"Speaking of dead Dark Lords," Benjy interjected, "we should probably discuss the other matter. The one that's been festering for five years."
"Sirius," Arcturus said heavily.
"Sirius Black," Moody confirmed. "In Azkaban. No trial. No evidence except circumstantial. And convenient, that. Very convenient."
"You've always thought something was off about that night," Emmeline observed.
"Damn right I have." Moody's magical eye spun to fix on a point in the distance—probably toward Azkaban, wherever his paranoid mind had filed that location. "Peter Pettigrew supposedly died in a street explosion. Twelve Muggles killed. Witnesses said Sirius was laughing. Found nothing of Pettigrew except a finger. One bloody finger."
"And Sirius never denied it," Kingsley added. "That's what made everyone so certain. He just laughed. Went to Azkaban still laughing."
"Because he was in shock," Dorea said quietly. "Because he'd just found his best friend dead, his godson orphaned, and the person he trusted—Peter—had betrayed them all. Grief does strange things to people. Makes them break in unexpected ways."
"I visited him," Arcturus said, his voice heavy with old pain. "Once. Two years ago. Took every favor I had to get into Azkaban, even as a Black. He was..." He paused, searching for words. "He was barely coherent. The Dementors had taken so much. But in his lucid moments, he kept saying 'not me, not me, I wasn't the Secret Keeper.' Over and over."
"If he wasn't the Secret Keeper," Charlus said slowly, "then who was?"
"Peter Pettigrew," Moody said flatly. "Had to be. He was the only other person who knew the plan. James, Lily, Sirius, and Peter. That was the inner circle for the Fidelius Charm."
"But Peter's dead," Emmeline pointed out.
"Is he though?" Moody's grin was sharp and unpleasant. "Show me a body. Show me more than a finger. Show me proof that Peter Pettigrew died in that explosion and didn't just stage the most brilliant escape in recent history."
The silence that fell was thoughtful.
"You think he faked his death," Benjy said. "Killed those Muggles as cover, blew off his own finger to leave evidence, then escaped somehow."
"I think," Moody said carefully, "that Peter Pettigrew was always the weak link. Always the one trailing after the others, desperate for approval. The kind of person who'd sell his soul for acceptance. For power. For protection."
"Voldemort would have offered all three," Arcturus mused. "Acceptance into the Death Eaters. Power through Dark magic. Protection from the losing side of the war."
"Peter was a coward," Charlus said, and there was old anger in his voice. "James told me. Said Peter was brave when backed into a corner, but his first instinct was always to run. To hide. To find the strongest protection available and cling to it."
"What are you thinking, Moody?" Dorea asked.
The old Auror leaned back in his chair, his magical eye still whirring. "I'm thinking we need to find Peter Pettigrew. Or prove he's dead beyond doubt. Because if he's alive, if he's the one who betrayed the Potters, then Sirius is innocent. And we can get him out."
"How?" Kingsley asked practically. "Even if we prove Peter's alive, even if we prove he was the Secret Keeper, getting someone out of Azkaban without a trial requires—"
"A trial," Arcturus interrupted. "Which is exactly what we're going to demand. Formally. Publicly. A full Wizengamot trial with Veritaserum testimony."
"Barty Crouch suspended habeas corpus," Emmeline reminded them. "Emergency wartime powers. He can argue those are still in effect."
"The war is over," Dorea said coldly. "Voldemort is defeated. Harry survived. If Crouch wants to argue we're still under emergency conditions five years after the threat ended, he's going to look like a tyrant clinging to power. And we'll make sure everyone knows it."
"This is going to be messy," Benjy warned. "We're talking about challenging Dumbledore's guardianship of the Boy-Who-Lived, demanding a trial for the most notorious prisoner in Azkaban, and publicly accusing the Head of the DMLE at the time of wrongful imprisonment. That's not just stepping on toes—that's tap-dancing on graves."
"Then we dance," Charlus said simply. "The Black Dragon Legion doesn't back down from fights just because they're messy."
"Damn right we don't," Moody growled. "Though I'll point out, half the Legion is dead or retired. We're not the force we were during Grindelwald."
"Then we rebuild," Arcturus said. "Call in the old members. Recruit new ones. There are plenty of people who fought in the war against Voldemort who'd support this. Parents who lost children. Fighters who saw friends die. They trusted Dumbledore to make things right, and he hid a child with abusers while an innocent man rotted in Azkaban. They'll be angry when they learn the truth."
"The Order of the Phoenix," Emmeline said suddenly. "Dumbledore's organization. Some of them have to have doubts. Especially now that the war is over and they've had time to think."
"Remus Lupin," Charlus said immediately. "He was one of James's best friends. One of the Marauders—that's what they called themselves. James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter. He's got to have questions about what happened."
"Lupin's a werewolf," Moody said bluntly. "Makes him vulnerable. Hard to find steady work. Probably dependent on Dumbledore for financial support. Pushing him might be complicated."
"We approach him carefully then," Dorea said. "But we approach him. If anyone deserves to know the truth about what happened to his friends, it's Remus. And if Peter's alive..." Her eyes went cold. "Remus will want justice as much as we do."
"I'll track him down," Benjy offered. "I still have contacts in the werewolf communities from the war. Someone will know where Lupin's holed up."
"Good." Arcturus made another note. "What else? What are we missing?"
"The Longbottoms," Melania said quietly. Everyone turned to look at her. "Frank and Alice Longbottom. They were good people. Alice was Harry's godmother. They would have taken him in a heartbeat if..." She trailed off painfully.
"If Bellatrix hadn't destroyed them," Arcturus finished, his voice like winter. "My niece. My brother's daughter. A monster who shares my blood."
"Not your fault," Emmeline said firmly. "Walburga raised her. Walburga filled her head with pureblood supremacy and Dark magic and hatred. You couldn't have stopped it."
"I could have killed Walburga," Arcturus said flatly. "Should have, after what she did to Sirius. After I saw the evidence of her abuse. But I was weak. I thought family mattered more than justice. I was wrong."
"We've all made mistakes," Charlus said quietly. "The question is what we do now. How we make things right."
"We fight," Dorea said simply. "We fight for Harry. We fight for Sirius. We fight to expose what Dumbledore did and make sure it never happens again. We fight until every wrong is righted or we're dead. That's what the Legion does."
Around the table, heads nodded. Old warriors remembering old wars. Remembering why they'd fought. Remembering that some things were worth dying for.
"Right then," Moody said, slapping the table. "Here's what I propose. Dorea and Charlus meet with Amelia Bones tomorrow. First thing. Bring all the evidence about Harry—medical reports, photographs of the cupboard, Veritaserum testimony from the Dursleys. Make it impossible for her to ignore. Get her to open an official investigation into child welfare concerns."
"Agreed," Charlus said.
"Simultaneously," Moody continued, "Arcturus files formal motions with the Wizengamot. Emergency custody petition for Harry based on documented abuse. Motion to compel trial for Sirius Black based on denial of due process. Hit them from both sides—legal and political."
"I'll handle the legal paperwork," Benjy said. "Still have my solicitor's credentials. Never formally retired, just... stepped back. I can have motions filed by noon tomorrow."
"I'll work the political angle," Arcturus said. "Call in favors. Remind certain Wizengamot members that the Black family has very long memories and very deep pockets. Some of them owe us. Time to collect."
"What about the public?" Emmeline asked. "The Prophet will spin this however Fudge wants them to. And Fudge listens to Dumbledore."
"Then we go around the Prophet," Kingsley suggested. "There are other publications. The Quibbler might be eccentric, but they'll print things the Prophet won't. And there are international papers—the French, the Germans. They'd love a story about British incompetence."
"Xenophilius Lovegood," Arcturus mused. "Runs the Quibbler. Eccentric fellow, but honest. And he lost his wife in a magical experiment gone wrong—he has no love for authority figures who abuse power. He might be sympathetic."
"I'll approach him," Emmeline offered. "I've met him a few times. Odd, but decent. If we give him an exclusive—evidence, testimony, everything—he'll print it. And once it's out there, the Prophet will have to respond or look like they're covering it up."
"Careful," Moody warned. "Going public too fast gives Dumbledore time to control the narrative. We need our legal groundwork solid first."
"Agreed," Dorea said. "We move fast but carefully. Document everything. Build an unassailable case. Then we go public with evidence so damning that even Dumbledore's reputation can't deflect it."
"He'll argue he did what was best," Benjy predicted. "That the blood wards were necessary. That he couldn't have known about the abuse because the wards blocked his monitoring charms. That he trusted the Dursleys to do right by Harry."
"Then we ask why he never checked," Charlus said coldly. "Why he never visited. Why he relied on a Squib neighbor four doors down instead of personally ensuring Harry's welfare. Why he accepted Petunia Dursley's guardianship when she hadn't spoken to her sister in years. Why he never considered magical family when we were incapacitated but not dead."
"Did he try to wake you?" Kingsley asked suddenly. "You said Voldemort's curse kept you in a coma for nine years. Did Dumbledore attempt to break it? Bring in curse-breakers?"
Arcturus and Melania exchanged looks.
"I don't know," Arcturus admitted. "I assumed he had. That he'd tried and failed. But..." His eyes narrowed. "I never actually checked. Never asked for records of who'd attempted to heal them, what methods were used, what resources were allocated."
"That's a question worth asking," Moody said grimly. "Because if Dumbledore made no serious attempt to wake you, if he left you sleeping because it was convenient for his plans..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
"I'll pull the records," Melania said. "St. Mungo's should have documentation of every Healer who consulted on the case. And I'll interview them personally. Find out who actually tried to help and who was told to back off."
"This gets worse the deeper we dig," Emmeline observed.
"That's usually how it works," Moody said philosophically. "Start pulling on one thread, whole damn tapestry unravels. Question is whether we're ready for what we might find."
"We're ready," Dorea said firmly. "Whatever it takes. However ugly it gets. Harry deserves the truth. Sirius deserves justice. And Dumbledore..." Her smile was sharp as broken glass. "Dumbledore deserves to answer for his choices."
"Right then," Arcturus said, standing. "We have our assignments. Charlus and Dorea meet with Amelia Bones tomorrow morning. Benjy files the legal motions. Emmeline approaches Lovegood. Kingsley, I want you digging through Auror records—specifically, the investigation into Peter Pettigrew's death. See if there's anything suspicious. Anything that doesn't quite add up."
"On it," Kingsley confirmed.
"Moody, you're with me. We're going to visit some old friends. Remind them the Legion is active again and we're collecting on old debts."
"About bloody time," Moody growled. "Been getting soft in retirement. Need a proper war to keep sharp."
"And Fletcher," Arcturus turned to Mundungus, who'd been unusually quiet, "I need you in the criminal underground. Rumors, whispers, anything strange. If Peter Pettigrew is alive, if he's been living under an assumed identity, someone somewhere knows something. Find it."
"I'll sniff around," Dung agreed. "Though if he's been hiding as a rat all this time—literally, I mean, if he's been in Animagus form—that's going to be a right pain to track."
"Why would he stay as a rat for five years?" Emmeline asked, puzzled.
"Because he's a coward," Charlus said flatly. "And because in rat form, he's invisible. Could be anywhere. Could be with any wizarding family, living as a pet. No one would suspect. No one would question."
The implications hung heavy in the air.
"That's... actually brilliant," Benjy said reluctantly. "Horrifying, but brilliant. If you wanted to disappear completely, to monitor the wizarding world without being detected, becoming a pet rat would be perfect."
"Makes finding him nearly impossible," Moody pointed out. "Could be in any of thousands of wizarding households. Could have been sold to a Muggle family. Could be living in the sewers eating rubbish."
"Or," Kingsley said slowly, "he could be somewhere that gives him access to information. Somewhere he can keep tabs on what's happening in the war. On who won. On whether it's safe to return."
"A wizarding family," Dorea said. "He'd want a wizarding family. Somewhere he could hear news, learn what was happening. Somewhere safe but connected."
"A family with children," Charlus added. "Children are less suspicious. More likely to adopt a stray rat. More likely to keep it as a pet even if it's a bit mangy."
"A family Pettigrew knew," Arcturus said, his eyes distant with thought. "Someone from the war. Someone who'd be talking about the conflict, about Voldemort's defeat, about Harry Potter."
They all looked at each other.
"The Weasleys," Moody said suddenly. "Arthur Weasley. His wife Molly. They've got—what, six or seven kids? All of them school-age or younger. They were in the Order. Fought in the war. And Arthur works at the Ministry—would hear every rumor, every piece of gossip."
"Arthur Weasley knew Peter," Charlus confirmed. "Not well, but they were both in the Order. Peter would know the family was safe. Know they'd take in a stray rat without question. Know they'd talk openly about the war where he could listen."
"It's a theory," Benjy said carefully. "Thin, but possible."
"We investigate it," Arcturus decided. "Carefully. The Weasleys are good people—if Peter's there, they don't know it. We can't go barging in accusing them of harboring a Death Eater. But we watch. We listen. And if there's a rat that's been with them for five years..." He smiled grimly. "We'll find it."
"I know Molly Weasley," Emmeline said. "We've worked together at St. Mungo's auxiliary. I can visit. Social call. Meet the children. See if there's anything unusual."
"Do it," Arcturus agreed. "But carefully. Peter survived this long by being cautious. If he suspects we're looking, he'll bolt."
"Assuming he's even alive," Kingsley reminded them. "We could be chasing shadows."
"Then we chase shadows," Dorea said fiercely. "Because if there's even a chance Sirius is innocent, even the smallest possibility that Peter betrayed James and is out there living free, we have to know. We owe it to Sirius. We owe it to James."
"We owe it to Harry," Charlus added quietly. "He deserves to know the truth about what happened to his parents. Who betrayed them. Why. And if his godfather is innocent..." His jaw clenched. "Harry's already lost so much. If we can give him back even one person who truly loves him, who his parents trusted with his care, we have to try."
The room fell silent, each of them contemplating the magnitude of what they were attempting. Challenging Dumbledore. Demanding a trial for Britain's most notorious prisoner. Hunting for a potentially dead traitor. Rebuilding a legendary organization from scattered remnants.
It was ambitious. It was dangerous. It was possibly suicidal.
It was exactly what the Black Dragon Legion had been built to do.
"One more thing," Dorea said into the silence. "When we find Peter—and I do mean *when*, not *if*—I want him alive. I want him conscious. I want him to face trial. I want him to answer for every moment James and Lily spent in hiding, every second of terror, every choice he made that led to their deaths."
"And then?" Moody asked.
Dorea's smile was winter itself. "And then I want him in Azkaban. Right next to Bellatrix. Where he can spend the rest of his miserable life knowing he failed. Knowing Voldemort is defeated. Knowing Harry survived. Knowing every sacrifice he made, every betrayal he committed, was for nothing."
"That's cold," Dung observed.
"I'm a Black," Dorea said simply. "We invented cold."
"Right then," Arcturus stood, signaling the meeting's end. "We all know our tasks. We move fast but smart. Document everything. Keep each other informed. And remember—we're not just fighting for custody of one child or freedom for one prisoner. We're fighting to prove that power without accountability leads to tyranny. That even heroes can fall if no one questions their choices. That the wizarding world needs to be better than this."
"Dramatic speech," Moody commented. "You've been practicing."
"I've had nine years to think about what I'd say when we reformed the Legion," Arcturus replied dryly. "Might as well make it memorable."
"To the Black Dragon Legion," Emmeline said, raising her tea cup in a toast. "May we be half as terrifying as we were in our prime."
"To the Legion," the others echoed, raising their own cups.
"And to Harry," Charlus added quietly. "May we give him the life James and Lily would have wanted."
"To Harry," they repeated, more softly this time.
As the meeting broke up, members departing to their various tasks, Dorea remained seated, staring at the scattered parchments covering the table. Evidence. Testimony. Plans. All of it building toward a confrontation with one of the most powerful wizards in the world.
"Having second thoughts?" Charlus asked, settling into the chair beside her.
"No," she said immediately. Then, more honestly: "Maybe. Not about fighting for Harry—never about that. But about what this will cost. Dumbledore's not going to surrender quietly. He'll fight back. And when he does..." She trailed off.
"We'll be ready," Charlus said firmly. "We didn't survive Grindelwald and Voldemort by being unprepared. And we have something Dumbledore doesn't."
"What's that?"
"We're fighting for family. For a child we love. For justice, not power." He took her hand. "Dumbledore's fighting to maintain control. To prove his choices were right. To protect his reputation. Those are weaker motivations. They break under pressure."
"I hope you're right," Dorea said. Then she stood, squaring her shoulders. "Come on. Let's check on Harry. Make sure he's still sleeping peacefully. Make sure this isn't all a dream."
"It's not a dream," Charlus promised, following her from the room. "It's real. All of it. The good and the bad and the terrifying."
"That's what worries me," Dorea murmured.
But when they returned to Harry's room and found him sleeping peacefully, one small hand curled under his cheek, Kreth watching vigilantly from the shadows, all the worry melted away.
This was real.
This was worth fighting for.
This was why the Black Dragon Legion had existed in the first place—to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. To stand between the innocent and those who would harm them. To say "no further" and mean it with every fiber of their being.
"Sleep well, sweetheart," Dorea whispered, adjusting Harry's blankets. "Tomorrow we start fighting for you. And we won't stop until you're safe. Until you know you're loved. Until everyone who hurt you answers for their crimes."
Harry stirred slightly, mumbling something that might have been "grandmother" before settling back into sleep.
Dorea's eyes filled with tears.
"We've got him back," she whispered to Charlus. "After everything. After nine years. After losing James. We've got one piece of our family back."
"And we're going to keep him," Charlus promised. "Whatever it takes."
Outside Harry's window, the moon was rising over Black Manor's grounds, illuminating the ancient gardens where generations of Blacks had walked. Where Dark magic and Light magic had battled for supremacy within the family itself. Where monsters and heroes had both been born.
Tonight, the grounds were peaceful.
But tomorrow, the dragon would spread its wings and roar.
And the wizarding world would tremble.
—
**Ministry of Magic - Department of Magical Law Enforcement**
**October 16th, 1985 - 8:47 AM**
Amelia Bones had been awake since four in the morning.
This was not unusual—as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, early mornings came with the territory. What *was* unusual was the reason for her insomnia: a case file that had landed on her desk at midnight, delivered by house elf with a note that read simply: *Urgent. Child welfare matter. Eyes only.*
She'd read it three times before her hands started shaking.
Now, sitting in her office with dawn light streaming through the enchanted windows—currently showing a crisp autumn morning, though the actual weather outside was drizzling—she read it a fourth time. The medical reports. The photographs. The Veritaserum testimony.
The cupboard under the stairs.
Her niece Susan was sleeping in the other room—Amelia often brought her to the Ministry when cases demanded her attention through the night. Susan was safe. Susan was fed. Susan had her own bedroom, her own toys, her own life full of love and security.
Harry Potter had lived in a cupboard.
For five years.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come," she called, her voice steady despite the rage simmering underneath.
Auror Dawlish entered, looking haggard. He'd been on duty last night when the reports started coming in. "Ma'am. We've completed the preliminary investigation of Number Four, Privet Drive. The scene is... it's exactly as reported."
"Show me," Amelia commanded.
Dawlish pulled out a pensieve memory vial, pouring its contents into the shallow basin on her desk. Amelia leaned forward, letting the memory pull her in.
She found herself standing in an unremarkable Muggle home. Neat. Clean. Perfectly ordinary except for the massive dragon carved into one wall—clearly magical, clearly a message.
Then Dawlish's memory-self opened the cupboard under the stairs.
The space was barely four feet deep. Three feet wide. A single thin blanket. A broken toy car. A spider web in the corner. And on the inside of the door, written in a child's careful hand: HARRY'S ROOM.
The memory showed Dawlish's wand casting diagnostic spells. Showing where a small body had slept for years. Showing the wear patterns on the blanket. Showing the scratch marks on the door where small fingers had tried to open it from the inside.
The lock. On the outside.
Amelia pulled herself from the memory with a gasp.
"There's more," Dawlish said quietly. He looked ill. "The neighbors. We questioned them under standard investigation protocols. They confirmed seeing a young boy doing yard work. Cooking visible through the kitchen window—using the stove, standing on a chair because he was too short. Age four, they estimated. Maybe five. They thought it was 'good for him to learn responsibility.'"
"Did any of them report it?" Amelia asked, though she already knew the answer.
"No, ma'am. Muggles don't have the same child welfare standards we do. And the Dursleys are well-respected in the neighborhood. Pillars of the community, apparently. No one questions them."
"Get me everything," Amelia said. "Every witness statement. Every photograph. Every piece of evidence. I want this case documented so thoroughly that a Dementor couldn't find a shadow of doubt."
"Already done, ma'am." Dawlish placed a thick folder on her desk. "Complete investigation file. We've also secured the Dursleys in the Black family dungeons—they're being held on suspicion of child abuse pending formal charges."
"Black family dungeons?" Amelia's eyebrow rose. "That's irregular."
"Arcturus Black has ancient holding rights," Dawlish explained. "Dates back to before the Ministry, when old families handled their own justice. Technically legal, if archaic. And given that the Dursleys are Muggles who were abusing a wizarding child..." He shrugged. "Black's within his rights. Barely."
"I want our own people to interview them," Amelia decided. "Under Veritaserum. Standard protocol. We need official Ministry testimony, not just Black family interrogation."
"Understood. I'll schedule it for this morning."
"Good." Amelia opened the file, began reading. Her jaw tightened with each page. "Dawlish, one more thing. Pull the records on the placement decision. I want to know who authorized Harry Potter's custody arrangement. Who signed off on it. Who was supposed to provide oversight."
Dawlish shifted uncomfortably. "Ma'am... that's going to be complicated."
"Why?"
"Because the authorization came directly from Albus Dumbledore. He was named magical guardian in the Potters' will. He had sole authority over placement decisions."
"Did anyone review his choice? Challenge it? Question putting a magical child with Muggles who had no understanding of our world?"
"If they did, it's not in the records," Dawlish said carefully. "The placement was made on November 1st, 1981. Same day as the attack on the Potters. Less than twelve hours after Harry's parents died. There was no formal review process."
"Who delivered Harry to the Dursleys?"
"Dumbledore himself. With Hagrid's assistance—Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. They left Harry on the doorstep. With a letter."
"They left an infant. On a doorstep. In November." Amelia's voice had gone very soft. Very dangerous. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I were, ma'am. But multiple witnesses confirm it. Dumbledore, Hagrid, and Professor McGonagall were all present. McGonagall objected to the Dursleys as guardians—said they were 'the worst sort of Muggles.' But Dumbledore overruled her."
"On what grounds?"
"Blood wards. Said only blood family could maintain them. Said it was necessary for Harry's protection."
"And in five years," Amelia said, her voice still soft, still deadly, "did anyone check on how that protection was working? Did anyone verify Harry's welfare?"
Dawlish consulted his notes. "There's a Squib neighbor—Arabella Figg, lives four doors down. She was placed there by Dumbledore to monitor the situation."
"And her reports?"
"We're trying to locate them now. But preliminary interviews suggest..." He hesitated. "Suggest Mrs. Figg never actually saw inside the Dursley home. She watched Harry at playgrounds, at school pickup. Saw him doing yard work. But never observed his living conditions."
"So for five years, Harry Potter has been living in a cupboard, being systematically abused, and no one checked. No one cared. No one questioned why the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't being treated like a national treasure." Amelia's hands clenched on her desk. "Get me Dumbledore. Now."
"Ma'am, he's—"
"I don't care if he's in a Wizengamot session or having tea with the Minister. I want him in my office within the hour. Tell him it's regarding Harry Potter's custody. Tell him it's urgent. Tell him..." She smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. "Tell him the DMLE has questions."
"Yes, ma'am." Dawlish fled, probably grateful to escape before her temper truly exploded.
Alone in her office, Amelia returned to the photographs. The cupboard. The broken glasses. The medical report showing healed fractures, malnutrition, evidence of long-term abuse.
She thought about Susan, sleeping peacefully in the next room. About how Amelia would die before letting anyone harm her niece. About how parents—real parents—would burn the world down to protect their children.
The Dursleys had locked Harry in a cupboard.
And Dumbledore had let it happen.
There would be a reckoning for this.
—
Albus Dumbledore arrived at precisely 9:43 AM.
He swept into Amelia's office with the bearing of someone who'd been summoned but wasn't particularly concerned about it. His midnight blue robes swished around him, his half-moon spectacles caught the light, and his expression was one of mild interest rather than worry.
"Amelia, my dear," he said warmly, settling into the chair across from her desk without waiting for an invitation. "I received your message. Most urgent, I'm told? I do hope nothing terrible has happened."
"That depends on your definition of terrible," Amelia said coolly. She didn't stand. Didn't offer tea. Didn't smile. "Tell me, Albus, when was the last time you personally checked on Harry Potter's welfare?"
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Ah. I see. You've been speaking with the Potters. Charlus and Dorea, I presume? Wonderful that they've awakened, truly. Though their timing is... complicated."
"That's not an answer to my question."
"I had sources watching Harry," Dumbledore said, his tone still warm, still reasonable. "Arabella Figg lives nearby. She provides regular reports. Harry was quite safe, I assure you."
"Regular reports." Amelia opened her file, pulled out a parchment. "When was Mrs. Figg's last report?"
"I would have to check my records—"
"June," Amelia interrupted. "Four months ago. And it consisted of three sentences: 'Harry appears well. No signs of Dark activity. All quiet.' Does that strike you as a comprehensive welfare check?"
"Mrs. Figg is not a trained investigator," Dumbledore said mildly. "She's a kind neighbor who keeps an eye out. That's all that was needed."
"All that was needed," Amelia repeated. She pulled out a photograph. The cupboard, door open, showing the cramped space within. "Is this all that was needed, Albus?"
Dumbledore went very still. His eyes fixed on the photograph.
"When did you last enter the Dursley home?" Amelia pressed. "When did you last speak with Harry directly? When did you verify that the Boy-Who-Lived, the child you placed with Muggle relatives, was actually safe and cared for?"
"The blood wards—"
"I'm not asking about wards," Amelia said, her voice sharp as glass. "I'm asking about a child. A five-year-old child who was sleeping in a cupboard. Who was cooking on hot stoves at age four. Who has healed fractures in his ribs. Who is severely malnourished. Who—" Her voice broke slightly. "Who thought he was a freak who didn't deserve food."
"I was not aware—"
"You were his guardian!" Amelia slammed her hand on the desk, and the sound cracked through the office like a gunshot. "You had legal and moral responsibility for his welfare! You don't get to claim ignorance when you never bothered to check!"
Dumbledore's expression had gone grave. The twinkling was entirely absent now. "Amelia, I understand you're upset—"
"I'm not upset, Albus. I'm furious. I'm professionally, personally, absolutely furious." She stood, leaning forward across her desk. "I have a file here documenting systematic child abuse. Physical, emotional, and educational neglect. It's thorough. It's damning. And it all happened under your watch."
"The Dursleys were the only option," Dumbledore said, and for the first time, there was steel in his voice. "The blood wards keyed to Lily's sacrifice required blood family. Petunia Dursley was Harry's only living blood relative."
"No," Amelia said flatly. "She wasn't."
"I'm sorry?"
"Charlus and Dorea Potter. Harry's paternal grandparents. They're blood family. They were alive—incapacitated, but alive. Did you attempt to wake them? Did you bring in curse-breakers? Did you exhaust every possible avenue to restore them so they could raise their grandson?"
"They were in a magical coma," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort's final curse. Unbreakable."
"Unbreakable, or inconvenient?" Amelia asked coldly. "Because they woke up yesterday. After nine years. And the very first thing they did—within hours of regaining consciousness—was find Harry and remove him from an abusive home. Which raises the question: why didn't you?"
"This is not as simple as you're making it—"
"It's exactly that simple!" Amelia's voice rose. "You're the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. You defeated Grindelwald. You're arguably the most powerful wizard in Europe. Are you telling me that you, with all your resources and influence, couldn't find a better placement than an abusive Muggle home?"
"The blood wards—"
"Would have worked anywhere Petunia Dursley visited regularly," Amelia interrupted. "I consulted with our curse-breakers. Blood wards keyed to sacrifice don't require cohabitation. They require connection. Petunia could have visited Black Manor monthly—weekly, even—and maintained the ward structure. Harry could have been raised by wizards who loved him while still maintaining his mother's protection."
Dumbledore was silent.
"But that wouldn't have served your purposes, would it?" Amelia continued, her voice cutting. "Because Charlus and Dorea Potter are members of the Black Dragon Legion. They would have raised Harry to be strong. Independent. Trained in combat magic and political maneuvering. They would have raised him to question authority, to think for himself, to be dangerous."
"That's quite an accusation—"
"Is it wrong?" Amelia demanded. "Tell me honestly, Albus. If the Potters had been awake, if they'd demanded custody, would you have agreed? Or would you have found reasons why they were unsuitable? Why Harry needed to be raised away from old family magic and warrior training? Why he should grow up humble and grateful, easy to guide?"
"I would have done what was best for Harry," Dumbledore said, and his voice carried absolute conviction. "As I always have."
"What's best for Harry, or what's best for your plans?" Amelia shot back. "Because from where I'm sitting, you sacrificed a child's wellbeing for theoretical future protection. You let him suffer because it was convenient. Because it kept him weak and controllable. Because—"
"Enough." Dumbledore stood, and suddenly the grandfatherly old man was gone, replaced by something older and infinitely more dangerous. "You forget yourself, Amelia. I have spent seventy years fighting Dark wizards. I defeated Grindelwald. I led the resistance against Voldemort. I have made difficult choices—terrible choices—to protect the greater good. Do not presume to lecture me on morality."
"I'm not lecturing you on morality," Amelia said, refusing to back down. "I'm informing you that you're under investigation for child endangerment, negligence in your duties as magical guardian, and possible abuse of authority. Official investigation, Albus. Formal charges."
The silence that fell was profound.
"You can't be serious," Dumbledore said finally.
---
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