hardly a sign of societal collapse. And Bones is simply doing her job.”

“She is hunting ghosts,” Lucius sneered coolly. “She is persecuting good families on the thinnest of pretexts while the real problems, our economy, our international standing—are ignored. It is time for new leadership. Someone stable. Someone… practical.”

“Cornelius Fudge,” her father stated, his voice flat.

“He is a practical man,” Lucius said smoothly. “He understands his friends. And he will be the next Minister. The winds are changing, Cyrus. This... fence... you and the other Neutrals so enjoy sitting on is beginning to look rather rickety.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “My family has sat on this ‘fence’ for five centuries, Lucius. We have found it to be a most comfortable and profitable position.”

“And it will remain so, as long as you have a strong Ministry to protect your neutrality,” Malfoy countered. “That protection is failing. A new, more decisive order is coming. A man of your standing must eventually choose a side. Stability, my friend, is on my side.”

“I wish we didn’t talk about sides, Lucius, when the country is finally at peace. Why cause divide more than what we already have?”

“It’s not us who cause a divide, it’s who we are that divides us,” Lucius pointed out. “Must you abstain from crucial votes when we really need your support?”

Daphne saw her father hide a smile. He always did that when he thought of something but said something else instead. “I wish I could think like you, Lucius, but I do not. My side has always been the non-violent, profitable side. The least we can do is remain amicable.”

Lucius hummed and then placed his glass down, only half finished. “We must go. We are visiting the Fawleys next. They do understand the importance of securing one’s investments quite well, I think. Come, Draco.”

After her father had seen them to the Floo, he returned to the drawing room and stared into the fire, his expression thoughtful.

Daphne waited.

“Father?”

He looked down, as if surprised to see her still there. “Yes, Daphne?”

“What did Lord Malfoy mean? ‘The fence is rickety’?”

Her father looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the keen, analytical intelligence in her young eyes.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He means that he is gathering power, and he expects us to join him. If we do not, he will eventually consider us an enemy.”

“But that’s not right,” Daphne said, her brow furrowed. “We haven’t done anything to him. Why should we be forced to choose?”

Lord Greengrass gave a short, bitter laugh. He knelt and placed his hands on her small shoulders. “Daphne, you are seven years old, but you are a Greengrass. It is time you learned the most important lesson our world has to offer,” she listened with rapt attention, “‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ are for children’s stories. For us, there is only power. Remember this, my daughter: The powerful do what they want, and the weak do what they must.”

It was in that moment that Daphne Greengrass began to truly understand what truly runs the world and not what people think that does.

~~ .

The Price of Power

The black Mercedes was a silent shadow, eating up the kilometres of the dark, unfamiliar roads of Eastern Europe.

They had been driving for two days, stopping only for fuel, sleeping in the car. The escape from Geneva had been clean, but it was a retreat, and Harry knew it. The villa was gone. The library was gone. Their home was gone.

And it was all because the old man in the grey cloak had found them.

Zerina was asleep in her warmed travel satchel in his lap. Harry stared out the window at the passing darkness, the silence in the car stretching for hours.

“We’re heading to Varna,” Sirius finally said, his voice rough from exhaustion. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “I have... assets there. A property in the mountains. It’s fortified and unplottable. We’ll be safe.”

“For how long?” Harry asked, his voice quiet.

Sirius didn’t answer.

“Why won’t he just leave us alone?” Harry pressed, the childish frustration in his voice surprising him. He hated that he sounded weak. “The old man, Dumbledore, what does he want from us?”

Sirius was silent for a long time, the only sound the steady hum of the engine. “He wants you, Harry,” he said, his voice flat and dead. “He thinks you belong to him. He thinks you’re a symbol. A hero for his country and the world. He thinks you’re his little soldier that he can keep tucked away until he needs you to fight his battles.”

“But you’re Lord Black,” Harry argued, reciting the facts as he knew them. “You’re smart. You’re rich. You’re a powerful wizard. Why can’t we just… stop him? Why do we have to run?”

Sirius gripped the steering wheel so tightly it creaked. The car, their fortress, suddenly felt very small and fragile.

“Because he’s more powerful, pup,” Sirius finally admitted, and the confession seemed to cost him something. “It’s not just him. It’s not one man. He has the Ministry in his pocket. He has the Order. He even has the entire ICW eating out of the palm of his hand. He has the entire establishment of the magical world. He himself is an institution. Right now... he’s just too powerful. Nobody would help us, especially not when we’re standing against Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry turned back to the window, not saying a word in response.

Not even a sigh escaped him as he frowned at the passing cars.

Too powerful.

It was the same answer as before. The same infuriating, unmovable obstacle. It was the reason they were running. It was the reason they were weak.

He looked at the dark, passing trees, but he wasn’t seeing them. He was seeing a chessboard. He saw a board where his pieces were few, and the enemy king was a towering, seemingly invincible piece that controlled every square.

He couldn't win by playing the game.

Not yet.

A cold, quiet resolve settled in his seven-year-old heart. The objective was no longer just survival. It was no longer just vengeance against a rat. The true enemy had a name, and the true objective was clear.

He would not just become powerful. He would become more powerful. He would become the most powerful of them all.

~~ .

Finis Arc 1

~~ .

Chapter Text

Chapter 17 - The Black Library

A Spark in the Shadow

Blackwood Keep, Rila Mountains, Bulgaria
14 March, 1988

The safe house in the Bulgarian mountains was a fortress disguised as a rustic retreat.

It was built of thick, dark stone and heavy timber, nestled in a valley so remote it didn't appear on any Muggle map. For the last two years, it had been a place of rigorous, unyielding routine.

Physical training at dawn, Occlumency and mind arts before lunch, Muggle subjects in the afternoon, magical theory at night.

It was a life of discipline, but it was a life of rules.

And eight-year-old Harry was beginning to find the rules just a little bit stifling.

He sat on the thick bearskin rug before the grand hearth, a first-year charms textbook open on his lap. He’d been using his toy wand to levitate a feather around the room for twenty minutes.

§ It is a boring spell, Master, § Zerina hissed from her silk cushion by the fire. She had grown in the last year, her striped scales now possessing a sleek, healthy lustre. § It is a stick-word for a floating feather. Why not just tell it to fly? §

Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Sirius says I have to learn the fundamentals, Zerina. He says I have to learn the ‘proper’ way before I can learn his way.”

§ The 'proper' way seems very slow, § she observed, her head resting on her coils.

Harry couldn't help but agree. He looked at the feather, his frustration mounting. He didn't want to just levitate it.

He wanted to make it do something. He wanted to feel the power he’d felt in the library, the cold, clean magic of his invisibility. This... this was schoolwork.

He exhaled loudly.

§ It is... cold, § Zerina hissed suddenly, her head lifting. § Master, the room grows cold. §

Harry hadn't noticed. The fire in the hearth, which had been a comfortable blaze moments before, was dying rapidly, the embers fading to a dull, listless orange.

A chill that had nothing to do with the mountain snow outside began to creep into the room.

Zerina, sensing the unnatural drop in temperature, slithered from her cushion. She moved across the floor and coiled herself tightly around Harry's arm, her small, cold-blooded body seeking his warmth.

§ Make it warm, Master, § she whispered, her forked tongue flicking against his skin. § Like your parent does. Make the wood burn. §

Harry looked at the dying hearth and a shiver ran down his spine.

The cold was defintely worse, almost like a physical presence. He knew a simple Incendio wouldn't be enough, not with embers that dead. He knew the spell Sirius used. He’d watched him do it every single morning, a lazy, powerful flick of his wand to blast the cold from the ancient stone.

It was a single, authoritative spell.

He looked over at the sofa. Sirius was outside, reinforcing the perimeter wards. His wand—twelve-and-a-quarter inches, yew, unyielding, as he’d once informed him—was lying on the armrest, forgotten.

A forbidden, electric thrill shot through him. He had been explicitly forbidden from touching Sirius’s wand for now. It was an unbreakable rule he’d been made to accept so as to not have any accidents with his unstable magic.

He’d been told he’d be given a real wand soon. But that soon seemed to never arrive.

§ The stick, Master, § Zerina urged, sensing his hesitation. § It is just a tool. You are cold. Take the stick and make it warm. §

His lessons with that annoying girl in the library and even Dumbledore had taught him the value of acting decisively.

So he stood, walked to the sofa, and picked up the wand.

The moment his fingers closed around the smooth, dark wood, he gasped.

It wasn't the inert, dead feeling of a simple stick. The wand was alive. A current of pure, cold power, like mountain snowmelt, rushed up his arm. It did not fight him. It did not resist. It felt... like a greeting.

Like it was testing him and his magic itself, to see if it liked him.

It was as if his magic that hummed in his own blood.

He bit his lip, took a deep breath, and readied himself.

He turned to the hearth, his fear and hesitation vanishing, replaced by a surge of pure, focused intent. He raised the wand, not clumsily, but with a sudden, innate certainty. He didn't just want to light the fire; he wanted to command it.

“Ignis Arcus!”

It was not the gentle, orange flame of a simple hearth-lighting charm. A globe of brilliant, blue-white fire, the size of a Bludger, erupted from the wand's tip. It shot across the room with a sound like a muffled thunderclap and slammed into the fireplace.

WHUMP.

The hearth exploded with light and heat, a contained inferno that lit the room and threw dancing, violent shadows against the walls. The sheer, concussive force of the magic made Harry take a step back, his eyes wide with awe.

He hadn’t just lit the fire; he had nearly unmade the chimney.

§ YES! § Zerina hissed, her body vibrating with excitement against his arm. § That is the power! That is the magic of a Master! See? You do not need the silly feather-word! Do it again! Make the pillow fly! §

Harry, his blood singing with the adrenaline of the magic, grinned. He turned, the wand still feeling warm and alive in his hand. He pointed it at a large tapestry of cushion on the sofa. § Wingardium Leviosa! §

The cushion shot off the sofa and rocketed across the room, smacking into the far wall with a dull thud.

§ No, Master! § Zerina hissed, almost impatiently. § Not the stick-word! You do not need it. Just tell it. Like you told the wood to burn. §

Harry’s grin widened. He turned his attention to a heavy, leather-bound copy of A History of Magic that was sitting on a low table. He pointed the wand. He spoke no word, but in his mind, he pictured the book flying into his hand. He willed it.

The book shot from the table and into his waiting left hand, the impact almost knocking him off balance.

“Wow,” he breathed. This was real. This was the power he’d been craving. This was the answer to Dumbledore. § Again, § he whispered.

~~ .

Sirius Black returned from the perimeter, brushing a light dusting of snow from his dark cloak.

The wards were holding perfectly. The anti-Apparition jinxes, the blood-binds, the Muggle-repelling charms... this valley was now probably one of the most secure places on earth.

He entered the warm keep, a faint smile on his face. He’d left Harry to his boring first-year theory, a necessary, if tedious, part of the boy’s education.

He heard a soft pop from the study down the hall, followed by a quiet swish.

His smile vanished. He drew his wand from the holster on his forearm—or at least tried to—only to find it empty.

Then he realized with slight alarm that he’d forgotten it on the sofa.

With movements silent and fluid, he rushed to the room. Brutus was at the local magical enclave for supplies. They were quite alone.

He moved down the hall, his boots making no sound on the stone floor. The study door was ajar. He put his eye to the crack, his heart hammering, every sense on high alert, his blood running cold.

But then he paused.

Because Harry was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door. And he was holding Sirius’s yew wand.

Sirius’s first instinct was a hot flash of anger. He had told him never to touch it. His second, which followed a fraction of a second later, was pure, unadulterated shock.

Harry was not just holding the wand. He was practicing. A large, brass paperweight was floating in the air before him, spinning in a slow, perfect circle.

“Alright,” Harry murmured to himself. “Steady.”

Sirius watched, rooted to the spot, as the paperweight landed gently on the desk. Harry then pointed the wand at a silver letter opener. “Accio Letter Opener.”

The silver blade zipped through the air and snapped perfectly into his waiting hand.

These were fourth-year charms. But Harry was eight years old. He had never been taught the somatic components, the precise wand movements. He was casting with intent and will alone.

And he was succeeding.

How?

Then, Harry did something that made Sirius’s breath catch in his throat. He pointed the wand at a plain, porcelain teacup sitting on the desk.

“Vera Verto.”

Sirius stared, disbelieving, as the teacup wiggled and then shimmered in its place. Its shape softened, its colour paled, and four small legs sprouted from its base. A tail shot from the handle. A second later, a small, white mouse, with the porcelain pattern of the cup still visible on its fur, squeaked and scurried across the desk.

A second-year transfiguration. One that took most Hogwarts students several weeks to master. And he’d done it.

Non-verbally, it seemed, until he’d spoken the incantation.

A small, hissing voice came from Harry's shoulder.

Harry listened to whatever the little snake had to say, and then pointed the wand again, and the mouse transformed back into a teacup.

Sirius goggled.

But Harry was grinning, a look of pure, unadulterated joy and power on his face.

Sirius decided he had seen enough. He pushed the door open.

“I see you've decided to skip the first-year curriculum, pup.”

Harry froze, his entire body going rigid. He spun around, his face pale with terror. He fumbled with the wand, trying to hide it behind his back.

“Padfoot!” he stammered, his eyes wide. “I... I... the fire went out! It was cold, and Zerina... I was just...”

Sirius walked into the room, his expression unreadable. He held out his hand, palm up. "The wand, Harry."

With a look of utter defeat, Harry placed the yew wand back in its owner’s hand. “I’m sorry, Sirius.”

Sirius looked from Harry’s face to the hearth, where a brilliant, blue-white inferno was still roaring with unnatural intensity. “The fire,” Sirius said, his voice quiet. “It looks a little more than 'lit'. Ignis Arcus?”

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I saw you do it.”

“That is not a hearth-lighting charm, Harry,” Sirius said, though there was no anger in his voice. “It is a Black family battle-magic primer. It is designed to shatter a high-level shield. You are immensely lucky you didn't bring the house down.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered again.

Sirius was silent for a long, heavy moment.

Then, a slow, dangerous smile—the one Harry hadn't seen since before Geneva—spread across his face.

“No, Harry,” Sirius said, the smile growing wider. “You’re not sorry. And I am not angry.” He stepped forward and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I am impressed. I have been waiting for this. I have been teaching you Occlumency, strategy, economics, and history to build the foundation. But I was waiting for your magic to prove it was ready to be forged.”

He gestured to the teacup. “You’ve been reading the standard course books I gave you. What do you think of them?”

“They’re... too slow,” Harry admitted, his confidence returning as he saw the pride in Sirius’s eyes.

“They are,” Sirius agreed. “They are designed to teach magic to children. You are not just a child. You are the Heir of ancient Black and Potter bloodlines. It is time your education reflected that.”

Sirius walked to the far wall of the study, a simple, unadorned expanse of ancient, dark stone. He pressed his hand, the one wearing the Black Head of House ring, flat against the cold surface.

“I, Lord Sirius Black, Head of the House, demand access for my Heir, Harry James Potter-Black.”

The magic in the room thrummed, like a deep, resonant shiver that Harry felt in his bones. The stones of the wall began to glow with faint, silver light before sliding, folding, and retracting into the wall, revealing a dark, yawning archway.

“What is it?” Harry breathed, his eyes wide with awe.

“It is our inheritance, Harry,” Sirius said, a fierce, dark pride in his voice. “The true Black Family Library. Taken exactly as it is, with Brutus’ help, from Grimmauld. This is the heart of our knowledge, bound by blood and magic to the Lord of the House.”

He gestured for Harry to enter.

The eight year old stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the swirling, perfect darkness. The void resolved, and he found himself in a vast, circular chamber that should not have been able to fit inside their small house.

Shelves stretched up into an impossibly high, dark dome. The books were bound in black leather, in snakeskin, in shadow itself. The air smelled of dust, ozone, and ancient, sleeping power.

“These books,” Sirius said, coming to stand beside him, “contain real magic. The magic that builds empires and dismantles them. The spells Dumbledore and his Ministry want everyone to forget. Battle-curses, blood-wards, rituals of concealment, charms of domination. Everything you will ever need to be the man who wins.”

Harry stared, his heart hammering. This was the answer. This was the power he had felt in the library, the power he had lacked.

“But,” Sirius said, his voice a sharp command, “we do this my way. You must still be able to walk in Dumbledore's world. You must be able to present yourself as the perfect, brilliant, charming student when, and if, the time comes. We cannot neglect the ‘light’ curriculum. It is your camouflage.”

He turned to Harry, his grey eyes intense. “So here is the deal. You will continue to master the standard Hogwarts curriculum. For every ten standard charms, transfigurations, or potions you master to my satisfaction... I will permit you to choose one spell from this library to learn. For now.”

He pointed to a black, leather-bound tome on a nearby pedestal. The Codex of Battle-Will. “One for ten. You get the knowledge you need to blend in, and you get the power you need to win. It will be twice the work of any normal student. It will be exhausting. It will be the hardest thing you have ever done.”

Harry looked up at his godfather, then around at the shelves of dark, forbidden knowledge. He looked at the power that would ensure he would never have to run again. His green eyes burned with a cold, bright fire.

This was not a chore.

This was his ascension.

“I accept.”

~~ .

Chapter Text

Chapter 18 - Echoes and Alliances

The Price of Failure

“You saw him?!”

Minerva’s voice was not a shout. It was a low, furious hiss, more potent than any roar.

She was vibrating with a rage that Dumbledore had not seen directed at him in over thirty years.

He barely resisted the urge to flinch and squirm in his seat as she directed all her focus, and her angry glare at him.

They were alone in his office, the door magically sealed, the portraits of past headmasters feigning sleep and he had to tolerate it all by himself.

“You saw Harry Potter in Geneva, and you let him go?”

“I did not let him go, Minerva,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He looked every one of his advanced years. The twinkle in his eyes had been extinguished since his return. “The boy was... strangely quick. He looked at me and vanished before I could even cross the room. An advanced disillusionment charm, or perhaps an invisibility cloak... he was gone. I am going to be examining my memories to decipher how he did that soon.”

“He was warned!” she accused, pacing before his desk like a caged lioness. “Because you went to that reporter first! You blundered in, Albus! For six years, you assured me he was safe. You told me the blood wards were inviolate. And now? Now we find he has been in the clutches of Sirius Black since he was a toddler! How could you let this happen?”

“I have admitted my error,” he said, his gaze fixed on his steepled fingers. “I placed too much faith in Petunia Dursley’s familial bond. It was a catastrophic miscalculation.”

“An error?” she repeated, her voice cracking. “It was a betrayal of all Lily and James legacy! Two of the finest people I ever met in my—and now... Albus...” She stopped her pacing, her hands clenched. “Are you even certain? After all this. After Black has raised the boy, protected him, for seven years... Are you truly certain he was the traitor?” she asked pointedly and furiously.

“The evidence is immutable,” he said, some of the old conviction returning to his voice. It was the one piece of solid ground he had left. And he would stand by it.

And even if he was wrong about it, of which there was a very slight chance, it was for the greater good that Harry Potter was returned to him, and not be gallivanting around the continent with Sirius Black.

“He was their Secret-Keeper. He murdered Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. He is a dark, dangerous man. And whatever affection he may be showing the boy, it is only to twist him, to mold him into a weapon for his own ends.”

Minerva looked unconvinced, a new, terrible doubt warring with a lifetime of loyalty. “Twisted? Or just... raised? He's alive, Albus, but—” she shook her head, momentarily speechless, “I don’t like this. Don’t like this at all. No thanks to you, he’s somewhere unknown. And what are you doing about it now? What is the plan, Albus?”

“I have... inquiries being made,” he said, the vagueness of the answer a clear sign of his failure. “My contacts at the ICW are searching for any whispers of Black's movements. But the trail is dead. Sirius is not just talented, Minerva. He is cunning, he is well-funded, and he is a Black. He has access to resources and magic we have not yet fathomed. He will not be found until he wishes to be found.”

“So you are doing nothing,” Minerva stated, her voice flat. It was not a question; it was a verdict. “You are sitting here, while James and Lily’s son is being raised by their murderer. You lost him, Albus. You lost the boy, and you lost his kidnapper. You have failed. Utterly.”

She did not wait for a reply. She spun on her heel and marched to the door, her shoulders rigid.

“Headmaster,” she said, her hand on the door handle, “I find I am in need of a... a long walk.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Dumbledore alone in the echoing silence. He let out a breath he felt he had been holding for days.

A shadow in the corner of the room detached itself from the wall, resolving into the tall, sallow form of Severus Snape.

“A sentimental fool,” Snape sneered, his voice a low drawl. “She always was.”

“Her heart is in the right place, Severus,” Dumbledore murmured, rubbing his temples. “But this is... problematic. My attempt to retrieve the boy has only pushed Black further into hiding, and vanish completely. He will now also be on high alert.”

“He has been on high alert for seven years, Headmaster,” Snape countered. “He is not an idiot, whatever else he may be. You have kicked the hornet's nest. What would you have me do?”

“I need you to listen,” Dumbledore said, his blue eyes meeting Snape’s black ones. “Subtly. Use your old pureblood networks, the ones who never truly disavowed him, even if they feared him.”

Snape’s lip curled. “You want me to ask my... former associates... if they have heard from a notorious blood-traitor? They will laugh in my face before they curse it.”

“I can ask Cissa,” Snape offered.

“Good,” Dumbledore said, “Lucius may be tight-lipped but she anointed you her son’s godfather, didn’t she? It’s a good outlet for now, at least until I can uncover more clues about their location.”

Snape went very still. “And if she knows nothing?”

“Then we are still blind. But I have hope as she is his cousin. The bonds of Black family magic run deep, deeper than loyalty to a Dark Lord or the Ministry. If he is truly desperate, if he is reaching out for allies or resources... she might hear a whisper. Find out what she knows.”

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “What about Andromeda Tonks?”

“She won’t answer to you. I’m afraid I will have to approach her myself.”

“As you wish, Headmaster,” Snape said. He turned, his black robes billowing, and swept from the room, leaving Dumbledore alone with his spinning gadgets and his profound, bone-deep failure.

~~ .

A Spoken Contract

The gardens of Greengrass Manor were crisp with the onset of autumn. Eight-year-old Daphne sat on a stone bench, her feet tucked beneath her, a thick book on Ancient Runes of the Norse Kingdoms open on her lap. She was supposed to be practicing her penmanship, but runes were far more logical than the looping, frivolous script her mother insisted upon.

Even when she understood quite little, reading it made her fascinated, and it was a good way to pass some of her free time.

After all, magic was magic. She could read it now, and it will be in the back of her mind for later when she could actually practise it.

She was just deciphering a particularly complex passage on binding wards when the sound of raised voices drifted from the open doors of her father's study.

“...it's a phenomenal opportunity, Cyrus! The Malfoys!” It was her mother, her voice high and strained. “Lucius all but offered it! Draco is a good, strong heir. It would secure our family for a generation!”

“It would shackle us to a man who is actively trying to destabilize the Ministry!” her father retorted, his voice a low, angry rumble. “I will not sell my daughter to Lucius Malfoy to secure his vote in the Wizengamot!”

“It is not selling her!” her mother cried. “It is betrothing her! It is what is done! It's what our parents did! It ensures her future, and Astoria's! Do you truly believe Malfoy's resources would not be useful in finding a cure for... for it?”

A cold, heavy silence followed and Daphne’s hand, tracing a rune, froze. They were talking about Astoria. About the curse.

Her father’s voice, when it came, was like chipped ice. “Malfoy's price is too high. I will not have one daughter serve as a bargaining chip in his game of curing another. The discussion is over. I will not bind Daphne to that family.”

The study doors slammed shut. The garden was quiet again, save for the rustle of the wind.

Daphne looked down at her book, but she no longer saw the runes. She saw only the word. Betrothed. It sounded like a contract. It sounded like a cage. It sounded like something that was done to you for life.

She closed the heavy book. Penmanship could wait. She had a new, far more urgent topic to research in the family library.

~~ .

The Diner

The mekhana in the small, mountain town smelled of woodsmoke, roasted peppers, and old ale.

It was rundown, but it was warm. Sirius, glamoured to look like a tired, middle-aged Bulgarian labourer, sat in a corner booth, nursing a bitter black coffee. Harry, his own features subtly shifted, sat opposite him, silently observing.

An older waitress with a kind, wrinkled face and a white apron came over, wiping her hands.

“More coffee, mister?” she asked in warm, accented Bulgarian.

“Yes, please,” Sirius replied in the same language, his accent flawless. “And perhaps a banitsa for my son. He's had a long day.”

The waitress’s face softened as she looked at Harry, who sat quietly, his eyes taking in everything. “Of course, little boy. You look like you need something warm in your belly. You are very quiet, unlike my own grandsons!”

As she bustled away to the kitchen, Sirius’s eyes unfocused for a single, imperceptible second. A silent, passive Legilimency probe, now as reflexive as breathing, scanned her surface thoughts.

Thankfully, he only saw…exhaustion. And a deep worry about her eldest son who was stationed with the army near the Turkish border. A genuine, uncomplicated warmth at the sight of a quiet child.

But no threat. No suspicion. And no magic.

Sirius let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The tension in his shoulders, a constant companion since Geneva, eased by a fraction.

The waitress returned, placing a large, steaming slice of the spiral-shaped cheese pastry in front of Harry, along with a glass of water. “Here you are, sweetheart. Eat. It’s fresh from this morning.”

As she set the plate down, her hand gently brushed Harry’s hair.

Harry flinched. It was not a large movement, but it was sharp, his entire body going rigid, his Occlumency walls slamming up at the unexpected, unscheduled contact.

The waitress pulled her hand back as if burned. “Oh! I’m sorry, dear. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“He’s… shy,” Sirius cut in smoothly, offering her a tired smile. “Thank you, madam. This is very kind.”

“Of course,” she said, her smile returning, though it was now tinged with a flicker of pity. She left them to their meal.

Harry stared at the pastry, his hands still clenched in his lap.

“You flinched,” Sirius said quietly.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Sirius sighed, rubbing his face. “Don’t overthink, Harry. It was just a good instinct. And my probe was clean. She’s... just a nice woman. Not every stranger is an enemy. Sometimes... sometimes people are just kind.”

Harry looked at Sirius, then at the waitress, who was now laughing with a man at the bar.

He processed this as he picked up his fork and took a careful bite of the banitsa. The flaky pastry, the warm cheese... it was actually really good.

They finished their meal in silence. As Sirius paid the bill at the counter, the waitress gave Harry a final, warm wave.

He hesitated for a second, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return.

They walked out of the diner and climbed into their battered, nondescript Lada. As they pulled onto the muddy road leading back to the keep, Sirius glanced at his godson.

Harry was staring out the window, but there was a strange, small smile on his face. It was a rare, genuine expression that had nothing to do with mastering a spell or winning an argument.

“What is it?” Sirius asked, surprised.

Harry turned from the window. “I liked her,” he said simply. “And the banitsa was very good too.”

Sirius stared at the road, a sudden, fierce ache in his chest.

He had been so focused on forging a weapon, a prince, a lord... that he was suddenly terrified he had broken the child in the process.

He looked back at Harry, who had returned to gazing out the "I like her." It was the most normal, childish thing he had heard him say in a while.

Maybe, he thought, as they drove up into the safety of the mountains, maybe the boy was still in there after all.

~~ .

AN: A lot more of this and more from the link in my profile. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 19 - Intent and Influence

The First Lesson of Force

The great hall of Blackwood Keep had been cleared. Tapestries were rolled, furniture pushed against the stone walls. It was a cold, open, unforgiving space.

Eight-year-old Harry stood at one end, his practice wand held in a stiff, formal duelling grip.

Sirius stood opposite him, relaxed, his own wand held loosely at his side. "You've read the books. You've mastered the theory. You've even proven you can cast spells under pressure."

His eyes were not the warm, smiling eyes of 'Padfoot'. In fact, they were the cold, grey eyes of Lord Black.

The Lord Black who had more than enough serious knowledge to impart on this fine day.

"None of that matters now. Theory is a suggestion while a duel is a conversation, and the only word that matters is the last one."

He gave Harry a cold, wicked smile. "Your first lesson, Harry, is to try to survive."

Harry waited.

Sirius nodded.

And that was the signal.

Harry moved.

He didn't linger. He didn't bow. He lunged to the side, his smaller size making him a fast target.

"Locomotor Mortis!" he yelled, his voice sharp.

A jet of blue light shot from his wand.

Sirius didn't even raise his arm. A wandless shield materialized in front of him, and the spell, weak as it was, splashed against it like water on hot stone.

"Slow," Sirius said, his voice bored.

A flick of his wrist later and a non-verbal Stinging Hex lanced through the air in a hiss of magical energy.

Harry dove, rolling behind a stone pillar. The hex hit the stone with a sharp crack. Brutus might have something to say about that later, but he paid it no mind.

"Better!" Sirius called out. "Using cover is good. But that cover is also a trap. You're pinned now, son."

To prove his point, a second hex hit the other side of the pillar.

Harry was indeed trapped.

But then the eight year old boy leaned out, pointing his wand. "Incendio!"

A jet of orange flame roared from his wand, aimed not at Sirius, but at the floor in front of him, trying to cut off his advance.

Sirius laughed. "A barrier of fire? Predictable!"

"Aguamenti!"

A torrent of water erupted from Sirius's wand, hitting the flames. The room filled instantly with thick, choking steam.

"Good use of the environment, pup," Sirius's voice echoed from the mist. "But so is this."

Harry couldn't see. He pointed his wand into the white haze, his heart hammering within his ribs, his breath shallow and quick.

"Relashio!"

A volley of hot sparks shot into the steam, aimed at where he thought Sirius's hand would be.

But it wasn't.

Harry gritted his teeth.

"A Disarming Charm is more direct, Harry!" Sirius's voice came from his left. He'd moved of course.

So Harry spun, just as a Tripping Jinx shot out of the mist and hit his ankle.

And his breath was torn away from his lungs as he went down hard, his chin smacking against the stone. He rolled, ignoring the pain, and scrambled to his knees.

Through the clearing mist, he saw Sirius walking calmly towards him, wand down. He was wide open.

This was his chance.

He poured every ounce of his will into the incantation, the one he'd been practicing from the second-year book.

"Incarcerous!"

A set of thin, flimsy ropes shot from his wand.

Only, they looked like wet noodles.

They hit Sirius's chest and fell to the floor in a pathetic, limp pile.

Harry stared, his mind blank with shock. "But… I said it right!"

Sirius stopped a few feet away. He looked down at the limp ropes at his feet, then back up at Harry. His expression was one of profound disappointment.

"You did," Sirius said.

He raised his own wand. He spoke no word.

WHIP-CRACK.

Thick, heavy ropes, looking more like anchor chains, erupted from the air around Harry. They slammed into him, binding his arms to his chest and his legs together with brutal efficiency.

He was trussed up like a Christmas turkey before he could even blink. Toppling over onto the stone floor, completely and utterly defeated, Harry groaned.

Sirius walked over and stood above him.

"Why?" Harry demanded, his voice muffled as he strained against the bonds. "Why did yours work and mine didn't? The pronunciation was perfect!"

"It was," Sirius agreed.

"The wand movement?"

"There was nothing wrong with your wand movement, Harry," Sirius said imperiously.

"Then why?" Harry yelled, his frustration making his eyes sting.

Sirius knelt, his cold, grey eyes boring into Harry's. "Your intent was weak."

"What?"

"A simple charm, Harry, like your Incendio, just needs focus. It's a mere one-dimensional spell, a command to an element, and that's about it. But a curse... a curse is different. A curse needs will. It needs emotion. Incarcerous is a weak one, barely a curse, but it is still one taught to first and second years."

Sirius tapped the ropes binding Harry's chest. "When you cast, you were practicing. You were thinking about the spell. You were trying to get a good grade in a test."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "When I cast, I was thinking about how much I wanted to stop my opponent. How much I wanted to bind them, to make them helpless, to take away their freedom and their ability to harm me. I didn't ask the ropes to appear, Harry. I commanded them."

He saw the dawning realization understanding in Harry's eyes.

"So... you… wanted to hurt me?" Harry whispered as a curious question, rather than a horrified accusation. That alone threatened to make Sirius smile.

But he resisted.

"No," he corrected instantly. "I wanted to win. I wanted to subdue you. A curse is an extension of your will, Harry. The power of a spell is directly linked to the clarity of your intent to impose that will on someone else. You didn't really want to bind me. You wanted to see if you could do a spell. That's why you failed."

He waved his wand, and the ropes vanished.

Sirius offered a hand and pulled Harry to his feet. He was unsteady, but his eyes were blazing with a new, cold understanding.

"Your reflexes are good," Sirius said, his voice returning to that of a teacher. "Your instincts for cover are sound. But your will is unfocused. You are still playing. And this is not a game."

He clapped Harry on the shoulder, a gesture that almost knocked him off balance again.

"We go again in two days. Between now and then, I don't want you to read a single spellbook. I want you to go to the Black library. I want you to read the trial transcripts of the Lestranges. I want you to read the Auror reports on the Longbottoms. I want you to understand what it means to take away someone's freedom without indulging your own emotions. Then, maybe, you'll start becoming ready to cast a spell that does it."

"Intent is different from emotions?" Harry questioned incredulously, "How?!"

Sirius only smiled.

~~ .

The Viper's Ink

Amelia slammed the Daily Prophet down on her desk, the sound echoing through her office. The headline, in large, accusing type, read: "MINISTRY IN CHAOS! DMLE BUDGET SLASHED! DIRECTOR BONES' FAILED MANHUNTS LEAVE PUBLIC DEFENCELESS!"

"She's a viper!" she snarled.

Rufus Scrimgeour, the Head of Auror Office of Britain, stood opposite her, his lion-like face set in a grim expression.

He picked up the paper, his yellow eyes scanning the column. "Skeeter, isn't it? She's always been a viper, Amelia. This… this is just another version of her poison quill."

"She's blaming me!" Amelia said, pacing behind her desk. "Listen to this, Rufus: 'Director Bones's obsessive and costly vendetta against rumoured Death Eaters, combined with her department's catastrophic failure to prevent the assassination attempt in the Wizengamot, has led to a total loss of confidence. The Wizengamot's budget committee, led by the pragmatic Cornelius Fudge, had no choice but to slash her funding.' She's—"

"Amelia—"

"—making me the scapegoat!"

"Amelia—"

"She's deliberately ignoring the fact that Fudge's committee blocked our emergency funding before the vote," she growled. "She's not reporting the news, she's creating it. And she's doing it on Malfoy's orders."

"Of course she is!" Rufus snapped. "But the public doesn't know that. They won't read about Malfoy or Nott or the Dark Faction pulling Fudge's strings. They'll read that you are incompetent, that our 'failed manhunts' are the reason their taxes are being wasted. She's giving them the perfect excuse to go and defund the DMLE, crippling our ability to hunt men like Rookwood, and Rita gives them the political cover to do it. They're not the villains; we're the idiots who can't manage a budget."

Amelia looked at him then in fury.

"Amelia, it's nothing new. Calm down."

But she tossed the paper back on the desk in disgust. "And she's smart too, of course. She's sprinkled in just enough truth to make the lies plausible. Our failure to capture the Wizengamot assassin is a black eye. My approval in the public polls is going to be nonexistent after this."

She sank into her chair, the fight going out of her for a moment.

"Now what do we do, Rufus? We're trapped. We can't hunt the Death Eaters with half a budget. And when we inevitably fail, Skeeter will be right there with her acid-green quill to write 'I told you so.' It's a perfect, self-fulfilling prophecy."

Rufus stared out of the window, his jaw set, still reacting minimally to her outburst.

"We do the only thing we can, ma'am." he said formally, "Now that we have you as the Director, we work with what we have, and we have it better than most other departments whose budgets are going to be also cut. What we need to do is—become twice as ruthless and half as public. And in our spare time…" And then as if a plan formed in his mind and a grim, predatory smile touched his lips, "We start looking for a way to get some leverage on Rita. A viper is only dangerous until you defang it."

~~ .

AN: Thank you for reading!

My community members can now read significantly ahead from here. The link is in my profile. I'm also bringing more sneak peeks, bonus scenes, character images, and lore drops for my readers there.