**Number Four, Privet Drive - Thirty-Seven Minutes Later**
Vernon Dursley was having a perfectly normal evening.
He'd had a satisfactory day at Grunnings, where he sold drills and didn't think about abnormality. He'd returned home to a proper dinner—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and none of that foreign muck Petunia's strange sister had liked. His son Dudley had received top marks on his spelling test (never mind that Petunia had done most of the work). The freak was locked away in his cupboard where he belonged.
Everything was perfectly, wonderfully normal.
Then the front door exploded.
Not opened. Not knocked upon. *Exploded*—the wood simply disintegrating into fine powder that hung in the air like golden dust before settling gently on the hallway carpet.
Vernon's teacup slipped from his fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor.
Through the destroyed doorway stepped four people who looked like they'd walked out of a historical drama, and one... creature that made Vernon's brain try to file it under "horrible nightmare" and move on.
The first man was tall—impossibly tall, with silver-white hair swept back from a face that belonged on Roman coins. He wore black robes that probably cost more than Vernon's car, and he carried a stick—no, a *wand*—like a scepter. His eyes were dark as midnight and twice as cold.
The woman beside him was smaller but no less imposing, with the same aristocratic features and hair like spun silver. She moved like a queen surveying conquered territory.
The second man was nearly as tall as the first, but broader through the shoulders, with a warrior's bearing despite his age. His grey hair had a reddish tint in the light, and his eyes were hazel—warm once, perhaps, but currently burning with barely controlled fury. He also carried a wand.
The second woman was dark-haired, elegant, with the bearing of someone who'd spent decades in positions of authority. She radiated competence and controlled power.
And the creature—
Vernon's mind gibbered. It was small, perhaps three feet tall, with enormous bat-like ears and eyes the size of tennis balls. It wore what appeared to be a pillowcase fashioned into a toga, and it was staring at Vernon with an expression of such utter contempt that Vernon felt it like a physical blow.
"What—" Vernon spluttered, his face already beginning its journey to purple. "What is the meaning of this? This is a private residence! I'll call the police! I'll—"
The tall silver-haired man raised one hand.
Vernon's voice stopped. Just... stopped. He could feel his mouth moving, could feel air rushing past his vocal cords, but no sound emerged.
"Much better," the man said. His voice was cultured, aristocratic, and completely merciless. "Vernon Dursley, I presume? And you must be Petunia. How... quaint."
Petunia had gone white as chalk. She was staring at the four intruders with an expression of pure horror.
"No," she whispered. "No, you're dead. James's parents died. They died—" Her voice rose to a shriek. "You're supposed to be DEAD!"
The hazel-eyed man's jaw clenched. When he spoke, his voice could have frozen fire.
"Charlus Potter," he said, each word precisely delivered. "And this is my wife, Dorea Potter, formerly Dorea Black. We're very much alive, I'm afraid. Despite your evident disappointment."
"Impossible," Petunia breathed. "Dumbledore said—"
"Dumbledore," Dorea interrupted, and her voice was poisoned silk, "said many things. Most of them lies. Where is my grandson?"
"I don't know what you're—"
"WHERE IS HARRY?"
The shout came from Dorea, and it was accompanied by a wave of magic so powerful that the windows rattled in their frames. Picture frames fell from walls. The television sparked and died.
Vernon tried to move, to do *something*, but found he couldn't. None of them could. They were frozen—not physically, but by sheer presence, by the weight of power and fury radiating from these impossible people.
Dudley, who'd been frozen in shock with chocolate cake halfway to his mouth, began to wail.
The small creature—the thing with the ears—tilted its head, those enormous eyes fixing on the cupboard under the stairs.
"There," it said, its voice surprisingly deep. "Young Master Harry is there. In the cupboard. Under the stairs."
The silence that fell was more terrifying than any shout.
Dorea moved. She crossed the hallway in three strides, wrenched open the cupboard door—
And stopped.
The cupboard was barely four feet deep and perhaps three feet wide. A space suitable for storing coats or cleaning supplies. Not for housing a child.
But there he was.
A small boy, impossibly thin, with messy black hair and eyes the color of fresh spring grass behind cracked glasses held together with tape. He wore clothes three sizes too large—clearly Dudley's cast-offs. His face was bruised, a purple mark blooming across one cheek. His arms, visible where the overlarge sleeves had ridden up, were covered in fingerprint-shaped bruises.
He was staring up at them with the wary, hunted expression of a creature that expected pain.
"Oh," Dorea said softly. "Oh, sweetheart."
She knelt—her still-weak legs screaming in protest—and held out one hand. Not reaching. Not grabbing. Just... offering.
"Hello, Harry," she said gently. "My name is Dorea. I'm your grandmother. Your father James was my son."
Harry's eyes went very wide. "I... I have a grandmother?"
"You do," Charlus said, kneeling beside his wife. His voice was rough with emotion. "This is your grandmother Dorea, and I'm your grandfather Charlus."
"But Aunt Petunia said—" Harry's voice was barely a whisper. "She said I had no family. That nobody wanted me. That my parents were drunks who died in a car crash and I was lucky anyone took me in at all."
Behind them, Petunia made a choking sound.
Charlus didn't turn around. If he had, he might have killed her with his bare hands.
"Your aunt," Dorea said carefully, "lied to you. Your parents were heroes, Harry. They died protecting you from a very evil man. And we—your grandfather and I—we were hurt in a different fight with that same evil man. We were asleep for a very long time. But we woke up today. And the very first thing we did was come to find you."
"Today?" Harry's voice cracked. "You woke up *today*?"
"Today," Charlus confirmed. "This morning. And I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry we weren't there sooner. I'm so sorry you were alone."
"You're not angry with me?" The question came out small and broken. "For being a freak? For doing magic things?"
"Magic things," Dorea repeated slowly. Dangerously. "Harry, sweetheart, you're not a freak. You're a *wizard*. Like your father was. Like we are. Magic is wonderful. Magic is a gift."
"But Uncle Vernon said—"
"Your Uncle Vernon," the silver-haired man interrupted coldly, "is a bloated, bigoted, abusive excuse for a human being who will very shortly learn what happens when you hurt a child under the protection of the Black family."
Harry stared at the tall man. "Who are you?"
"Arcturus Black. Your grandmother's brother. Which makes me your great-uncle." His smile was all teeth. "And I am very, very displeased with your relatives."
"We're getting you out of here," Dorea said firmly. "Right now. You're coming home with us, where you belong."
"But—" Harry looked past them at the Dursleys, at Aunt Petunia's white face and Uncle Vernon's purple one. "But Aunt Petunia is my guardian. She said so. She said I had to stay here, had to be grateful—"
"She had no right," Charlus said flatly. "You're our grandson. Our family. You belong with us."
For a long moment, Harry just stared at them. At these impossible people who'd appeared from nowhere, who'd blown down doors and spoke of magic and claimed to be his family.
Then his face crumpled, and he began to cry.
Not loud. Not dramatic. The quiet, broken crying of a child who'd learned that loud meant punishment.
"Please," he whispered. "Please don't be lying. Please don't be one of Dudley's tricks. Please be real."
"Oh, sweetheart." Dorea's own eyes filled with tears. She opened her arms. "May I hug you?"
Harry launched himself forward so fast he nearly knocked her over. Small arms wrapped around her neck in a death grip, and suddenly he was sobbing—really sobbing, the kind of crying that came from years of holding everything in.
"I'll be good," he gasped between sobs. "I promise I'll be good. I'll be so good. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me here. I'll do anything—"
"Shh," Charlus murmured, wrapping his arms around both of them. "Shh, it's alright. You don't have to be good. You don't have to be anything except yourself. We're not leaving you. We're never leaving you. I promise."
"I'm sorry I'm crying," Harry hiccupped. "Uncle Vernon says crying is for weak people and freaks—"
"Your Uncle Vernon," Dorea said, her voice muffled against Harry's hair, "is an idiot. Crying is human. Crying is healthy. And you cry as much as you need to, sweetheart. We've got you. We've got you now."
Behind them, Kreth had moved silently to Harry's cupboard. He was examining it with those enormous eyes, taking in the thin blanket, the broken toys, the crack in the wall where someone had thrown something hard enough to break plaster.
The spider webs in the corners.
The lock on the *outside* of the door.
"Madam Dorea," he said quietly. "Young Master Harry has been living in this cupboard."
"I can see that, Kreth."
"No." The house elf's voice was strange. "Living in it. This is his bedroom. Look."
He pointed to a crude sign stuck to the inside of the door: HARRY'S ROOM.
The temperature in the hallway dropped ten degrees.
Melania moved past the frozen Dursleys to examine the cupboard more closely. Her healer's eye took in every detail—the size, the lack of ventilation, the way the walls were too close, creating a space that would make anyone claustrophobic.
"He's been sleeping here," she said, her voice clinically detached in the way healers used when the alternative was screaming. "For years, judging by the wear patterns on this blanket. Three, maybe four years at minimum."
"He's five years old," Charlus said. His voice was dead calm, which was infinitely more terrifying than rage. "He's been sleeping in a cupboard since he was an infant."
Arcturus had been examining the rest of the house with the calculating eye of someone who'd spent decades in intelligence. He opened the door to what was clearly Dudley's room—two rooms, actually, knocked into one. Toys everywhere. A television. A computer. Bunk beds for when friends stayed over.
Then the small bedroom across the hall—pristine, perfect, with toys still in their boxes. The spare room, apparently. Never used.
They'd had a spare room.
They'd had a *spare room*, and they'd kept Harry in a cupboard.
"Arcturus," Melania said quietly. She'd finished her examination of Harry, who was still clinging to Dorea like she might disappear. "I need to document this. All of it. The bruises, the malnutrition, the evidence of long-term abuse."
"Can it wait?" Dorea asked, still holding Harry. "I don't want to let go of him."
"It can wait thirty minutes," Melania said gently. "But we need photographs, medical documentation. Evidence. Because what they've done to him..." Her jaw clenched. "What they've done to him is unforgivable."
Harry had gone very quiet against Dorea's shoulder. His crying had stopped, but his grip hadn't loosened.
"Harry," Charlus said softly. "Harry, can you look at me for a moment?"
Slowly, reluctantly, Harry lifted his head. His eyes were puffy and red, his glasses askew.
"We're going to take you away from here," Charlus said, speaking each word clearly. "To our home. It's safe there. You'll have your own room. A big room. With a real bed and windows and everything a boy should have. Does that sound alright?"
"My own room?" Harry's voice was barely audible. "Not a cupboard?"
"Not a cupboard," Dorea promised. "Never a cupboard again."
"And you'll be there? You won't leave?"
"We won't leave," Charlus said. "We're family, Harry. Family doesn't leave."
"But what about Aunt Petunia? She's my guardian. She said—"
"Your Aunt Petunia," Arcturus said coldly, "is about to learn that legal guardianship can be revoked. Particularly when the guardians in question are abusive, negligent monsters who deserve to rot in the darkest hole I can find."
"Arcturus," Melania warned. "Not in front of Harry."
"Quite right." Arcturus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Harry, would you like to see some magic? Real magic?"
Harry's eyes went wide. He nodded slowly.
Arcturus raised his wand—a dramatic gesture, theatrical in the way that made children gasp. "*Incarcerous.*"
Ropes shot from his wand, wrapping around Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley with the efficiency of a spider binding prey. Vernon's face, already purple, went nearly black with rage. His mouth opened—he still couldn't speak, but the intent was clear.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Arcturus said with false politeness. "Did you want to say something?" He flicked his wand, and Vernon's voice returned.
"YOU CAN'T DO THIS!" Vernon roared. "THIS IS KIDNAPPING! I'LL CALL THE POLICE! I'LL—"
"*Silencio.*" Vernon's voice cut off mid-rant. "*Petrificus Totalus.*" Vernon went rigid, toppling like a felled tree. His eyes, still mobile, blazed with impotent fury.
Petunia was next. Then Dudley, who'd been wailing throughout.
Suddenly, the house was blessedly quiet.
"Was that too much?" Arcturus asked Dorea mildly.
"Not nearly enough," she replied, still holding Harry. "But it's a start. Kreth?"
"Yes, Madam Dorea?"
"Take our three... guests to Blackmoor's dungeons. The nice ones. With the damp walls and the rats."
"We have dungeons with rats?" Harry asked, his voice small but curious.
"Oh yes," Dorea said. "Very old family. Very old dungeons. We don't use them often, but occasionally, they serve a purpose."
"Kreth is honored to transport the prisoners," the house elf said. His smile was all teeth—too many teeth, showing too much. He moved to Vernon first, placed one long-fingered hand on the bound man's leg.
Vernon's eyes went wider than Harry had ever seen them.
"Madam Dorea is too kind," Kreth said pleasantly. "The nice dungeons. Kreth would have suggested the *other* ones. The ones where the previous Lord Black kept his enemies during the Giant Wars."
"We don't want to traumatize Harry further," Melania said practically. "Though I appreciate the enthusiasm, Kreth."
"As Madam Melania says." Kreth nodded. Then he and Vernon vanished with a soft *pop*.
Harry jerked in surprise. "Where did they go?"
"The Black Family home," Charlus explained. "Kreth is a house elf. He can travel instantly, taking people with him. It's called apparition."
"That's... that's the magic thing I can do sometimes," Harry said slowly. "When I'm scared, or angry, I sometimes end up in different places. Once I ended up on the school roof because Dudley's gang was chasing me."
"That's exactly right," Dorea said warmly. "You can do magic, Harry. Wonderful, powerful magic. Just like your father could. Just like we can."
Kreth reappeared, grabbed Petunia, and vanished again.
"The Dursleys said magic isn't real," Harry whispered. "They said I was just a freak who did freakish things."
"The Dursleys," Arcturus said as Kreth returned for Dudley, "are liars and abusers who will be very lucky if I don't hex their bits off and feed them to the hippogriffs. Magic is very real. *You* are very real. And you, young man, are going to grow up to be an extraordinarily powerful wizard."
"Really?"
"Really," Charlus confirmed. "Your father was one of the most talented wizards of his generation. Your mother was brilliant—absolutely brilliant, according to everyone who knew her. And you're their son. You're going to be spectacular."
Kreth vanished with Dudley, and suddenly the house was empty except for the five of them.
"Right," Melania said briskly. "Harry, I know you've been through a lot today, but I'm a Healer. That means I help people who are hurt. May I check you over? Make sure you're not seriously injured?"
Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Dorea reluctantly set him down—though she kept one hand on his shoulder, as if afraid he might disappear.
Melania's wand moved through a series of diagnostic charms, her face growing progressively grimmer as each spell revealed new horrors.
"Malnutrition," she said quietly. "Severe. He's severely underweight for his age. Multiple healed fractures—at least three ribs, his left wrist, two fingers. Current bruising consistent with grabbing and striking." Her voice went very flat. "Evidence of prolonged psychological abuse. Depression markers. Anxiety markers."
"How bad?" Dorea asked, her voice shaking.
"Bad enough that I want him at St. Mungo's for a full work-up," Melania said. "But that would require explaining to the Ministry why we have him. Which, given Dumbledore's current legal custody..." She trailed off meaningfully.
"So we treat him ourselves," Arcturus said. "You're one of the best Healers in Britain, Melania. Dorea is no slouch either. Between the two of you—"
"We can handle the physical," Melania agreed. "The psychological..." She looked at Harry, who was watching them with those too-old eyes. "That will take time."
"We have time now," Charlus said firmly. "All the time Harry needs."
"Arcturus," Dorea said, "Dumbledore will know. The wards will have informed him the moment we breached them. He'll be coming. Probably with Aurors."
"Let him come," Arcturus said coldly. "We have Harry. We have evidence of abuse. We have every legal right to remove a child from a dangerous situation."
"And we have the Dursleys as witnesses to their own crimes," Melania added. "Once we have their statements—under Veritaserum, naturally—"
"Veritaserum?" Harry asked.
"Truth potion," Dorea explained. "Makes people tell the truth. Very useful in trials."
"Oh." Harry processed this. "So they'll have to tell everyone what they did to me?"
"Every last thing," Arcturus confirmed. "Every insult, every meal denied, every time they locked you in that cupboard. All of it."
For the first time since they'd arrived, Harry smiled. It was a small smile, fragile and uncertain, but genuine.
"Good," he said quietly.
"Quite," Arcturus agreed. Then he turned to Charlus. "I'll take the prisoners, get them secured, start the preliminary documentation. Melania and Dorea should take Harry back to the Manor, get him fed, cleaned up, properly examined. You'll stay here."
"I'll stay," Charlus confirmed. "Someone needs to explain to Dumbledore what happens when you hide children with abusive relatives. Someone needs to leave a message."
"A message?" Harry asked.
Charlus's smile was terrible and beautiful. "During the war, I had a calling card. A symbol I left behind when I'd completed a mission. It became... rather famous. Rather feared. I think it's time to remind certain people that the Black Dragon Legion isn't as dead as they'd like to believe."
"Do be dramatic about it," Arcturus said dryly. "You've been asleep for nine years. You're due for some theatrical gestures."
"I'll do my best."
Dorea was already moving, scooping Harry back into her arms. He went willingly, wrapping his arms around her neck.
"I'm hungry," he admitted quietly. "I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
The fury that crossed Dorea's face could have melted stone.
"Melania," she said, her voice deadly calm. "We're leaving. Now. Harry needs food, medical attention, and a proper bed. In that order."
"Agreed." Melania moved to Dorea's side, placed a hand on her shoulder. "Harry, apparition—the traveling magic—can feel strange the first time. It's like being squeezed through a tube. It's uncomfortable but safe. Alright?"
"Alright," Harry said. He tightened his grip on Dorea. "As long as I'm with Grandmother."
Dorea's eyes filled with tears again. "Always," she promised. "From now on, always."
And with a sharp *crack*, they were gone.
Arcturus followed a moment later.
Leaving Charlus alone in Number Four, Privet Drive, with its pristine carpets and awful wallpaper and the cupboard under the stairs.
He stood in the silence for a long moment, looking at that cupboard. At the lock on the outside. At the sign: HARRY'S ROOM.
Then he turned, walked to the living room, and raised his wand.
The magic that poured from him wasn't subtle. It was vast, ancient, the accumulated power of the Potter family magic combined with fifty years of combat experience and righteous fury.
He carved into the wall—not painted, *carved*, the stone itself reforming under his will—the symbol that had become legendary during the Grindelwald wars.
A dragon. A Hebridean Black, specifically—the most dangerous dragon in Britain. Wings spread wide, mouth open in a roar, flames curling from its jaws. But unlike most dragon imagery, this one had a distinctive twist: it wore a crown. And beneath its clawed feet, it crushed a serpent.
Around the dragon, in letters that seemed to burn even though they were made of stone:
*DRACO DORMIENS NUNQUAM TITILLANDUS*
Never tickle a sleeping dragon.
The Hogwarts school;; upp! Ppp0motto. Though Charlus had always interpreted it more as: "Don't wake the dragon, because when it wakes, it will burn your world to ash."
Beneath that, he carved one more line:
*THE BLACK DRAGON LEGION REMEMBERS*
He stepped back, admiring his work. The carving took up the entire wall, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
By the time Dumbledore arrived, Charlus was sitting in Vernon Dursley's favorite chair, his wand resting across his knees, waiting.
The old wizard appeared at the destroyed doorway with a soft *pop*, his half-moon spectacles already trained on the carnage. He was flanked by two Aurors—Dawlish and Savage, if Charlus remembered correctly. Both had their wands drawn.
"Charlus," Dumbledore said, and his voice carried surprise and concern in equal measure. "My dear boy, I heard you'd awakened. I'd hoped to visit once you'd recovered, but—" His eyes fell on the wall carving. On the dragon. On the message.
He went very still.
"But you were rather busy," Charlus finished coldly. "Busy hiding my grandson with abusive Muggles. Busy creating blood wards so powerful even the Black family couldn't find him. Busy ensuring that James's son grew up in a cupboard, starved and beaten, while you sat in your tower and played chess with other people's lives."
"Charlus, I can explain—"
"Can you?" Charlus stood slowly. Despite nine years in a coma, despite his weakened state, he radiated danger. "Can you explain why my grandson—my five-year-old grandson—has healed fractures in his ribs? Can you explain why he's severely malnourished? Can you explain why he was sleeping in a *cupboard* while his cousin had two bedrooms?"
"The blood wards—"
"The blood wards," Charlus interrupted, his voice like cracking ice, "protected him from Death Eaters. They did nothing to protect him from his so-called family. You placed him with people who hate magic. Who hate *him*. And you knew. You had to know."
"I had Mrs. Figg watching—"
"A squib who lived four doors down?" Charlus's laugh was bitter. "What did she see? Harry playing in the garden? Harry at school? Did she see inside the cupboard, Dumbledore? Did she see the bruises? Or did you simply not care because the boy was *protected* from external threats, and internal abuse was an acceptable price?"
"It was necessary," Dumbledore said, and for the first time, his voice carried steel. "The blood wards, keyed to Lily's sacrifice—"
"Could have been anchored at Black Manor," Charlus interrupted. "Petunia could have visited regularly, maintaining the blood connection, while Harry lived with a family who would actually love him. But that would have required you to relinquish control, wouldn't it? Required you to let the Black family raise him. Can't have that. Can't have the boy growing up with Dark family magic and Legion training. Much better he grow up broken and grateful, easy to manipulate—"
"That is enough!" Dumbledore's voice cracked like thunder. "I did what was necessary to protect Harry. The Dursleys were the only option—"
"We were an option," Charlus said flatly. "Arcturus Black was an option. We had family willing and able to care for him. But we were sleeping. How *convenient* that we were sleeping. Tell me, Dumbledore—did you try to wake us? Did you bring in curse-breakers, potions masters, the best minds in Britain to break Voldemort's curse? Or did our continued coma serve your purposes too well?"
The silence that fell was deafening.
"You can't prove that," Dumbledore said quietly.
"No," Charlus agreed. "I can't. But I can prove the abuse. I can prove the neglect. I can prove that you, as Harry's magical guardian, failed in your duty to ensure his safety and wellbeing. And when that becomes public—and it will become public, Albus, I will make *certain* it becomes public—your reputation will burn."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise." Charlus's smile was all teeth. "The Black Dragon Legion is awake, Dumbledore. And we remember. We remember every tactic you used during the Grindelwald wars. Every political maneuver. Every sacrifice you deemed acceptable. You were brilliant then. Perhaps too brilliant. You learned that sometimes, the ends justify the means. That sometimes, people must suffer for the greater good."
"I did what was—"
"You let a child suffer," Charlus interrupted. "You let my grandson—my James's son—suffer for years in a house with people who hated him. And you expect me to accept that? To forgive that?"
He raised his wand, and both Aurors tensed.
"Relax," Charlus said coldly. "I'm not going to curse him. Tempting as it is." He gestured to the wall carving. "I've left a message. I suggest you read it carefully. Particularly the motto. *Never tickle a sleeping dragon.*"
"Where is Harry?" Dumbledore demanded.
"Safe."
"Charlus, he needs the blood wards—"
"He needs a family who loves him," Charlus corrected. "He needs food, and safety, and to be told he's not a freak. He needs his grandmother and grandfather. His great-uncle. A house elf who would die for him. He needs everything you failed to give him."
"The law—"
"The law says a magical guardian can be challenged when evidence of neglect or abuse exists," Charlus said. "I'm challenging your guardianship, Albus. Formally. Publicly. I'm calling for a full Wizengamot hearing. I'm bringing charges of child endangerment, neglect, and abuse by proxy. And I'm going to make sure everyone knows what you did. What you *allowed*."
"You're making a mistake," Dumbledore said softly. "Harry needs the blood wards. Voldemort's followers—"
"Are in Azkaban or dead," Charlus finished. "The war is over, Albus. You won. But somewhere along the way, you forgot that victory has a cost. And you made a child pay it."
He moved toward the destroyed doorway, then paused.
"One more thing. Sirius Black. I want a trial. A real trial. With evidence and testimony and Veritaserum."
"Sirius betrayed James—"
"Did he?" Charlus's voice was dangerously soft. "How do you know? Was there a trial? Evidence? Or did Crouch throw him in Azkaban the same day, and you simply accepted it because it was convenient?"
"The evidence was clear—"
"The evidence was circumstantial," Charlus corrected. "Peter Pettigrew is dead—supposedly. His body was never recovered. Just a finger. One finger, in a street full of body parts and rubble. Very convenient. Very neat. Almost too neat, one might say."
"You think Pettigrew is alive?" Dumbledore's eyebrows rose.
"I think there was no trial," Charlus said. "I think a young man who'd just lost his best friend was thrown in prison without due process. And I think you allowed it because..." He paused. "Actually, I'm not sure why you allowed it. But I intend to find out."
"Charlus, I understand you're angry—"
"I'm not angry," Charlus said softly. And it was true. His voice was calm, controlled, deadly. "Anger is hot. Anger burns out. What I am, Albus, is *resolute*. I will get Harry. I will get Sirius a trial. And I will make sure that everyone knows what happened in this house. Everyone will know that the great Albus Dumbledore sacrificed a child's wellbeing for his grand schemes. Everyone will know that the man who defeated Grindelwald couldn't be bothered to check on a five-year-old boy."
He stepped through the doorway, then looked back one last time.
"You should have let the dragon sleep, Albus. Now you're going to burn."
And with a sharp *crack*, he was gone.
Dumbledore stood in the ruins of the Dursley home, staring at the massive dragon carved into the wall. At the burning eyes. At the serpent crushed beneath its claws.
At the message: THE BLACK DRAGON LEGION REMEMBERS.
"Sir?" Dawlish ventured carefully. "Should we pursue?"
"No," Dumbledore said quietly. "Let them go. For now."
But his mind was racing. The Potters were awake. The Blacks were mobilized. And they had Harry.
This was going to be... complicated.
Behind him, Savage was examining the cupboard under the stairs. The healer had arrived and was taking photographs, documenting evidence.
"Sir," Savage called. "You need to see this."
Dumbledore moved to look, though he already suspected what he would find.
The cupboard. The lock on the outside. The sign: HARRY'S ROOM.
The thin blanket. The broken toys. The evidence of years of a child living in a space meant for brooms and coats.
"Oh, Harry," Dumbledore whispered. "What have I done?"
But the house didn't answer. It never did.
And miles away, in Black Manor, Harry Potter was eating his first proper meal in five years, surrounded by family who loved him.
The dragon had awakened.
And it would not sleep again until justice was done.
---
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