**Black Manor - The Healing Wing**
The room Melania had prepared for Harry was nothing like the cupboard.
It was enormous—at least by Harry's standards—with high ceilings painted a soft blue that reminded him of sky. There were windows. *Real windows*, with actual glass and curtains that moved in the breeze. A proper bed stood against one wall, piled high with pillows and blankets that looked softer than anything Harry had ever touched.
But he barely noticed any of it.
He was too busy eating.
The house elves—and there were *seven* of them, Harry had counted—had produced a feast. Not the elaborate multi-course affairs the Dursleys served when Uncle Vernon's boss came to dinner, but simple, perfect food: chicken soup with actual chunks of chicken, fresh bread with real butter, apple slices, a glass of milk so cold it made his teeth hurt.
Harry ate like he was afraid it might disappear. Like someone might snatch the bowl away at any moment and tell him he'd been bad, that freaks didn't deserve dinner.
"Slowly, sweetheart," Dorea said gently, sitting beside him. She hadn't left his side since they'd arrived, as if afraid he might vanish like smoke. "The food isn't going anywhere. You can eat as much as you want."
"Really?" Harry looked up at her, soup dripping from his spoon. "I won't get in trouble?"
"Never," Dorea promised, and her voice carried such absolute conviction that something in Harry's chest loosened slightly. "You can eat whenever you're hungry. As much as you want. That's what family does—we make sure everyone is fed and safe."
"The Dursleys said I cost too much," Harry said quietly. "That feeding me was expensive. That I should be grateful for every scrap."
Across the room, Melania's quill scratched furiously across parchment, documenting everything. *Statements indicating food deprivation. Used as punishment and control mechanism.*
"The Dursleys," Dorea said carefully, "were wrong about many things. You don't cost too much. You're not expensive. You're *priceless*, Harry. You're our grandson. Our family. And family takes care of each other."
Harry took another spoonful of soup, processing this. "Dudley got to eat whatever he wanted. Sometimes Aunt Petunia made him five different things for breakfast because he couldn't decide."
More scratching of quill on parchment. *Differential treatment between victim and cousin. Clear favoritism and discriminatory practices.*
"That won't happen here," Dorea said firmly. "You'll be treated the same as any child we care for. Actually, you'll probably be spoiled terribly, because Arcturus has approximately zero self-control when it comes to buying presents for children, and you're his first great-nephew."
"I've never had presents," Harry admitted. "Except once, Dudley broke his toy robot and Aunt Petunia gave it to me. But it didn't work anymore."
Dorea's hands clenched in her lap. When she spoke, her voice was steady, but Melania recognized the tone—it was the voice Dorea used when she was contemplating murder and trying very hard not to.
"Well," Dorea said, "we'll have to remedy that, won't we? What kinds of things do you like, Harry? Toys? Books? Games?"
Harry looked confused. "I don't know. I wasn't allowed to play with Dudley's toys. And the books at school are boring—all about maths and spelling. I'm not very good at reading anyway."
"That's because no one taught you properly," Melania interjected, her healer's voice brisk but kind. "Nothing wrong with your mind, Harry. You've just been... educationally neglected. We'll fix that."
*Educational neglect noted. Child is five years old and reports difficulty with basic literacy. Probable lack of early childhood education and stimulation.*
One of the house elves—an elderly female named Mipsy, with a tea cozy fashioned into a dress—appeared at Harry's elbow with a small plate. "Young Master Harry," she said, her voice soft and reverent, "Mipsy has made treacle tart. Master James's favorite. Perhaps Young Master Harry would like to try?"
Harry stared at the golden pastry like it might bite him. "That was my dad's favorite?"
"Master James loved treacle tart," Mipsy confirmed, and her enormous eyes glistened with tears. "Used to sneak into the kitchens at night, he did, and beg Mipsy for extra slices. Said it was better than anything at Hogwarts."
"What's Hogwarts?"
"The school for young witches and wizards," Dorea explained. "Where your father learned magic. Where you'll go, when you're eleven."
"I get to learn magic?" Harry's eyes went wide. "Really? They'll teach me how to make things happen on purpose?"
"They will," Dorea confirmed. "You'll learn spells and potions and all manner of wonderful things. You'll make friends. You'll have adventures. You'll be brilliant at it, I'm certain."
"The Dursleys said I'd go to St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys," Harry said, and he said it so matter-of-factly, like he'd simply accepted this as truth. "Uncle Vernon said it was where freaks like me belonged."
Melania's quill actually *snapped*. She repaired it with a flick of her wand and a muttered curse.
*Threats of institutionalization used as psychological control. Victim believed he would be sent to a facility for criminal youth. Age five.*
"St. Brutus's doesn't exist," Dorea said firmly. "Your uncle made it up to frighten you. You're not criminal. You're not incurably anything. You're a perfectly normal wizard child who happened to grow up around horrible people."
"I made glass disappear once," Harry admitted quietly. "At the zoo. Dudley was being mean and I got angry and the glass just... vanished. Dudley fell into the snake tank. He was really mad."
"That's called accidental magic," Melania explained, moving closer with her diagnostic wand. "All young wizards do it when they're emotional. It's completely normal. Harry, I'm going to run some more spells now, alright? They won't hurt. They're just to check that everything is working properly inside you."
"Like a doctor?"
"Exactly like a doctor. I'm a Healer—that's what we call doctors in the magical world."
Harry nodded and held still while Melania's wand traced patterns in the air above him. Ribbons of silver light flowed from the wand tip, wrapping around Harry before sinking into his skin.
Melania's face grew progressively grimmer with each spell.
"Dorea," she said quietly, "I need you to see this."
Dorea moved to stand beside her, reading the diagnostic results that hung in the air like ghostly parchment.
The list was extensive:
*Chronic malnutrition - approximately three years duration*
*Healed fractures - three ribs (right side), left radius, left ulna, right index finger, right middle finger. Age of injuries: 6-18 months*
*Current bruising - consistent with forceful grabbing and striking. Age: 24-72 hours*
*Vitamin D deficiency - severe. Consistent with inadequate sunlight exposure*
*Iron deficiency anemia*
*Delayed growth - height and weight approximately 15th percentile for age when should be 50th based on genetic markers*
*Dental decay - multiple cavities, probable lack of proper dental care*
*Vision impairment - myopia, approximately -3.00 diopters. Current corrective lenses inadequate and damaged*
*Psychological markers:*
- *Chronic anxiety*
- *Depression indicators*
- *Hypervigilance*
- *Flinch response to sudden movements*
- *Classic signs of long-term abuse*
Dorea read it twice. Then very carefully, very precisely, she said: "Melania, I need you to do something for me."
"What?"
"I need you to take over Harry's care for approximately ten minutes while I go downstairs and commit a murder."
"Dorea—"
"I'm going to kill them," Dorea continued, her voice eerily calm. "I'm going to go down to those dungeons, and I'm going to kill all three of them. Slowly. Creatively. In ways that will make the Bloody Baron look merciful."
"Grandmother?" Harry's small voice cut through the fury. "Are you angry at me?"
Dorea spun around, and the rage on her face transformed instantly into something gentle and heartbroken. She knelt in front of Harry, taking his small hands in hers.
"Oh sweetheart, no. Never at you. I'm angry at the Dursleys. At what they did to you. You did nothing wrong, Harry. Nothing. Do you understand? None of this—" she gestured at the diagnostic results, "—none of this is your fault."
"But I'm a freak," Harry said simply. "Aunt Petunia said so. Uncle Vernon said so. Everyone at school thinks so too. I make weird things happen. I'm not normal."
"You're not a freak," Dorea said fiercely. "You're magical. You're *extraordinary*. And anyone who told you otherwise was lying because they were jealous, or frightened, or just plain cruel."
"Young Master Harry," Kreth appeared beside them, his voice soft but firm, "is the most normal wizard child Kreth has ever seen. Young Master Harry does accidental magic, just like Master James did. Just like all young wizards do. The Muggles who told Young Master Harry he was strange? They were wrong. They were *lying*."
Harry looked between them—his grandmother with her fierce eyes and elegant features, the strange elf creature with his bat-like ears and absolute conviction, the silver-haired healer with her gentle competence.
"You really think I'm normal?"
"I think you're wonderful," Dorea said. "I think you're brave and kind and so much stronger than any five-year-old should have to be. I think you survived something terrible and came out the other side still able to trust us, still able to hope. That's not normal, Harry. That's *extraordinary*."
"Oh." Harry processed this. Then, very quietly: "Can I have another hug?"
"Always," Dorea said, pulling him close. "Always, always, always."
Over Harry's head, she met Melania's eyes. The message was clear: *Document everything. Every injury. Every cruelty. When this goes to trial, I want the Dursleys buried so deep they'll never see daylight again.*
Melania nodded and returned to her parchment.
"Harry," she said gently, "I'm going to need to ask you some questions. Some of them might be uncomfortable. But they're important. They'll help us make sure the Dursleys can never hurt you again. Is that alright?"
Harry nodded against Dorea's shoulder.
"Can you tell me about the cupboard? How long did you sleep there?"
"Always," Harry said. "Since I came to live with them, I think. I don't remember before."
"Did they ever let you out?"
"For chores. And school. And sometimes if Uncle Vernon's boss was visiting, they'd pretend I didn't exist and I had to stay really quiet."
*Isolation used as control mechanism. Child hidden during social visits. Forced to perform household labor.*
"What kind of chores?"
"Cooking. Cleaning. Gardening. Aunt Petunia taught me how to cook breakfast when I was four because she said she was tired of doing it herself."
"You cooked breakfast at four years old?" Melania kept her voice carefully neutral. "Using the stove?"
"I had to stand on a chair," Harry said. "I burned myself a few times at first, but I got better. Aunt Petunia said if I burned the bacon again she'd make me eat it off the pan while it was still hot."
Dorea made a sound like a wounded animal.
*Forced child labor. Exposure to dangerous equipment (hot stove, sharp knives). Threats of physical harm as punishment for mistakes. Age four to five.*
"Did she ever... do that? Make you eat it hot?"
"Once," Harry said simply. "It really hurt. I didn't burn the bacon after that."
*Deliberate infliction of pain as punishment. Probable burns to mouth and/or hands. Child learned to avoid punishment through perfect task execution at developmentally inappropriate age.*
"Harry," Melania said gently, "did they ever hit you?"
Harry went very still against Dorea's shoulder.
"It's alright," Dorea murmured. "You're safe now. They can't hurt you anymore. But we need to know what happened so we can make sure they're punished properly."
"Uncle Vernon hit me sometimes," Harry admitted. "When I did freaky things. Or when Dudley said I'd done something even if I hadn't. Or when he was angry about work."
"How did he hit you?"
"With his hand, mostly. On my head or my arm or my back. Sometimes he'd grab me really hard and shake me. Once he threw me against the wall and I couldn't breathe right for a while."
*Physical abuse - striking, shaking, throwing. Probable cause of rib fractures.*
"Did Aunt Petunia hit you?"
"Not as much. She liked to grab my ear and twist it. Or pull my hair. She had a wooden spoon she'd hit my hands with if I didn't do chores fast enough."
*Additional physical abuse from maternal figure. Use of implements as weapons.*
"And Dudley?"
Harry was quiet for a long moment. "Dudley liked to play Harry Hunting. With his gang. They'd chase me and if they caught me... they'd hit me. A lot. That's why I ended up on the school roof that time. I was running and I just wanted to get away and suddenly I was on the roof."
"How often did this happen?"
"A lot. At school. On the way home. Sometimes in the neighborhood." Harry's voice got smaller. "I got really good at hiding. And running. I'm the fastest in my class now because I had to be."
*Systematic abuse by cousin and peer group. Victim developed survival skills (hiding, running, accidental magic use) to avoid violence.*
Melania's quill was moving so fast it was almost smoking. Beside her, Dorea had gone very, very still—the kind of stillness that preceded volcanic eruptions.
"One more question, sweetheart," Melania said. "Did they ever... touch you? In ways that made you uncomfortable? In private places?"
Harry looked confused. "Like when Aunt Petunia would yank my clothes off to check if I'd been playing in mud? She said I wasn't allowed to get dirty."
"Yes, like that. Or... anywhere else?"
"No," Harry said, and Melania felt a surge of relief. "They didn't like touching me. Uncle Vernon said I was diseased. He made me wash my hands a lot so I wouldn't contaminate their things."
*Emotional abuse - told he was diseased. Forced excessive handwashing. Treated as contaminated/unclean.*
"Alright," Melania said gently. "Thank you for telling me all that, Harry. You were very brave."
"Am I in trouble?"
"No, sweetheart," Dorea said, her voice rough. "You're not in trouble. You'll never be in trouble for telling the truth. The Dursleys are in trouble. Very, very serious trouble."
"Good," Harry said simply. Then: "Grandmother?"
"Yes?"
"Can I really stay here? Forever? They won't make me go back?"
"Never," Dorea promised. "I swear on my magic, Harry. You're home now. This is where you belong. With family who loves you."
Harry was quiet for a moment, processing this impossible concept: *family who loves you*.
Then he asked the question that had been haunting him since they'd first appeared: "Why didn't you come sooner?"
The pain in Dorea's eyes was physical. "We were hurt, sweetheart. The same bad man who killed your parents—he hurt us very badly. We were asleep for nine years. We couldn't wake up, no matter how hard we tried. But the very moment we did wake up—the *very moment*—we came to find you."
"Nine years," Harry repeated slowly. "So you didn't... you didn't leave me on purpose?"
"Never," Charlus's voice came from the doorway. He'd returned from Privet Drive, and his face was grim. But when he looked at Harry, his expression softened. "We would have moved heaven and earth to reach you, Harry. We would have torn down walls and broken curses and fought armies. But we were trapped. We're so sorry. So terribly sorry."
Harry studied his grandfather—tall and silver-haired and somehow both gentle and dangerous at once. "It's not your fault," he said finally. "You were hurt too."
The simple absolution nearly broke Charlus.
"Come here," he said softly, moving to sit beside Dorea. He opened his arms. "May I have a hug too? I've waited five years to meet my grandson. I'm feeling rather deprived."
Harry hesitated, then carefully climbed from Dorea's lap to Charlus's. The old warrior wrapped his arms around the small boy, feeling how thin he was, how fragile, how breakable.
How utterly precious.
"I've got you now," Charlus murmured against Harry's messy hair. "Both of us do. You're safe. You're loved. And I promise you, on my life and magic, that we will never let anyone hurt you again."
Harry didn't cry. He'd cried too much already today. But he buried his face in his grandfather's shoulder and held on tight, like he was afraid this might all be a dream.
"Grandfather?"
"Yes?"
"What happened to my parents? The Dursleys said they died in a car crash because they were drunk. But... that's not true, is it?"
Charlus and Dorea exchanged looks over Harry's head.
"No," Charlus said carefully. "That's not true. Your parents were heroes, Harry. There was a war—a terrible war against a very evil wizard. Your parents fought against him. And when he came to your house, when he tried to hurt you, they died protecting you."
"They died for me?"
"They loved you that much," Dorea said softly. "Your mother especially. She did something so brave, so powerful, that it saved your life. She used the oldest magic that exists—the magic of love—to protect you. That's why you're alive when the evil wizard is gone."
Harry was quiet for a long time, processing this.
"I wish I could remember them," he said finally.
"We'll tell you about them," Charlus promised. "Every story we know. What they were like. How they fell in love. How happy they were when you were born. We have photographs too. And your father's old school things. His Hogwarts trunk. His broom."
"His broom?"
"For flying," Dorea explained. "Wizards can fly on broomsticks. Your father was brilliant at it. Best Seeker Hogwarts had seen in decades."
"I can learn to fly?"
"When you're older," Charlus said. "But yes. You'll learn everything your father learned, and more. You're a Potter, Harry. A very long line of powerful wizards. And you're going to be extraordinary."
"But right now," Melania interjected firmly, "Young Master Potter needs sleep. He's been through an enormous trauma today, and his body needs rest to heal."
As if on cue, Harry yawned—a jaw-cracking yawn that made his eyes water.
"But I'm not tired," he protested, even as his eyes started to droop.
"Of course not," Dorea said with a smile. "Nevertheless, let's get you into bed. Just for a little rest. We'll be right here. We're not leaving."
"Promise?"
"I promise," both grandparents said in unison.
Kreth had already prepared the bed—the sheets turned down, the pillows fluffed, a glass of water on the nightstand. Harry stared at it like it was something from a fairy tale.
"This is for me?" His voice was small. "The whole bed?"
"The whole bed," Charlus confirmed. "And the whole room. It's yours, Harry. No one will take it away."
"I've never had my own room before."
The simple statement hit like a physical blow.
"Well, you do now," Dorea said, helping him under the covers. "And tomorrow, we'll decorate it however you like. Any colors, any pictures. Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"Anything," she confirmed.
Harry settled into the pillows—proper pillows, so soft and clean—and looked up at his grandparents with those green eyes that were so like his mother's.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For finding me. For... for wanting me."
"Oh sweetheart," Dorea's voice cracked. "We will always want you. Always."
She bent down and kissed his forehead—the first gentle, loving touch Harry could remember in five years.
"Sleep now," she murmured. "We'll be here when you wake up."
"Really here? Not a dream?"
"Really here," Charlus promised. "If you wake up and we're not in sight, just call out. One of us will come immediately."
Harry's eyes were already closing, exhaustion finally winning over adrenaline and fear.
"Love you," he mumbled, half-asleep already. "Don't leave."
"We won't," Dorea promised, her eyes wet with tears. "Never again."
Within minutes, Harry was asleep—truly asleep, not the vigilant half-sleep of a child expecting violence at any moment.
Dorea and Charlus stood beside the bed, watching him breathe.
"Five years old," Charlus said quietly. "Five years old and he's already learned to expect the worst from everyone."
"We'll teach him differently," Dorea said fiercely. "We'll show him what love looks like. What family means. We'll..." Her voice broke. "We'll give him everything James would have wanted him to have."
"Starting with those three in the dungeons," Charlus said, his voice hardening. "Melania, how bad is it? Honestly?"
Melania looked down at her notes—pages and pages of documented abuse.
"If this were a Muggle case," she said slowly, "they'd be facing prison. Actual prison, not just fines or probation. What they did to him... it's systematic, long-term abuse. Physical, emotional, and educational neglect. If they'd continued another few years..." She swallowed hard. "The psychological damage might have been irreparable."
"But we got him in time?" Dorea asked urgently.
"We got him in time," Melania confirmed. "He's resilient. Children are remarkably resilient. With proper care, proper love, proper healing—both magical and mundane—he'll recover. But it will take time. He'll have nightmares. Trust issues. He'll need patience and consistency and above all, he'll need to know he's safe."
"He'll have all of that," Charlus said firmly. "Whatever he needs."
"Good." Melania organized her notes with sharp, precise movements. "Because I'm going to use every word of this testimony at trial. I'm going to describe every injury, every cruelty, every moment of neglect. And when I'm done, the Wizengamot will want blood."
"As will I," said a cold voice from the doorway.
Arcturus Black stood in the entrance to Harry's room, and his face was a mask of aristocratic fury.
"I've just finished questioning the Dursleys," he said quietly, keeping his voice down for Harry's benefit. "Under Veritaserum. All three of them. I have their full confessions, magically recorded. Every detail. Every justification. Every moment they knew exactly what they were doing and chose to do it anyway."
"Tell me," Dorea said.
"Not here," Arcturus said, glancing at Harry. "Downstairs. In the study. You don't want to hear this while standing over his sleeping body."
But Dorea didn't move. "Tell me the worst of it. I need to know."
Arcturus sighed. "Vernon Dursley blames Harry for his sister's death. Blames magic. Thinks beating it out of the boy was protecting him. Petunia..." His jaw clenched. "Petunia hated Lily. Spent her whole life jealous that her sister was special and she wasn't. Took it out on Lily's son. Systematically. Deliberately. With full knowledge that she was causing harm."
"And Dudley?"
"Learned from his parents. Thought Harry was a punching bag. Didn't question it because no one told him not to."
"Did any of them," Charlus said, his voice deadly soft, "show remorse?"
"Vernon claimed he was doing his duty. Petunia said Lily would have understood because she knew magic was dangerous. Dudley..." Arcturus paused. "Dudley is eleven years old and genuinely didn't seem to understand he'd done anything wrong. He's been raised to believe Harry is less than human."
"I want custody," Dorea said immediately. "Full custody. I want guardianship transferred from Dumbledore to us immediately."
"That," Arcturus said, "is exactly what we need to discuss. Downstairs. Strategy meeting. The Legion is gathering."
"Give us a moment," Charlus said, looking back at Harry. "We promised him we'd be here when he woke up."
"Kreth will stay," the house elf said, appearing beside the bed. "Kreth will guard Young Master Harry. If he wakes, Kreth will call for Madam Dorea immediately."
"Thank you, Kreth," Dorea said softly. She bent once more to kiss Harry's forehead, then followed Arcturus from the room.
Charlus lingered a moment longer, looking at his grandson—small and fragile in the enormous bed, but alive. Safe. Home.
"I failed you once," he whispered. "I won't fail you again. I swear it."
Then he followed his wife downstairs, where the Black Dragon Legion was waiting to plan its next move.
The war wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
---
**Black Manor - The War Room**
The study Arcturus led them to had been built during the last goblin rebellion, reinforced with enough protective wards to withstand a siege. The walls were lined with books—centuries of Black family knowledge, grimoires and histories and spell-work that would make the Ministry's Unspeakables weep with envy.
But tonight, it served a different purpose.
Tonight, it was a war room.
The long table in the center was already occupied. Alastor Moody sat at the far end, his magical eye whirring in its socket, scanning the room constantly for threats. His face was less scarred than it would become—this was before Moody's legendary paranoia had fully taken root—but there was already a hardness to him, a wariness born of too many battles.
Beside him sat Benjy Fenwick, elegant even in traveling robes, his sharp features set in concentration as he reviewed parchment after parchment of notes. Benjy had always been the Legion's intelligence officer, the one who could find information where others saw only dead ends.
Three others occupied seats around the table—Legion members Charlus barely recognized after nine years. Kingsley Shacklebolt, still young but already showing the composure that would make him a legendary Auror. Emmeline Vance, grey-haired and fierce, one of the few who'd fought in both the Grindelwald wars and against Voldemort. And surprisingly, Mundungus Fletcher, looking deeply uncomfortable in such august company, his fingers already twitching toward his pockets.
"Dung?" Charlus raised an eyebrow. "When did you rejoin the Legion?"
"Never left, did I?" Fletcher said defensively. "Just kept a low profile. Someone had to keep eyes on the criminal element, make sure no one was building another Dark Lord from spare parts."
"He's been useful," Moody grunted. "Knows every fence, every Dark artifact dealer, every dodgy character from here to Albania. If something nasty's moving through Britain's underbelly, Dung knows about it."
"Flattery, Mad-Eye? Never thought I'd see the day." Fletcher's grin was gap-toothed but genuine.
"Shut up and drink your tea," Moody growled, but there was affection underneath.
Arcturus took his seat at the head of the table, Dorea and Charlus flanking him. Melania moved to stand near the fireplace, her healer's bag still in hand.
"Right," Arcturus said. "Let's begin. For those who haven't been briefed yet—Charlus and Dorea awoke this morning after nine years in a magical coma. We immediately located their grandson, Harry Potter, who was being hidden by Dumbledore with his mother's Muggle relatives. Said relatives had been systematically abusing him for approximately five years."
"How bad?" Emmeline asked bluntly.
"Bad enough that I want them dead," Dorea said flatly. "Melania?"
The healer stepped forward, distributing copies of her medical report. The silence as they read was profound.
"Bloody hell," Kingsley breathed. "He's five years old."
"Was sleeping in a cupboard," Benjy added, his voice tight. "Multiple healed fractures. Malnutrition." He looked up, and his eyes were cold. "Dumbledore placed him there. Dumbledore is his legal magical guardian. How did he not know?"
"That," Charlus said, "is an excellent question. One we'll be asking publicly at trial."
"You're challenging the guardianship?" Moody's magical eye fixed on Charlus, whirring thoughtfully. "Bold. Dumbledore has the entire Wizengamot in his pocket. Getting custody away from him will be like pulling teeth from a dragon."
"Then we pull teeth from a dragon," Dorea said coldly. "Harry is our grandson. We have every right to custody. And we have evidence—extensive evidence—that Dumbledore's placement was harmful and negligent."
"Devil's advocate," Benjy said carefully, "Dumbledore will argue the blood wards. That Harry needed to be with blood family for protection."
"Protection from what?" Charlus countered. "Voldemort is gone. His Death Eaters are dead or imprisoned. The war is over."
"Is it, though?" Moody leaned forward, his normal eye as intense as his magical one. "Voldemort's gone, aye. But I've never been convinced he's dead-dead. Bodies don't usually disappear when hit with a rebounded curse. They die. They fall down. They don't vanish into thin air."
The room went very quiet.
"You think he survived?" Arcturus asked carefully.
"I think," Moody said slowly, "that a wizard who'd done enough Dark magic to have red eyes and a face like a snake wasn't relying on just his body to keep living. I think he had contingencies. Insurance plans. And I think we're fools if we assume he's gone just because everyone wants to believe it."
"Horcruxes," Emmeline breathed. "You think he made Horcruxes."
"Don't know what he made," Moody said. "But something's off. I can feel it in my bones. We're celebrating victory, but..." He shook his head. "The war doesn't feel finished."
"Even if that's true," Dorea interjected, "the blood wards only work if Harry is living with blood family who love him. Petunia Dursley hates Harry. Hates magic. The wards might function technically, but they're not providing the protection they were designed for. A home built on hate isn't a home. It's a prison."
"That's our argument," Arcturus agreed. "Harry needs to be with family who love him, who can protect him through affection and training and proper magical education. Not abandoned with Muggles who see him as a burden."
"Dumbledore will fight this," Kingsley warned. "He doesn't like losing control. And he'll have support—people who see him as the hero who defeated Grindelwald, who ended the war with Voldemort."
"Then we remind them," Charlus said quietly, "that heroes can make mistakes. That power without oversight leads to tyranny. That good intentions don't excuse harm."
"We'll need leverage," Benjy said, already thinking strategically. "Evidence. Allies. Someone in the Ministry willing to actually push this forward instead of burying it under paperwork."
"Amelia Bones," Moody said immediately. "Head of the DMLE. Honest. Incorruptible. Hates child abuse with a passion—her own niece was nearly killed by Death Eaters. If anyone will take this seriously, it's her."
"Her father was Legion," Arcturus added thoughtfully. "Edgar Bones. Good man. Fought with us in '43. Her brother Edward was being groomed to take over his father's role before he was killed." His expression darkened. "Death Eaters got the whole family. Except Amelia and young Susan."
"Then we approach Amelia," Dorea decided. "Show her the evidence. Ask for her support. She has the authority to investigate child welfare cases, yes?"
"She does," Moody confirmed. "And she's got no love for Dumbledore—he keeps undermining her investigations, claiming he knows better. She'll be sympathetic."
"Right." Arcturus pulled out parchment, began making notes. "Dorea and Charlus will meet with Amelia Bones. Present the medical evidence, the Veritaserum confessions from the Dursleys, everything. Melania will provide expert testimony as needed."
"What about the custody timeline?" Melania asked practically. "Can we keep Harry while this is being resolved, or will they force him back to the Dursleys?"
"He's not going back there," Dorea said flatly. "Ever. I'll take him to the Continent before I let that happen. I'll disappear into the Black family properties in France or Switzerland or bloody Iceland if I have to."
"Won't come to that," Moody said gruffly. "We document everything properly, file emergency custody petitions based on immediate danger to the child. Law's on our side there. No judge—not even one in Dumbledore's pocket—will order a child returned to documented abusers while the case is pending. Not without looking like a monster."
"Unless Dumbledore argues the blood wards are more important than Harry's immediate safety," Kingsley pointed out grimly. "That returning him to the Dursleys, even with oversight, is necessary for his magical protection."
"Then we dismantle that argument," Charlus said. "Publicly. Loudly. We make it clear that no amount of magical protection justifies child abuse. That the wizarding world isn't so barbaric that we'd sacrifice a child's wellbeing for theoretical safety from a dead Dark Lord."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!