**Little Hangleton, Gaunt Shack**
**January 16th, 1982 - 4:47 PM**
The portal deposited them in a field of dead grass and frost, the air carrying the scent of decay and abandonment. Wanda stepped through first, her boots crunching on frozen ground, with Sirius following close behind.
"Where are we?" Sirius asked, looking around at the desolate landscape. In the distance, a village was visible—small, grey, thoroughly unremarkable. And directly ahead, barely visible through the dying light, stood what might generously be called a shack. It was more ruin than building, walls sagging, roof collapsed in places, windows long since broken.
"Little Hangleton," Wanda said, already walking toward the structure. "The Gaunt shack. Former home of Voldemort's maternal family."
"Cheerful," Sirius muttered, hurrying to catch up. "And we're here because...?"
"To complete the set." Wanda pulled out the Invisibility Cloak from her jacket, letting it shimmer in the fading light. "We have the Cloak. I have the Wand." She patted her other pocket where the Elder Wand rested. "But the Deathly Hallows are three artifacts, not two. We need the Stone."
Sirius stopped walking. "The Resurrection Stone. Wanda, that's—you said the ring Horcrux was at the Gaunt shack. That it was destroyed."
"The Horcrux was destroyed," Wanda confirmed, not slowing. "But the ring itself—the physical object—that was just unmade by my chaos magic. The Stone that was set in it, though..." She smiled slightly. "Hallows are different. They're not just magical objects. They're *conceptual* objects. Aspects of Death itself, given form. My magic destroyed the ring and the Horcrux, but the Stone?" She glanced back at him. "That's harder to unmake. It should still be here. Somewhere."
"Should be?"
"I'm ninety percent certain."
"Oh, well, as long as you're ninety percent certain," Sirius said, but he was grinning. "What's the Resurrection Stone even do? Besides the obvious raising-the-dead implications?"
"It doesn't raise the dead," Wanda said, reaching the shack. She circled it slowly, her magical senses extended, searching. "Not really. According to the legend, it summons shades—echoes of the deceased. Not their souls, not their true selves. Just... impressions. Memories given temporary form."
"That's—" Sirius's voice caught. "That's cruel. To see someone you love, to talk to them, knowing it's not really them?"
"The second brother thought so," Wanda agreed. She knelt by what remained of the foundation, her fingers brushing frost-covered stones. "The story says he used the Stone to bring back the woman he loved, but she was cold and distant. Not really alive. So he killed himself to truly be with her."
"Cheerful story. Remind me why we want this thing?"
"Because united, the three Hallows supposedly make the Master of Death," Wanda said. She was moving boards aside now, searching the space where her magical senses indicated something powerful was hidden. "Not immortality—mastery. Understanding. The ability to face death without fear, to protect others from it, to—"
Her hand closed around something small and cold.
"Found it."
Wanda pulled her hand back, opening her palm to reveal a small black stone. It was smooth, egg-shaped, with a strange symbol etched into its surface—a vertical line bisected by a circle, all enclosed in a triangle. The mark of the Deathly Hallows.
But there was something wrong with it.
The Stone was cracked. A single fracture ran through its center, not quite splitting it in two but close. And from that crack, a faint darkness leaked—not the corruption of Voldemort's Horcrux, but something else. Something cold and ancient and hungry.
"That doesn't look right," Sirius said quietly, moving closer. "Wanda, that crack—"
"Is from the Horcrux being destroyed," Wanda said. She was studying the Stone intently, her magical senses probing carefully. "When I unmade Voldemort's soul fragment, the dark magic was so thoroughly fused with the ring that destroying one damaged the other. The Stone survived, but..." She frowned. "It's not whole anymore."
"Can you fix it?"
"I don't know." Wanda carefully wrapped the Stone in a handkerchief—she wasn't about to touch it directly again, not when she could feel that cold hunger reaching for her. "Hallows are beyond normal magic. I might be able to repair the physical damage, seal the crack. But whether that would restore its full function..."
"Do we even want it to function?" Sirius asked. "Wanda, if this thing summons the dead—even just echoes of them—that's dangerous. What if Harry uses it? What if he summons James and Lily and sees these cold, distant shades of his parents?"
"That's why we're taking it," Wanda said firmly. "So we can control when and how it's used. So we can teach Harry about it properly, explain what it does and doesn't do. So he can make an informed choice instead of discovering it by accident and being hurt by it."
She stood, tucking the wrapped Stone into her jacket pocket opposite the Elder Wand. "Three Hallows. All accounted for. All under our protection."
"The Master of Death," Sirius said. His voice was strange. "That's what the legend says, right? Whoever unites all three becomes the Master of Death?"
"According to the fairy tale, yes."
"And you have all three right now. In your pockets." Sirius was staring at her. "Doesn't that make you the Master of Death?"
Wanda paused. She hadn't actually thought about it that way. The Cloak was Harry's by inheritance. The Wand she'd won in a duel. The Stone she'd just recovered from its hiding place. But together, in her possession...
She reached into her pockets and pulled out all three artifacts. Laid them on a relatively flat piece of the ruined foundation: the silvery Cloak, the pale Wand, the cracked black Stone.
The moment they were all together—truly together, in one place, united—something changed.
The air around them grew heavy, cold. The failing light dimmed further, as if the sun itself was retreating. And Wanda felt *something* watching them. Not hostile, exactly. But aware. Vast. Ancient.
Death.
Not as a force or a concept, but as an entity. The thing the Hallows represented, the being that had supposedly gifted them to the Peverell brothers thousands of years ago.
It was *looking* at her.
"Wanda?" Sirius's voice was tight. "What's happening?"
"The Hallows recognize each other," Wanda said quietly. Her chaos magic was stirring, responding to the presence, but she kept it contained. This wasn't a threat to fight. This was... something else. "They're waking up. Responding to being united."
The watching presence intensified. Wanda had the distinct impression of being *assessed*. Measured. The Hallows were testing her—or Death itself was, through them—to see if she was worthy. If she could bear the title of Master.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then, slowly, the presence... withdrew. Not entirely, but enough. Like a great predator deciding this particular prey wasn't worth the effort. Or perhaps acknowledging that Wanda was a predator herself, powerful enough to be respected rather than consumed.
The air warmed slightly. The light returned to normal. And the three Hallows just sat there, looking like ordinary magical artifacts again.
Wanda released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"What was that?" Sirius asked. He'd drawn his wand—the one Wanda had returned to him after the meeting—though what he thought he'd do with it against *Death* was unclear.
"A test, I think." Wanda carefully gathered the Hallows back into their respective pockets. "The legend says the Hallows were gifts from Death to the Peverell brothers. If that's true—if they really were created by Death itself—then they'd have some kind of connection to that entity. Some way of reporting back, or seeking approval."
"And? Did we pass?"
"We're still alive and the Hallows haven't tried to kill us," Wanda said dryly. "I'm counting that as passing."
She opened a portal back to the cottage, the familiar scarlet mist swirling. "Come on. Let's get home before something else tries to assess our worthiness. I've had enough cosmic judgment for one day."
---
**Agnes's Cottage**
**January 16th, 1982 - 5:23 PM**
They materialized in the garden to find Agnes standing on the back step, arms crossed, expression somewhere between worried and exasperated.
"There ye are," she said. "I felt another portal open—thought maybe ye'd gotten yerselves into more trouble."
"Just a quick errand," Sirius said cheerfully. "Retrieved a legendary artifact that may or may not have summoned the attention of Death itself. Normal Saturday afternoon stuff."
Agnes stared at him. "I dinnae ken if ye're jokin' or no'."
"Neither do I, honestly," Sirius admitted.
Wanda pulled out the wrapped Stone and held it up. "The Resurrection Stone. Last of the Deathly Hallows. I need to examine it more closely, maybe try to repair the damage, but for now it's contained."
"An' the other two?"
"Safe." Wanda patted her pockets. "All three Hallows are now in our possession and under our control. Which means Harry has every possible advantage and protection we can give him."
"At the cost o' makin' Dumbledore an enemy," Agnes pointed out.
"Dumbledore made himself our enemy when he tried to control Harry's life," Sirius said. His voice was harder now, the levity fading. "We just... clarified the battle lines."
"Battle lines," Agnes repeated. "That's whit ye're callin' it. An' here I thought we were jist tryin' tae raise a bairn in peace."
"We are," Wanda said. "But sometimes peace requires being willing to fight for it." She moved past Agnes into the cottage. "Is Harry still napping?"
"Aye. Been asleep fer the past hour. Should wake soon, though—he'll be wantin' his dinner."
Inside, the cottage was warm and cozy, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. Wanda could hear Harry's soft breathing from the bedroom—the steady, peaceful rhythm of a child who felt safe.
*That's what matters,* she reminded herself. *Not cosmic entities or legendary artifacts or political enemies. Just keeping Harry safe and loved.*
But as she carefully extracted the three Hallows from her pockets and laid them on the kitchen table, she couldn't quite shake the memory of that vast, cold presence watching her. Death itself, taking her measure.
The Cloak shimmered silver in the firelight. The Wand lay pale and innocent-looking. And the Stone, still wrapped in its handkerchief, pulsed faintly with dark potential.
Three gifts from Death. Three tools that together granted mastery over the one thing no one could truly control.
"What are ye gonnae dae wi' them?" Agnes asked quietly. She'd followed Wanda inside and was staring at the Hallows with a mixture of awe and fear.
"Keep them safe until Harry's old enough to understand what they are," Wanda said. "Then let him choose. Use them, destroy them, hide them away—it'll be his decision." She carefully wrapped each Hallow separately. "But for now, they're under my protection. No one else touches them. No one else even knows exactly where they are."
"Except us," Sirius pointed out.
"Except family," Wanda corrected. She looked at Sirius, then at Agnes. "That's what we are now, isn't it? Family. The people who know Harry's secrets and guard them. The people who'll stand between him and anyone who tries to hurt him."
"Aye," Agnes said softly. "That's whit we are."
A small cry echoed from the bedroom. Harry, waking from his nap and announcing his displeasure at being alone.
"I'll get him," Sirius said, already moving. "You two can figure out where to hide the world's most dangerous magical artifacts. I'll handle the world's most demanding toddler."
"They're no' that different, really," Agnes observed. "Both capable o' causin' enormous chaos if no' properly managed."
Wanda had to laugh at that. She was still laughing when Sirius returned with Harry on his hip, the baby's dark hair sticking up in all directions and his green eyes still sleepy.
"Mama!" Harry reached for Wanda immediately. "Hungry!"
"I know, малыш." Wanda took him, settling him on her hip. "Agnes is making dinner. Can you wait a few more minutes?"
"No!" Harry said, but he was grinning. It was his new favorite word, deployed regardless of whether he actually meant it.
"No?" Wanda raised an eyebrow. "You can't wait even a little bit?"
"No! No no no!" Harry dissolved into giggles, clearly delighted with his own hilarity.
"Well, if ye cannae wait," Agnes said, already moving to the stove, "I suppose I'll have tae feed ye right this second. Heaven forbid the wee prince should have tae wait fer his dinner."
She was smiling, though. They all were. This was what mattered—this warm kitchen, this family cobbled together from broken pieces, this baby who had no idea he was the Boy Who Lived or the subject of prophecies or the reason three legendary artifacts had been gathered in one place.
He was just Harry. Their Harry.
And the Deathly Hallows, the confrontation with Dumbledore, the cosmic attention of Death itself—all of it was secondary to making sure this little boy got his dinner on time and went to bed happy.
"Right," Wanda said, shifting Harry to her other hip. "Let's get you fed. And tomorrow we can worry about where to hide magical artifacts and how to handle Dumbledore's inevitable retaliation."
"Tomorrow," Sirius agreed. "Tonight we're just a normal family having dinner."
"Nothin' aboot this family is normal," Agnes said, but she was dishing up stew with a fond smile.
"Fair point," Sirius conceded. "Tonight we're an abnormal family having a normal dinner. Better?"
"Much better," Wanda said.
And as they settled around the kitchen table—minus the Hallows, which Wanda had moved to a high shelf with a temporary ward—she thought that maybe, just maybe, they'd actually pull this off.
Raise Harry. Protect him. Give him the childhood he deserved.
One dinner, one bedtime story, one normal day at a time.
Even if those normal days occasionally involved stealing from the most powerful wizard in Britain and being assessed by Death itself.
Just another Tuesday in the Maximoff-Black household.
---
**Agnes's Cottage, Scottish Highlands**
**January 16th, 1982 - 9:47 PM**
Harry had finally gone down for the night after three stories, two glasses of water, and one lengthy negotiation about whether his stuffed lion needed to sleep in the bed or on the nightstand. (The lion won. It always won.)
Agnes had retired to her room with her knitting and a cup of tea, leaving Wanda and Sirius alone in the living room. The fire crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Outside, snow had begun to fall—thick, silent flakes that turned the Highland landscape into something from a fairy tale.
Wanda sat curled in the armchair, a cup of cooling tea in her hands, staring into the flames. The three Deathly Hallows were locked in a warded chest upstairs now, hidden away where even magical detection couldn't find them. Safe. Contained. One less thing to worry about.
Except she couldn't stop worrying.
"You're thinking too loud," Sirius said from the sofa. He'd been pretending to read a book for the past twenty minutes, but Wanda could feel his attention on her. "Want to talk about it?"
"I'm thinking about too many things," Wanda admitted. "Dumbledore. The Hallows. What happens when the Ministry realizes we have them. Whether I made the right choices today."
"You did," Sirius said immediately. "You protected Harry. That's always the right choice."
"Is it?" Wanda set down her tea. "I humiliated Dumbledore in front of witnesses. I stole artifacts from Hogwarts. I threatened the Chief Warlock. I'm not sure 'protecting Harry' justifies all of that."
"It does to me." Sirius closed his book—he hadn't been reading it anyway. "Wanda, Dumbledore was planning to take Harry from us. To contest my custody, put him somewhere he could control. You stopped that. However you needed to."
"By making us targets."
"We were already targets," Sirius pointed out. "The moment you took Harry from Privet Drive, the moment I was freed from Azkaban, we became people Dumbledore would have to deal with. Today we just... clarified where we stand."
Wanda was quiet for a moment, watching the flames. Then: "Do you ever wonder if we're doing the right thing? Raising Harry together like this?"
"Every day," Sirius admitted. "I wonder if I'm good enough, stable enough, healed enough to be what he needs. I spent less than a day in Azkaban but it was the worst experience of my life. Sometimes I wake up thinking I'm still there, that this—all of this—is just a beautiful dream the Dementors haven't taken yet."
"But you stay."
"But I stay." Sirius moved to sit on the arm of her chair, close enough that she could feel his warmth. "Because Harry needs me. Because you need me. Because I've spent my whole life feeling like I didn't belong anywhere, and here..." He gestured at the cozy room, at the cottage that had become home. "Here I belong. We all do."
Wanda leaned her head against his leg, a gesture of affection that felt natural now after two months of growing closer. "I'm scared," she admitted quietly. "Of getting this wrong. Of hurting Harry the way I hurt people in Westview. Of my power spiraling out of control again."
"You won't," Sirius said. His hand found her hair, fingers running through it gently. "You're too careful now. Too aware. The woman who trapped Westview was drowning in grief and didn't know what she was doing. You're not her anymore."
"Aren't I?" Wanda's voice was barely above a whisper. "I still have that power, Sirius. Still have the ability to rewrite reality if I want to badly enough. What if I want something I shouldn't have? What if I decide I can't live without—" She stopped.
"Without what?" Sirius asked gently. When she didn't answer, understanding dawned. "Without Vision. Without Billy and Tommy."
Wanda's hands clenched in her lap. "I dream about them sometimes. My boys. They're laughing, playing, calling me Mom. And then I wake up and remember they were never real. That I created them from nothing because I couldn't bear to be alone. That I..." Her voice broke. "That I lost them the same way I lost Pietro and Vision and everyone else I've ever loved."
"Wanda—"
"I'm not over it," she said, the words tumbling out now that she'd started. "I know I should be. I know it's been months, that I have Harry now, that I'm building something new. But sometimes I look at Harry and I see Billy's smile or Tommy's laugh and I—" She pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. "I miss them so much it physically hurts. Even though they were never real. Even though loving them was just another way I was lying to myself."
Sirius slid down from the arm of the chair to kneel in front of her, his hands covering hers. "They were real to you. That's what matters. You loved them—genuinely, completely. That love was real even if they weren't. Grieving them is natural."
"But I shouldn't be grieving them while raising Harry," Wanda protested. "It's not fair to him. He deserves a mother who's fully present, not one who's mourning children who never existed."
"He deserves a mother who's honest about her pain," Sirius corrected gently. "Who doesn't pretend to be perfect. Who shows him that grief is natural and healing takes time."
Wanda finally looked at him, really looked. He was so close, his grey eyes warm in the firelight, his expression open and understanding and full of something that made her heart ache.
"What are we doing?" she asked quietly. "You and me. This... whatever this is."
Sirius went very still. "What do you want it to be?"
"I don't know." Wanda's voice was honest, raw. "I care about you, Sirius. So much. You're brilliant and kind and you make me laugh and I trust you with Harry, with my life. But I'm not... I can't be what you might want me to be. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"Because you're still in love with Vision," Sirius said. Not an accusation. Just understanding.
"Because I don't know how to love someone without destroying them," Wanda corrected. "Vision died because of me—because of my grief and rage, because I was so focused on revenge I didn't protect him properly. And Billy and Tommy... I created them out of nothing and then erased them the same way. Everyone I love dies or disappears or turns out to be a lie I told myself." She touched his face gently. "I won't do that to you."
"What if I'm willing to risk it?"
"I'm not." Wanda's voice was firm. "You deserve better than to be my next tragedy. You deserve someone who can love you without reservations, without being terrified every moment that they'll lose control and hurt you."
Sirius was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What if we just... are? Not defining it, not forcing anything. Just being family who care about each other and raising Harry together. No expectations, no pressure. Just..." He shrugged. "This."
"This," Wanda repeated. The word felt safer than "relationship" or "romance" or any of the other labels that came with expectations she wasn't ready to meet. "I can do this."
"Good." Sirius squeezed her hands gently. "Because I'm not going anywhere, Wanda. Whether you love me or not, whether you're ready for more or not—I'm staying. For Harry and for you. As a partner, a friend, a co-parent, whatever you need me to be."
"You're too good to me."
"Impossible. You literally saved me from wizard hell." He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm pretty sure I owe you at least a lifetime of devotion for that."
"I'd settle for helping with the dishes," Wanda said, managing a small smile.
"Deal."
They stayed like that for a moment—Sirius kneeling in front of her, their hands linked, the fire warming them both. It wasn't romance, not quite. But it was something. Something steady and real and important.
"Thank you," Wanda said finally. "For understanding. For not pushing. For just... being here."
"Always," Sirius promised.
A sound from upstairs made them both freeze. A soft cry, then silence, then—
Light.
Crimson light, blazing from Harry's room with an intensity that made the windows glow.
"Oh no," Wanda breathed.
They were both moving before the thought fully formed, racing up the stairs, Wanda's chaos magic already gathering in case this was an attack, a threat, someone trying to hurt Harry—
She threw open the bedroom door and stopped dead.
Harry was floating.
Not high—maybe a foot above his crib—but definitely, unmistakably floating. And surrounding him, flowing from his small hands in ribbons and waves, was crimson magic. Not quite scarlet like Wanda's chaos magic. Not quite gold like Lily's protection. Something in between—a deep, rich crimson that pulsed with both power and love.
The magic Wanda had woven into him. Her chaos magic merged with Lily's sacrifice, creating something entirely new.
And Harry was *using* it.
The baby was still mostly asleep, his eyes closed, his expression peaceful. But his magic had manifested anyway, responding to... what? A dream? An instinct? The simple fact that he was powerful enough now that his magic couldn't be fully contained even in sleep?
"Wanda," Sirius whispered. "Is this—is he supposed to be doing that?"
"I don't know," Wanda admitted. She moved closer, slowly, not wanting to startle Harry and cause his magic to react defensively. "Harry? Baby? Can you hear Mama?"
The crimson magic pulsed brighter at her voice. Harry stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and for a moment they *glowed*—brilliant green lit from within by crimson power.
Then he saw Wanda and smiled. "Mama!"
The magic gentled immediately, the harsh brightness softening to a warm glow. Harry drifted down until Wanda could catch him, pulling him against her chest. The crimson magic didn't disappear, though. It continued to flow around him, around *both* of them, warm and protective and curious.
"Oh, малыш," Wanda murmured, feeling the magic recognize her. Recognize that she was safe, was family, was the source of half this power. "What are you doing?"
"Flying!" Harry said happily, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. He reached for the crimson mist with both hands, and it danced around his fingers playfully. "Pretty!"
"It is pretty," Wanda agreed. Her heart was pounding. This shouldn't be happening yet—Harry was too young, his magical core still developing. Children didn't manifest this kind of controlled magic until they were at least five or six.
But Harry wasn't a normal child anymore. Not after what she'd done to him. Not with chaos magic and love magic woven through every fiber of his being.
"Can you make it stop?" Sirius asked quietly. He wasn't afraid—Wanda could see that—but he was concerned. "Or will it just... run its course?"
"I don't know," Wanda admitted. She sat in the rocking chair with Harry in her lap, the crimson magic still swirling. "Harry, baby, can you make the pretty lights go away? Can you put them back inside?"
"No!" Harry said cheerfully. He was making the mist form shapes now—clumsy, indistinct shapes, but definitely deliberate. A blob that might be his stuffed lion. A circle that might be the moon. "Mine!"
"Yes, it's yours," Wanda agreed. "But right now we need to put it away. It's nighttime. Magic needs to sleep too."
Harry considered this with the seriousness only a toddler could muster. Then, slowly, the crimson magic began to retract. It flowed back into Harry's hands, into his chest, until only a faint shimmer remained around him—so subtle it was barely visible unless you knew what to look for.
"There," Harry said proudly. "Sleep now."
"Good boy," Wanda praised, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Such a good boy. Mama's so proud of you."
"Paddy proud too?"
"Very proud," Sirius said immediately, moving to crouch beside the chair. "That was amazing, Harry. But let's keep the magic inside at night, okay? Save it for daytime when Mama can watch properly."
"'Kay," Harry yawned hugely, the burst of magic use apparently exhausting him. "Tired."
"I bet you are." Wanda stood and carried him back to his crib, tucking him in with his lion. "Sleep now, малыш. We'll talk more about magic in the morning."
"Love you, Mama," Harry mumbled, already drifting off. "Love Paddy. Love Lion."
"Love you too, baby," Wanda whispered.
She and Sirius stayed there for several minutes, watching Harry sleep, making sure the crimson magic didn't manifest again. When his breathing evened out completely, when Wanda was certain he was fully asleep, they finally retreated to the hallway.
"That was..." Sirius started.
"Terrifying?" Wanda suggested. "Unprecedented? A sign that I've fundamentally altered a toddler's magical development in ways I can't fully predict or control?"
"I was going to say 'incredible,'" Sirius said. "But yeah, also all of those things." He ran his hand through his hair. "Wanda, he's sixteen months old. Children don't do controlled magic at that age. They have accidental bursts, sure, but not—not *that*. Not shaping it, directing it, making it obey commands."
"I know." Wanda leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "The crimson magic—the hybrid I created—it's making him more powerful than he should be at this age. More aware of his magic, more able to use it."
"Is that dangerous?"
"I don't know." And that was the terrifying truth. "In theory, no. He's not hurting himself or anyone else. His magical core seems stable. But having this much power this young..." She shook her head. "Children are supposed to grow into their magic gradually. Learn control as their core develops. Harry's learning control now, before his core is fully formed. I don't know what that means long-term."
"But you'll monitor him," Sirius said. "Watch for problems. Adjust if you need to."
"Of course." Wanda pushed off from the wall. "I'll start keeping detailed notes. Track every manifestation, every sign of the crimson magic emerging. And I'll research—see if there are any historical cases of children developing power this early, what happened to them."
"And if there aren't any cases?"
"Then we're writing the first one." Wanda managed a tired smile. "Wouldn't be the first time I've done something unprecedented."
They headed back downstairs, the conversation about feelings tabled in favor of the more immediate concern of Harry's magical development. Agnes had emerged from her room, drawn by the light show.
"Was that whit I think it was?" she asked.
"Harry's first controlled magic use," Wanda confirmed. "He was floating. And using the crimson magic—the hybrid power I gave him."
Agnes looked toward the stairs, her expression worried. "He's so wee. Too wee fer that kind o' power."
"I know." Wanda sank onto the sofa, suddenly feeling every bit of the day's stress. "But I can't take it back. I can't unmake what I've done. I can only monitor it and hope I haven't hurt him."
"Ye havenae hurt him," Agnes said firmly. She moved to sit beside Wanda, her presence solid and comforting. "That bairn is happy, healthy, an' loved. That's what matters. So he's got powerful magic early—well, so did other witches an' wizards. They turned oot fine."
"Most of them," Sirius muttered.
"Most of them," Agnes agreed. "An' the ones who didnae—it wasnae because they were powerful. It was because they were *alone*. They didnae have folk who loved them, who could help them control their power." She squeezed Wanda's hand. "Harry has us. He'll be fine."
Wanda wanted to believe that. Wanted to think that love and support would be enough to help Harry navigate having unprecedented power at an unprecedented age.
But she'd seen too many powerful people destroyed by their own abilities. Had *been* one of those people, nearly.
"I'll protect him," she said quietly. "From external threats and from himself if necessary. Whatever it takes."
"We'll protect him," Sirius corrected. "Together. That's what family does."
"Together," Wanda agreed.
And as they sat there—three broken people trying to raise one extraordinary child—Wanda made a silent promise to Billy and Tommy, to Vision, to Pietro. To all the people she'd loved and lost.
*I'll do better this time. I'll be better. I won't let my power hurt the people I love. I won't lose another family.*
*I promise.*
Upstairs, Harry slept peacefully, crimson magic shimmering faintly beneath his skin. A child with two mothers' love woven into his very essence, protected by power that defied categorization.
The Boy Who Lived.
And now, something more.
Something the wizarding world had never seen before.
Something that would change everything.
---
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