The Gringotts cart ride to Vault 711 was exactly what you'd expect from a banking system that had been designed by goblins who thought safety regulations were more of a suggestion than a legal requirement, and who'd apparently never met a security measure they couldn't make more terrifying through creative applications of physics-defying engineering.
Bellatrix sat in the cart with the composed dignity of someone who'd survived fifteen years of magical enslavement and nine years in Azkaban, and who'd decided that goblin transportation systems were among the least intimidating challenges she was likely to face in her lifetime. Her dark hair was pulled back in a style that emphasized her aristocratic bone structure, and her robes were cut in the severe lines that suggested both respectability and the kind of quiet authority that came from having very little patience for people who wasted her time with unnecessary complications.
Beside her, Sirius gripped the cart's safety rail with the white-knuckled intensity of someone who'd spent nine years in a stationary prison cell and had apparently forgotten that normal transportation was supposed to involve this much terror and possibly motion sickness. His storm-gray eyes held the kind of controlled panic that suggested he was reconsidering his decision to accompany his cousin on what had seemed like routine banking business.
"I'd forgotten," he said through gritted teeth as the cart took a turn that violated several fundamental laws of physics and probably most principles of passenger safety, "how much I hate goblin transportation systems. Nine years of Dementors, and this is what makes me question my life choices."
"Think of it as character building," Bellatrix replied with the kind of serene calm that suggested she was either completely unflappable or had simply decided that fear was a luxury she couldn't afford during systematic justice reform campaigns. "Besides, compared to being magically compelled to torture innocent people, this is practically a holiday excursion."
Harry, whose enhanced senses courtesy of Drakor were making the entire experience considerably more intense than standard human perception would allow, was discovering that cosmic entities had very strong opinions about goblin engineering and transportation safety standards.
*"Fascinating design principles,"* Drakor observed with the clinical interest of someone who'd encountered transportation systems throughout the galaxy and had developed professional opinions about their relative merits. *"Complete disregard for passenger comfort, obvious commitment to ensuring maximum terror, and what appears to be a comprehensive philosophy that treats customer service as an opportunity for character development through systematic fear exposure."*
*"I respect the thoroughness of their approach,"* he continued with cosmic approval. *"Very committed to their brand identity as the most intimidating banking system in the known universe."*
"Please don't provide design suggestions for improving their customer terror protocols," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying the fond exasperation of someone who'd learned that his cosmic partner had opinions about everything and was always prepared to offer helpful commentary about efficiency improvements.
*"Oh, I wouldn't dream of interfering with such obviously successful business practices,"* Drakor replied cheerfully. *"Though I do have some thoughts about how they could incorporate educational components about proper financial ethics into their security systems..."*
The cart finally screeched to a halt in front of a vault door that looked like it had been designed by someone who'd taken the phrase "impregnable security" as a personal challenge and a sacred mission. The metal was covered with enough protective enchantments to power a small city, and the locking mechanisms appeared to involve principles that weren't covered in any standard security manual and probably required their own degree programs to understand properly.
Gripsack, the goblin cart operator whose professional demeanor suggested decades of experience with customers who had complicated vault access requirements and possibly questionable legal status, consulted his documentation with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to treat routine banking services as potential international incidents.
"Vault Seven-One-One," he announced with formal precision. "Lestrange family assets, currently under transition of ownership to Bellatrix Black following the recent... educational experiences... of the previous account holders."
His sharp eyes assessed Bellatrix with the professional evaluation of someone who'd spent years managing high-security vault access for customers whose family members had been known to practice dark magic, systematic oppression, and occasionally creative approaches to wealth accumulation that weren't entirely legal.
"Standard security protocols require blood verification, magical signature confirmation, and formal declaration of inheritance rights," Gripsack continued, producing instruments that looked like they'd been designed by someone who took identity verification very seriously and had probably encountered numerous attempts at unauthorized vault access through creative impersonation techniques.
Bellatrix extended her hand with the composed authority of someone who'd spent decades dealing with pure-blood banking requirements and had no doubt about her legal right to access family assets that were now hers through traditional inheritance law and the convenient elimination of everyone who might have objected to her ownership claims.
The blood verification process was quick and efficient—apparently goblin banking systems had been designed by people who understood that identity confirmation was too important for bureaucratic delays or unnecessary ceremony. The magical signature analysis was similarly straightforward, though it did involve instruments that hummed with the kind of energy that suggested they were measuring things that probably weren't covered in standard magical education.
"Inheritance rights confirmed," Gripsack announced with satisfaction. "Bellatrix Black, sole surviving heir to Lestrange family assets following the comprehensive educational experiences of Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange."
He paused, consulting additional documentation with the careful precision of someone who'd been briefed about potential complications involving cosmic entities and systematic justice reform campaigns.
"I should note," he continued diplomatically, "that vault contents include materials classified as 'dark artifacts requiring specialized handling,' 'potentially dangerous magical objects that may pose existential threats to unauthorized personnel,' and 'comprehensive documentation of activities that would probably interest law enforcement officials with strong opinions about systematic corruption.'"
"Plus," he added with the kind of professional understatement that suggested goblins had their own approaches to describing contents that violated multiple international laws, "what appears to be treasure accumulated through methods that might not comply with modern standards for ethical wealth acquisition."
*"Oh, this is going to be delicious,"* Drakor said with the anticipation of someone who was really looking forward to systematic evaluation of artifacts and treasure that had been accumulated through human rights violations. *"Dark artifacts, ethically problematic wealth, and comprehensive documentation of systematic corruption. It's like a cosmic justice buffet with educational components and proper legal documentation."*
The vault door opened with a sound like reality taking detailed notes about security systems that were about to be thoroughly tested by cosmic entities with strong opinions about traditional treasure protection methods. What lay beyond was immediately apparent: this wasn't just a storage facility, it was a comprehensive archive of everything that had been wrong with pure-blood society for multiple generations.
The chamber was vast—easily the size of a cathedral, if cathedrals were typically dedicated to the worship of accumulated wealth and systematic oppression. Piles of gold reached toward the ceiling like metallic mountains built from centuries of exploitation, extortion, and what appeared to be really excellent investment strategies involving human rights violations and governmental corruption.
But it was the artifacts that made Harry's enhanced senses scream warnings about existential threats and possible reality distortions. Display cases lined the walls, each containing objects that radiated the kind of malevolent energy that made smart people remember urgent appointments in other countries. Cursed jewelry that had probably been used to eliminate political rivals, books bound in materials that definitely weren't leather and had probably required human sacrifice to create, and weapons that looked like they'd been forged specifically for torture rather than conventional combat.
"Sweet Merlin," Sirius breathed, his voice carrying the awe of someone who'd just discovered that his family's involvement with dark magic had been considerably more extensive than he'd previously imagined. "This isn't a vault, it's a museum dedicated to everything wrong with wizarding society."
"The Lestrange family specialized in collecting artifacts that could be used for political control and systematic intimidation," Bellatrix explained with the clinical precision of someone who'd been magically compelled to participate in enough dark magic operations to become an expert on tools that shouldn't exist and definitely shouldn't be stored in banking facilities.
"Most of these objects were used to maintain power through fear, eliminate opposition through creative applications of dark magic, and ensure that anyone who challenged pure-blood supremacy faced consequences that made conventional political opposition seem like safe career choices."
Her dark eyes swept the collection with the kind of professional assessment that suggested she was cataloging everything for systematic destruction rather than personal use.
"Plus comprehensive records of every bribe paid, every government official compromised, every family coerced into compliance through magical compulsion or systematic blackmail."
Harry's attention was immediately drawn to a particular display case that seemed to radiate more malevolent energy than the rest of the collection combined. Inside, nestled among other artifacts that probably violated multiple international treaties about acceptable magical objects, sat a small golden cup decorated with a badger emblem that identified it as once belonging to Helga Hufflepuff.
But this wasn't just a historical artifact. It pulsed with the same dark energy Harry had learned to associate with fragmented souls and Tom Riddle's approach to immortality through systematic soul mutilation.
*"There it is,"* Drakor said with satisfaction, his mental voice carrying the anticipation of someone who was about to complete an important collection. *"Horcrux number four. And this one feels... substantial. More developed than the others. Years of careful cultivation and magical enhancement."*
*"Also,"* he continued with growing excitement, *"I can sense that it's been used recently. Active magical operations, direct soul interaction, probably systematic control of multiple subjects through sustained contact with fragmented dark lord consciousness."*
"The cup's been active?" Bellatrix asked, her voice carrying the concern of someone who'd spent enough time around dark artifacts to understand the implications of Horcruxes that had been regularly interacting with living subjects.
"Recent magical signatures suggest it's been used for possession, political control, and what appears to be systematic manipulation of government officials through direct soul fragment influence," Harry confirmed, Drakor's ancient knowledge providing detailed analysis of magical residue that told a story of corruption that extended far beyond simple bribery and coercion.
"How many people?" Sirius asked, though his voice suggested he already suspected the answer was going to require comprehensive investigation and possibly international cooperation to address properly.
"Based on the magical residue patterns," Harry said, accessing information that had been acquired through cosmic analysis of soul fragment activities, "at least a dozen high-ranking Ministry officials, several Wizengamot members, and what appears to be multiple international magical government representatives."
"Tom Riddle's influence hasn't been limited to Britain," he continued, his voice carrying implications that were probably going to require immediate consultation with international magical law enforcement agencies. "The Lestrange family has been operating as a hub for systematic governmental corruption throughout the European magical community."
*"Which means,"* Drakor added with the satisfaction of someone who'd just discovered that his educational campaign was going to be considerably more comprehensive than initially anticipated, *"that our justice reform operations are about to become international in scope. Very exciting opportunities for cosmic accountability and systematic reform of oppressive institutions across multiple countries."*
Harry approached the display case with the careful movements of someone who'd learned that dark artifacts required respectful handling even when you were planning to have them consumed by cosmic entities with strong opinions about soul mutilation and immortality projects involving systematic evil.
But the moment his hand touched the case's protective enchantments, the cup began screaming.
Not metaphorically screaming—actually, physically screaming with Tom Riddle's voice in absolute agony and cosmic-level panic as he realized that his carefully constructed immortality insurance was about to be systematically dismantled by something that treated dark lord soul fragments like appetizers at a cosmic justice banquet.
*"YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME!"* the Horcrux shrieked, its voice carrying the imperious authority of someone who'd spent decades controlling people through fear and magical compulsion and wasn't prepared to accept that his influence was about to be permanently discontinued. *"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT! I HAVE CONTROLLED GOVERNMENTS! I HAVE COMMANDED ARMIES OF THE DEAD!"*
*"I HAVE MADE KINGS AND TOPPLED NATIONS! I AM IMMORTAL! I AM—"*
"You are," Drakor interrupted with the casual tone of someone correcting a particularly slow student who'd missed several important points in the lecture, "about to be educationally absorbed by someone who's been systematically dismantling your immortality project while providing comprehensive lessons about why soul mutilation is both ethically reprehensible and practically inadvisable."
The impossible mouth opened in Harry's transformed features, revealing the now-familiar rows of cosmic teeth that had consumed Dementors, Death Eaters, government officials, and multiple soul fragments with equal efficiency and educational thoroughness.
This Horcrux fought back more vigorously than any of the previous fragments had—fifty years of accumulated magical power, sustained by decades of active use and systematic corruption of living subjects. Dark magic lashed out like tentacles made of concentrated malevolence, trying to find purchase on anything that might allow it to escape, possess, or at least cause some spectacular damage before being consumed by something that operated on principles beyond its comprehension.
But Drakor had been systematically consuming Tom Riddle's soul fragments for weeks now, and his approach to struggling prey had become both more efficient and considerably more educational for anyone watching the process.
*"Stop struggling,"* he said conversationally, his cosmic voice carrying the patient tone of someone explaining proper dining etiquette to food that was being unreasonably difficult about the consumption process. *"You're only making this take longer, and honestly, your flavor profile gets worse when you're this agitated. Very unprofessional behavior for someone who's supposed to be a dark lord with centuries of experience in megalomaniacal presentations."*
The Horcrux made one final, desperate attempt to escape by trying to possess the nearest available host—which happened to be a goblin security system that had been designed to prevent exactly this type of magical intrusion but hadn't been updated to account for soul fragments having nervous breakdowns about cosmic consumption.
Drakor caught the possession attempt midair with the casual efficiency of someone who'd dealt with this exact scenario multiple times and had developed standard operating procedures for preventing dark lord soul fragments from causing security breaches in banking facilities.
*"Really now,"* he said with the disappointed tone of someone whose patience was being tested by prey that wasn't learning from the educational experiences of previous soul fragments. *"Haven't you been paying attention to what happened to your other pieces? This exact approach has failed spectacularly every single time. Very poor strategic learning from previous educational outcomes."*
The consumption was swift, efficient, and somehow both civilized and absolutely educational for everyone present. The cup crumbled to golden dust as its protective enchantments failed completely, and the Horcrux's screaming cut off abruptly with the sound of cosmic justice being served with appropriate attention to both thoroughness and proper presentation.
"Mmm," Drakor said, his voice carrying the satisfied tone of someone who'd just enjoyed a particularly complex meal that had also solved several international security problems. "Fifty years of governmental corruption, systematic political control, and just the right amount of megalomaniacal delusion to provide depth to the dining experience. Very robust flavor profile with notes of accumulated evil and international conspiracy."
"That makes four," Harry said with satisfaction, his own voice mixing with Drakor's as his cosmic partner settled back into contemplative appreciation of comprehensive soul fragment consumption. "Three more to go, and then Tom Riddle's immortality project becomes permanently discontinued across all dimensions and possibly several parallel realities."
"Now," Bellatrix said, her voice taking on the focused authority of someone who was about to systematically dismantle everything her magical enslavers had built their power on, "let's discuss proper asset management and reparations for victims of systematic oppression."
She turned to Gripsack with the composed determination of someone who'd spent fifteen years being treated like property and was really looking forward to using traditional inheritance law to ensure that wealth accumulated through human rights violations was redistributed to people who actually deserved it.
"I want a complete audit of this vault," she announced with the authority of someone who understood both goblin banking procedures and the importance of proper documentation for systematic justice campaigns. "Every artifact catalogued, every financial record analyzed, every piece of evidence of corruption properly preserved for international law enforcement review."
"Then," she continued with growing satisfaction, "I want all liquid assets transferred to the Black family vault, all dark artifacts secured for systematic destruction by appropriate authorities, and all documentation regarding governmental corruption forwarded to law enforcement agencies that specialize in international magical crime and systematic accountability."
"And finally," she said with the kind of smile that suggested she was really looking forward to this particular aspect of comprehensive revenge, "I want the Lestrange vault permanently closed, all family accounts dissolved, and formal notification sent to every government official, business partner, and political contact that the Lestrange family's involvement in systematic corruption has been permanently discontinued through educational experiences involving cosmic justice."
Gripsack's expression carried the professional satisfaction of someone whose banking career had just become considerably more interesting and was definitely going to require updating his resume to include "systematic governmental reform through traditional inheritance law" and "international asset redistribution for victims of magical slavery."
"This will require," he said with the careful precision of someone calculating the administrative complexity of what was probably going to be the most comprehensive banking reform project in goblin history, "extensive documentation, multiple international consultations, and probably several new categories in our asset management systems."
"Excellent," Bellatrix said cheerfully. "I want it to be thorough, comprehensive, and impossible for anyone to claim they weren't properly notified that systematic oppression through traditional pure-blood family methods has been permanently discontinued in favor of cosmic justice and appropriate reparations for victims."
*"I do love comprehensive bureaucratic documentation,"* Drakor observed with cosmic approval. *"Very satisfying to watch systematic oppression being dismantled through proper legal procedures and traditional banking protocols. Much more civilized than simply consuming everyone responsible and moving on to the next educational project."*
As they prepared to leave the now-significantly-less-wealthy Lestrange vault, Harry couldn't help but feel that their systematic justice campaign was approaching completion with exactly the kind of thoroughness and attention to detail that would ensure these problems never happened again.
And if certain international magical governments were about to discover that cosmic entities had very strong opinions about their complicity in systematic corruption and human rights violations, well, that was just going to make their reform campaign more comprehensive and probably more educational for everyone involved.
The revolution was almost complete. And it was going to be beautiful.
---
**Meanwhile, on Grimmauld Place's Doorstep**
Remus Lupin stood before the front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, looking like someone who'd spent the past twelve hours traveling across Europe while having an existential crisis about systematic failure, personal responsibility, and the reliability of his previous assumptions about proper adult behavior during child welfare emergencies.
His usually careful appearance showed signs of extended travel and emotional turmoil. His sandy brown hair was more disheveled than usual, his clothes had the rumpled quality of someone who'd been too focused on urgent travel to worry about conventional presentation standards, and his amber eyes held the kind of focused intensity that suggested he'd spent considerable time thinking about complicated problems and had arrived at conclusions that required immediate action.
But it was his expression that really told the story. The careful, controlled mask he'd worn for twelve years—the expression of someone who'd convinced himself that systematic avoidance was the responsible approach to complicated emotional situations—had been replaced by something that might have been determination if he'd remembered how to make decisions based on what was right rather than what was convenient.
He'd been standing there for approximately seventeen minutes, which was probably a new record for someone who'd spent over a decade avoiding difficult conversations about personal responsibility and emotional honesty. His hand had raised toward the door knocker no fewer than eight times, only to hesitate as his brain provided helpful commentary about all the reasons why this was either the most important thing he'd ever done or the most spectacular way to make complicated situations worse through well-intentioned interference.
*Nine years,* he thought, his internal monologue carrying the kind of self-recrimination that suggested he'd been having variations of this conversation with himself since Dover. *Nine years of telling myself I was being responsible by staying away. Twelve years of convincing myself that Harry was better off without me, while he was actually living in conditions that would make werewolf pack dynamics look like luxury accommodations with excellent customer service.*
The newspapers he'd read during his journey had provided comprehensive documentation of exactly how thoroughly every adult in Harry's life had failed him, and Remus was beginning to understand that his own contribution to that failure had been more significant than he'd allowed himself to acknowledge during his years of self-imposed exile among European werewolf communities.
James and Lily had named him as Harry's secondary guardian if something happened to Sirius. They'd trusted him to ensure their son's safety and happiness. They'd believed he would choose responsibility over convenience, courage over comfort, their child's welfare over his own complicated relationship with his lycanthropy and the social stigma that came with it.
Instead, he'd spent twelve years living with werewolves and telling himself that staying away was the mature decision, the selfless choice, the responsible action of someone who recognized his own limitations and didn't want to inflict his problems on an innocent child.
While Harry Potter had been living in a cupboard under the stairs, being systematically starved and emotionally abused by relatives who'd seen his existence as a personal insult to their carefully constructed normal lives.
*The cupboard under the stairs,* Remus thought, his hands clenching into fists as he processed details that made his twelve years of strategic avoidance seem like the most spectacular example of moral cowardice in recent history. *Ten years old, sleeping in a space barely large enough for storage, locked away like something shameful that had to be hidden from decent society.*
The front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place looked exactly the same as it had the last time he'd been here, which had been sometime during the war when the house had served as Order of the Phoenix headquarters and Sirius had been chafing against Dumbledore's insistence that he remain hidden while everyone else got to participate in active resistance operations.
But everything else had changed in ways that probably required their own categories in the literature about systematic social reform and cosmic justice applications to governmental accountability.
According to the newspaper reports he'd been reading obsessively since Dover, Sirius was not only free but had been completely exonerated of all charges. The wrongful imprisonment that had seemed like tragic necessity during the war had turned out to be exactly what it had appeared to be: spectacular failure of the justice system to investigate obvious inconsistencies in high-profile criminal cases.
Harry Potter was not living with loving relatives who were providing proper care and preparation for his magical education. He was apparently under the protection of something the newspapers were calling "an ancient cosmic entity with strong opinions about systematic justice and educational methods involving permanent lifestyle changes for systematic oppressors."
And the entire structure of wizarding government appeared to be undergoing comprehensive reform through methods that violated several established principles about the proper relationship between citizens and their elected representatives, but which had resulted in systematic accountability for people who'd spent years treating child welfare as acceptable collateral damage for political convenience.
Remus raised his hand toward the door knocker for the ninth time, then paused as his enhanced hearing—one of the few advantages of lycanthropy that he'd learned to appreciate over the years—detected sounds from inside the house that suggested a level of domestic activity that wouldn't have been possible when Sirius was in Azkaban.
Voices. Multiple voices, engaged in what sounded like animated conversation about complex topics that probably weren't covered in standard family dinner discussions. One voice he recognized immediately: Sirius, sounding more alive and engaged than Remus had heard him since before the war. Other voices he didn't recognize but which carried the kind of authority and intelligence that suggested he was about to encounter people who took themselves seriously and had the resources to back up that attitude.
And threading through it all, a voice that made his chest tighten with emotion he'd been suppressing for twelve years: a child's voice, bright with curiosity and carrying the kind of confidence that suggested someone who'd finally found adults who actually wanted to answer his questions and support his interests.
Harry. That had to be Harry, sounding nothing like the broken, traumatized victim that Remus had been expecting after reading newspaper reports about systematic abuse and neglect. Instead, he sounded like... like a child who'd found family. Real family who chose to be present, to provide support, to demonstrate that he mattered to people who were committed to his welfare.
The kind of family Remus should have been for the past twelve years, if he'd had the courage to choose responsibility over comfort and Harry's needs over his own complicated relationship with social stigma and personal inadequacy.
Before he could lose his nerve again—and honestly, after twelve years of systematic avoidance, he was running out of emotional energy for continued delay and strategic procrastination—Remus knocked on the door with the firm, decisive sound of someone who'd finally figured out what needed to be done and was prepared to face whatever consequences came from systematic honesty about personal failure and belated commitment to doing the right thing.
The conversation inside the house paused, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching the door with the cautious movements of people who'd learned to be careful about unexpected visitors and probably had very good reasons for maintaining security protocols during systematic justice reform campaigns.
The door opened to reveal a house-elf that Remus dimly remembered from his previous visits to Grimmauld Place, though this version looked considerably more enthusiastic about household management than the bitter, resentful creature he recalled from wartime meetings.
"Mr. Lupin!" Kreacher announced with the kind of joy that suggested he was genuinely pleased to see someone from the family's past and was probably going to interpret this visit as evidence that the Noble House of Black was properly reconnecting with old friends and allies. "Kreacher remembers Professor Lupin! Friend of Master Sirius and Master James, excellent at Defense Against the Dark Arts, and werewolf with excellent manners and proper respect for household protocols!"
The enthusiasm in Kreacher's voice was so unexpected that Remus found himself blinking in surprise at being remembered fondly by a house-elf whose previous interactions with houseguests had typically involved barely controlled hostility and systematic attempts to make everyone feel unwelcome in the ancestral Black family home.
"Hello, Kreacher," Remus said, his voice carrying the careful courtesy that had gotten him through years of dealing with suspicious werewolf packs and magical creature communities that weren't entirely sure whether to trust someone whose lycanthropy made him technically part of their world. "I hope I'm not intruding, but I heard about recent... developments... and I wanted to speak with Sirius and Harry."
"Master Sirius will be most pleased to see Professor Lupin!" Kreacher said with satisfaction. "And Master Harry has been asking questions about his parents' friends and whether any of them might be available for proper family consultations about magical education and personal history."
The house-elf's expression carried the kind of meaningful look that suggested he understood exactly what kind of guilt and self-recrimination had brought Remus to their doorstep, and that he approved of adults who eventually figured out where their responsibilities lay, even if it took them longer than optimal to arrive at obvious conclusions.
"Master Harry needs proper family connections," Kreacher continued with the authority of someone who'd been observing household dynamics for decades and had developed strong opinions about what constituted appropriate emotional support for children who'd been systematically failed by the adults in their lives. "Needs people who knew his parents, who can share proper stories about their character and their love for him."
Before Remus could respond to this pointed commentary about his twelve-year absence and its impact on Harry's understanding of his family history, Sirius appeared in the hallway behind Kreacher like someone who'd heard familiar voices and was trying to figure out whether this was going to be a pleasant surprise or another complicated situation requiring immediate crisis management.
When he saw Remus, Sirius's expression went through several interesting changes before settling on something that might have been relief if he'd allowed himself to feel optimistic about personal relationships and their potential for improvement after systematic failure and mutual abandonment during impossible circumstances.
"Moony," Sirius said, his voice carrying twelve years of accumulated emotion that had been compressed into a single word. "You're here."
"I'm here," Remus confirmed, his voice rough with the kind of honesty that had been building pressure for over a decade and was finally finding expression. "I should have been here years ago. Should have checked on Harry, should have questioned the placement, should have been a better friend to James and Lily by ensuring their son received the love and protection they wanted him to have."
Sirius stepped forward with the fluid grace that had survived nine years in Azkaban and made even simple movements look like they belonged in dramatic reunions involving systematic honesty about personal failure and mutual commitment to doing better in the future.
"We all failed him," Sirius said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd had considerable time to think about systematic failure and shared responsibility for outcomes that could have been prevented through better communication and more courage about addressing obvious problems.
"But he's safe now. He's got family who actually want him, adults who are committed to his welfare, and... well, he's got cosmic backup that specializes in systematic justice for people who hurt children."
"Cosmic backup," Remus repeated, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone who'd been reading newspaper reports about interdimensional entities but wasn't entirely sure how to process information that definitely wasn't covered in any standard Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum.
"Long story," Sirius said with the kind of fond expression that suggested the cosmic entity situation was both more complex and more endearing than newspaper coverage had been able to adequately convey. "But the short version is that Harry's bonded to an ancient alien symbiote named Drakor, who has very strong opinions about proper child welfare and systematic accountability for people who practice abuse, neglect, or governmental corruption."
Before Remus could ask for clarification about cosmic entity bonding procedures and their impact on traditional family dynamics, a new voice joined the conversation from deeper in the house.
"Uncle Moony?"
---
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