Date: Tuesday, June 30th, 1987
Time: 08:12 AM
Location: Military VIP Hospital, Paris, France / Delacour Residence, France
Morning in the secured wing of the Paris hospital didn't feel like morning in the rest of the world, because everything here moved in controlled silence and measured steps, as if sound itself had been ordered to stand at attention. Helena sat on the bed with a blanket around her shoulders, small hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea she didn't fully trust yet, while Gabrielle leaned close enough to touch and Fleur watched the door like she expected trouble to walk in wearing a friendly face. John stood a few paces back, arms folded, eyes sharp but tired, and even with the sun up, the sense of danger hadn't left the room, it had only changed shape.
Fleur held the phone like it weighed more than it should, her fingers trembling once before she forced them steady, because she had promised herself she would not be the one to fall apart first. When the line connected, her mother's voice came through, gentle and sleepy at first, then sharpening into alertness the moment Fleur spoke her name, because mothers always knew when something was wrong even before their daughters found the words.
"Maman," Fleur said, voice tight as she tried to sound calm and failed, "I need you and Papa to listen, please, and I need you to believe me, because I am at the hospital and there is a little girl here." Apolline's breath caught, concern rising instantly, and her voice softened with fear. "I am listening, my love, tell me what happened, tell me you are safe." "I am safe," Fleur promised quickly, then swallowed hard. "But the girl… her name is Helena…"
Jean Delacour's voice cut in immediately from the background, suddenly close and unmistakably sharp, like a man who had just heard a ghost tap on his window. "Helena Alexandra Potter," he said, every syllable weighted with certainty, as if he had been holding the name in his chest for years and had never allowed himself to let it go. "Say it again, Fleur. Tell me it is not true, because if it is, then the world has lied to all of us."
Fleur went still. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out at first, because the name didn't just land in her mind, it detonated inside her memories, tearing open a door she hadn't thought about since she was small. Helena Alexandra Potter was not a stranger's child in a hospital bed, she was a laugh in a garden, a tiny hand tugging Fleur toward a swing, a voice calling her "Fleu" because it couldn't pronounce the whole name yet, and Gabrielle giggling while the three of them ran circles around Apolline's skirts like the world would never end. Fleur's eyes flooded in an instant, the phone shaking as she pressed her other hand to her mouth, and the sob she tried to hold back broke free like it had been waiting for permission.
"It's her," Fleur whispered, and then she wasn't whispering anymore, she was crying openly, violently, as if the grief of years had been stored inside her ribs and had finally found the crack it needed to spill out. "Papa, it's her, it's Helena, it's really her, and I didn't know, I didn't know she was alive, I didn't know she was here, I thought she was gone, I thought…"
"Breathe, my daughter," Apolline said, voice breaking, because she was crying now too, and Jean's voice went dangerously quiet, the kind of quiet that meant the Minister was no longer thinking like a politician but like a father who had just realized a child had been stolen from the world. "Where are you," Jean demanded, controlled but shaking underneath it. "Tell me the hospital. Tell me the wing. Tell me who is with her."
Fleur wiped her face with her sleeve like she was six again, and her voice trembled as she answered, "A British soldier named John Price, and doctors, and Gabrielle is here, and Helena is safe, Papa, she is safe right now, but she is so small, and she…" Fleur's gaze flicked to the bed and shattered all over again, because seeing Helena in person made every memory feel like cruelty. "...She looks like she hasn't been loved enough."
On the bed, Helena watched Fleur with a quiet, puzzled sadness, and Gabrielle immediately climbed closer, wrapping an arm around Helena's shoulders as if her own body could become a shield. "It's okay, love," Gabrielle whispered, voice fierce with devotion. "She's crying because she knows it's you, that's all, and she's happy you're here." Helena's brow furrowed, then she nodded slowly like she accepted that explanation, and she leaned into Gabrielle without hesitation, because her heart had already decided who was safe.
John stepped aside, gaze moving to the second phone line held out by hospital staff, and his throat tightened when he heard the clipped voice on the other end that carried steel and grace in the same breath. "Captain Price," Queen Elizabeth II said, and there was no mistaking the strain in her voice, no matter how controlled she tried to keep it. "Report."
John straightened unconsciously, not because he feared her, but because something in him respected her the way soldiers respected weather, ancient and unstoppable. "Ma'am," he said, voice rough. "We found her alive…Helena, she is here in Paris. She remembers me. She's…" He swallowed hard, and for the first time since the raid, his composure cracked visibly. "...She's very small, ma'am. But she's breathing and right now she is safe." There was a pause, and then the Queen's voice softened into something terrifyingly human. "Put her on," Elizabeth said quietly. "Please…John…Put my granddaughter on."
John did not even hesitate. He walked to the bed, crouched so he wouldn't loom, and held the phone out gently, letting Helena see it and choose. "Sweetheart," he said, voice careful, "there's someone on the phone who wants to talk to you. Someone you knew once, a long time ago."
Helena stared at the phone as if it were a creature, then lifted her eyes to John's face, searching for danger and finding only encouragement. Slowly, she took it with both hands, bringing it close to her ear the way she'd seen adults do, and the room fell so silent that even breathing sounded loud.
"H-hello?" Helena said, voice small and uncertain, then steadier when something familiar brushed her mind like a warm blanket. "Do I know you."
On the other end, Queen Elizabeth II closed her eyes, the sound of her granddaughter's voice undoing years of restraint in a single heartbeat. "Hello, darling," Elizabeth whispered, her voice trembling despite herself. "It's Gran. It's Elizabeth. You're safe now, and I'm here."
Helena's lip quivered, and for a second she looked impossibly young, like a child who didn't understand why her chest hurt when she wasn't being hurt. "Gran," she whispered, and the word came out like prayer. "I remember your voice. I remember your face."
"I remember yours too," Elizabeth said softly, and it sounded like she was holding herself together by sheer will. "I'm so sorry, my love. I'm so sorry we didn't find you sooner."
Helena didn't know anything about crowns or countries in that moment, and she didn't know that she had another grandmother far beyond the mortal world, but she knew this voice, and she knew it meant warmth. "It's okay," Helena said quietly, because she had learned to make things okay even when they weren't. "Uncle J found me. I'm not alone."
"No," Elizabeth whispered, voice breaking on the word as the Queen of England became only a grandmother on a phone line. "You are not alone anymore."
Time: 10:06 AM
Location: Multinational Detention Transit Hub, France
The moment the words Next of Kin were spoken aloud in the secure briefing room, the atmosphere changed from procedural to catastrophic, because law could bend for power, but it snapped cleanly when royalty entered the equation. Files were pulled, sealed envelopes broken, and jurisdiction maps redrawn in ink so fresh it stained fingers, as officials from four nations stared at the same truth from four different angles and all reached the same conclusion. This was no longer a criminal case, and it had not been one for several hours, because a child had been harmed who belonged to more than one country and to a crown that did not forgive quietly.
"We are locking this down," a British legal attaché said firmly, her voice cutting through the room as she planted her palm on the table. "No transfers. No interviews. No leaks. From this moment forward, Vernon Dursley is under multinational protective custody, not for his safety, but to ensure he reaches trial alive." A French official let out a sharp, humorless breath. "You're saying we protect him because if we don't, he won't survive the night." "I'm saying…," the attaché replied evenly, "...that he has already crossed from defendant into political disaster."
In the holding wing, Vernon felt the change before anyone told him, because the way men looked at him shifted from contempt to something far more dangerous. The whispers spread fast, the kind that moved through concrete and steel like smoke, carried by guards who had children of their own, by detainees who suddenly realized exactly who had been hurt. By the time the word royal reached the cell block, it wasn't whispered anymore.
"You hurt a child," someone snarled from across the corridor. "You hurt a royal child," another voice corrected, thick with rage. "And now she has got more passports than you've got teeth left," a third added coldly.
The first blow came without warning, a fist through the bars catching Vernon across the jaw hard enough to send him sprawling, panic tearing through him as hands reached, grabbed, dragged him forward. He screamed, high and shrill, the sound of a man who finally understood that money, bluster, and cruelty meant nothing here, not now. Boots struck, hands clawed, and it would have ended there, in a blur of righteous fury and broken bone, if alarms hadn't screamed to life and armed guards hadn't surged in as one.
"Enough!" a commander shouted, hauling Vernon back by the collar as bodies were forced apart, batons raised, shields slamming down. "That's enough. You want justice, you'll let the courts have him."
Vernon lay sobbing on the floor, blood in his mouth and terror finally real, because for the first time in his life, the world had turned on him completely, and there was nowhere left to hide. He wasn't thinking about prison sentences or trials anymore, he was thinking about survival, about the fact that every man who had nearly ended him had done so with the unspoken understanding that they were only waiting for permission.
Back in the secured briefing room, the final confirmation came through, and silence followed like a held breath. "Her Majesty has been informed," the liaison said quietly. "So have the Delacours. This case is now under direct royal observation."
A Greek representative folded her hands slowly. "Then this is no longer about punishment," she said. "It is about precedent." "And mercy," someone muttered. "No," the British attaché corrected flatly. "It is about consequences."
Across Paris, unaware of fists and alarms and legal red lines being drawn in her name, Helena sat in a hospital room surrounded by those who loved her, learning what it meant to be safe. The law was moving now, inexorable and cold, and it was doing what gods and soldiers could not do alone, because some evils were ended not by strength, but by being seen.
Time: 11:42 AM
Location: Military VIP Hospital, Secured Divine Wing, Paris, France
The hospital went into a deeper state of lockdown minutes before the Delacours arrived, corridors clearing with practiced efficiency as armed security took their places and radios hummed with quiet confirmations. Helena felt the shift before anyone explained it, her head lifting slightly as if the air itself had changed texture, and Gabrielle squeezed her hand gently, offering reassurance without words. Fleur stood near the door, heart pounding so hard it hurt, because this moment had lived in her nightmares and her hopes in equal measure for years.
When the doors finally opened, Apolline Delacour moved first, composure breaking the instant her eyes found the small figure on the bed. Jean Delacour followed half a step behind her, his control fracturing completely as reality slammed into him, because Helena was not a memory or a grave or a name spoken too softly anymore, she was real and breathing and looking back at them with wide, uncertain eyes.
"Helena," Apolline whispered, crossing the room in three quick steps before stopping herself, hands hovering like she was afraid touching her might make her disappear. Helena stared at them for a heartbeat, then her face lit with sudden recognition so sharp it made Fleur gasp. "Mama Apo?" Helena said softly, voice trembling with hope. Then she turned her head, eyes locking on Jean. "Papa Jen?" and Apolline broke.
She knelt beside the bed, tears spilling freely as she reached out at last, cupping Helena's cheek with reverent care. "Oui, mon cœur," she sobbed, laughing and crying all at once. "It's Mama Apo. I'm here. I'm really here." Jean swallowed hard, his voice thick as he placed a hand over Helena's small one. "And Papa Jen never stopped looking," he said quietly. "Not for one single day."
Fleur collapsed to her knees beside them, sobbing openly now, Gabrielle wrapping her arms around her sister as years of guilt and relief crashed through her at once. "It was her," Fleur choked. "It was always her." "I know," Apolline replied, reaching back to pull both daughters into the moment. "And she's home now. However long home is allowed to be."
Helena looked between them, overwhelmed but not afraid, because the bonds around her held firm, Susan and Amelia stepping closer while Selene remained a calm, protective presence just behind her shoulder. "They're mine too," Helena said quietly, gesturing to the others with shy certainty. "They make me feel safe." Jean nodded immediately, no hesitation in his expression. "Then they are family," he said simply. "Anyone who keeps you safe is family."
A short while later, Jean stood in a secured office adjoining the ward, a phone pressed to his ear, his voice calm but resolute as he spoke across borders. "Elizabeth," he said, formality giving way to something warmer. "She is with us. While Helena remains in France, Apolline and I will serve as her legal guardians. When she returns to the United Kingdom, the Crown will assume that role."
There was a pause, then the Queen's voice answered, steady and grateful. "That arrangement honors her and honors us both," Elizabeth replied. "Thank you, Jean." "She is too precious for politics," Jean said quietly. "Let us not wound her further with pride."
Back in the room, Helena leaned gently into Apolline's side, sunlight catching in her hair as the impossible finally settled into something real. She did not understand treaties or guardianship, but she understood this: Mama Apo was here, Papa Jen was real, her mates were close, and for once, no one was telling her she had to leave.
Paris held its breath, and France claimed her gently, not as a symbol, but as a child who belonged.
Time: 12:31 PM
The change in the room came quietly, so subtle that no one noticed it at first, not as heat or light, but as a sense of being held, like stepping into a house remembered from childhood rather than entering a new place. The air softened, the faint edge of tension easing from shoulders and breath alike, and even the machines seemed to hum more gently, as if they too had decided to behave. Helena felt it immediately, her spine relaxing as something deep and instinctive inside her whispered home.
A presence gathered near the hearth niche built into the far wall, not flaring into existence but settling, like embers stirred back to life. She appeared simply, warmly, without crown or weapon or grandeur, her smile the kind that made the room feel smaller in the best possible way.
"I'm Hestia," she said softly, voice steady and kind, as though she were introducing herself to a child at a kitchen table rather than revealing herself as a goddess. "I keep the hearth. I keep the places where people are safe." Helena looked at her for a long moment, then slid off the bed with Gabrielle's help, bare feet touching the floor without any trace of chill. She walked closer, eyes wide but not afraid, and something in her expression made Hestia's smile deepen with quiet pride.
"You don't feel scary," Helena said honestly. "You feel…warm." "That's because I'm family," Hestia replied gently. "Not because I'm powerful. Because I belong with you."
Susan's breath hitched, and Amelia's eyes shone with unshed tears as the weight of those words settled into the room. Selene straightened slightly, instincts humming, while Fleur and Gabrielle stayed close, hands never leaving Helena's sleeves. This was not a revelation delivered like a verdict, but like a truth finally allowed to rest.
"You are not a burden," Hestia continued softly, kneeling to Helena's level. "You are not a weapon. You are our Daughter, and you were always meant to be loved first."
Footsteps sounded quietly at the doorway, and Apollo entered in his human guise, blending seamlessly into the room until Helena turned and looked at him fully. The recognition didn't come as a shock, but as certainty, the way one knows the sun has risen even before opening their eyes. "Oh," Helena breathed.
Apollo said nothing, only met her gaze, warmth and restraint woven together as he waited, letting her name the truth in her own time. Helena's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration, and then she whispered, almost experimentally, "Aphrodite." Light gathered again, soft and rose-warm, and Aphrodite appeared with a smile already breaking into tears, because her daughter had remembered without being told. Helena's eyes widened as something older than words unlocked inside her, memories slipping free like birds from a long-closed hand.
She turned back to Hestia suddenly and wrapped her arms around her waist with fierce certainty. "Mama fire," Helena said, voice shaking but sure. Hestia closed her eyes, one hand resting protectively on Helena's back as the room seemed to breathe out all at once. Helena pulled away just long enough to look at Apollo, lifting her chin with a seriousness far beyond her years.
"Papa sun," she said softly. Apollo swallowed, emotion breaking through his composure as he knelt in front of her, resting his forehead briefly against hers in a gesture older than gods. Before anyone could speak, Helena turned again, tears finally spilling as she looked at Aphrodite.
"Mama Dove," she whispere, the name carried on memory rather than language. Aphrodite gathered her gently, careful not to overwhelm her small body, tears sliding freely as she pressed a kiss into Helena's hair. Helena clung to her, sobbing quietly now, and when she pulled back, she spoke through hiccupped breaths, words tumbling out as if she had been holding them for years.
"I remember," Helena said, voice small but steadying as she spoke. "I remember being… too bright. Too much. My body couldn't hold it, and it was hurting, and everything was falling apart." The adults in the room listened without interrupting, instinctively understanding that this was not imagination but memory surfacing at last. "I remember choosing," Helena continued, glancing briefly at Susan, Amelia, and her mates as if making sure they were still there. "I remember being born again. Lily helped me stay. Mum helped me be small enough to live. James helped me laugh."
She wiped her face with her sleeve, sniffing hard. "Being human made me strong enough to stay alive." Silence followed, not empty, but full, as truth settled into every heart present. Hestia rose slowly, her voice steady once more as she addressed the room. "She carries both," she said simply. "That is not a flaw. That is balance."
Helena leaned back into Gabrielle's side, exhaustion finally catching up with her, and Selene draped a blanket over her shoulders with careful hands. The gods remained, not looming, not judging, simply there, because this moment was not about power, but belonging. Outside, Paris continued on unaware, but inside the room, a child had finally been told who she was without being asked to carry it alone.
Time: 03:18 PM
Location: Military VIP Hospital, Secured Divine Wing, Paris, France
The decision to leave the hospital didn't come with ceremony, only with paperwork stamped so many times it felt like the ink itself was trying to build a wall around Helena. Jean's voice stayed calm as he spoke with officials, Apolline's hand never leaving Helena's shoulder, and John stood a half-step behind like the world's quietest promise, because Elizabeth had made her wishes painfully clear and he had accepted them without hesitation. "I'm staying," John said firmly when one officer tried to suggest rotating security. "I'm her family, and I'm not leaving her side."
Helena watched the room pack itself away around her, the blankets folded, the medicine tucked into secured cases, and she clung to Gabrielle's fingers as if the act of moving might erase everything she had just reclaimed. "I don't want strangers," Helena whispered, eyes lifting toward John's face, and her voice shook with the kind of fear a child learns when doors have been used as threats. John knelt, steady and close, and kept his voice soft enough to be only hers. "I'm right here, sweetheart," he promised. "You've got your loves, you've got me, and you've got France watching your back for now."
They moved her out through secured corridors that smelled like polished stone and old history, past carved symbols that still faintly held the memory of gods, and into the waiting convoy with the calm urgency of people who knew how quickly the world could turn cruel again. The vehicles were quiet but absolute, the kind of protection that didn't announce itself loudly because it didn't need to. Helena didn't shiver in the afternoon air as she stepped outside, her godly blood shielding her from discomfort the way it always had, but she still pressed closer to her people because cold had never been the thing she feared. "Hold me," she murmured, and Gabrielle answered instantly, "Always, love, I've got you."
Time: 03:56 PM
Location: Delacour Residence, France
The Delacour residence appeared behind gates and greenery like a place that had been waiting for her, elegant without feeling sharp, protective without feeling like a cage. Helena sat forward in the car the moment she saw it, eyes widening as if the shape of the world itself had just clicked back into alignment, and Fleur's breath caught when she realized Helena wasn't just recognizing a house. She was recognizing a life that had been stolen. "This is it," Helena whispered, voice so small it almost vanished, and Apolline's eyes filled with tears as she replied, "Yes, mon cœur… you're home."
The moment Helena crossed the threshold, the air changed again, not like a spell snapping into place, but like a hearth being lit in a room that had been too long dark. She moved slowly, barefoot on warm flooring, her hand held by Gabrielle while Fleur hovered close, and Selene watched every shadow like she was prepared to tear the world apart if it tried to touch Helena again. "I remember this," Helena said softly, turning her head from wall to wall as if the house itself were speaking. Susan's voice stayed gentle. "Then we'll keep it safe," she promised, "because you deserve a home that stays."
They guided her down a familiar path inside the residence, past rooms that made Helena's eyes flicker with half-formed memory, until she stopped so suddenly everyone froze with her. She stared at a particular doorway as if it were the edge of a cliff, her small fingers tightening around Gabrielle's hand until her knuckles went pale. "I slept there," Helena whispered, voice breaking. "Before… before it went downhill."
Apolline didn't rush her. Jean didn't speak at all. John simply stepped closer, not to push, but to be present, and Helena's breath hitched as she took one careful step forward, then another, until she stood in the doorway and stared into a room that felt like both sanctuary and wound. "I was happy," she said quietly, tears sliding down her face. "Then my human mum and dad… they were gone, and everything broke, and I didn't know how to fix it." Fleur dropped to her knees beside her and whispered through tears, "You don't have to fix it alone, sweetheart, not ever again."
Date: Saturday, January 30th, 1988
Time: 09:14 AM
Location: Pediatric Specialist Office, Paris, France
The year in France became a year of healing measured in small victories, in steady meals, in gentler sleep, and in the slow rebuilding of trust that had been shattered on purpose. John stayed as ordered, doing what Elizabeth called a "vacation" only on paper, because every day was spent watching hallways, checking windows, and learning the rhythms of Helena's safety the way some men learned prayer. Susan remained close with Amelia visiting as duty allowed, acting as the British magical world's steady representative in France, a quiet bridge between nations and between lives. Jean worked relentlessly behind closed doors, because being Minister meant protecting more than borders, and Apolline became the hearth of it all, the mother who made safety feel ordinary again.
When the doctors confirmed Helena's diagnosis of Central Precocious Puberty (CPP), they spoke with care and professionalism, focusing on health, stability, and how to support a child whose body was doing things earlier than expected. Helena listened with a solemn, too-old expression, then turned toward her bond mates like she needed to check that nothing about her would make them leave. "I'm still me," she said quietly, voice trembling with the fear of being rejected for something she couldn't control. Gabrielle squeezed her hand hard. "You're our love," she said fiercely. "Nothing about you makes us stop loving you." Fleur nodded, voice shaking. "We stay," she promised. Selene's answer was simple and absolute. "Always."
Date: Tuesday, April 26th, 1988
Time: 10:00 AM
Location: International Court Complex, France (Broadcast to UK, France, Greece, and USA)
Three months later, the trial began, and the world watched because it had to, because four nations had been harmed and one child's survival had forced the creation of something new. The courtroom was built like a fortress and staffed like one, with military police from all four nations present not as symbols, but as a reminder that Helena's safety was non-negotiable. Cameras broadcast the proceedings live, marking it as the first modern international trial of its kind in this context, and the weight of it settled over millions of homes like a storm. Helena entered under layered protection, Petunia seated beside her under royal safeguards, and the bond mates watching from the gallery with eyes that never left her.
Helena didn't look like a political headline when she sat there, small and composed, hands folded tight, John positioned where she could see him at all times. "I'm scared," Helena admitted in a whisper as the courtroom's noise swelled around her. John's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. "I know, sweetheart," he said quietly. "But you're not alone, and you're not powerless anymore." Petunia's face was pale, her hands trembling, and when she looked at Helena her expression held grief that had nowhere clean to go. "I should have done more," Petunia whispered, voice cracking. Helena glanced at her, then leaned in just slightly. "You tried," she said softly, because that truth mattered too in the middle of all the ugliness.
The accused were brought in under heavy guard, and the courtroom's temperature seemed to drop, not from cold, but from the collective fury of people who understood exactly what had been done. The case was no longer only criminal, it was diplomatic, moral, and historic all at once, because a child with multiple citizenships had nearly been destroyed and the world had seen the evidence with its own eyes. "They did this," someone in the gallery hissed, and another voice answered with something darker, "Then let them face the consequences in front of everyone." Helena stared forward, breathing steadily, held together by the people who loved her and the nations now forced to admit she existed.
Time: 11:37 AM
The prosecution did not begin gently, and when the sealed ledgers were opened on the large display screens, the sound in the courtroom seemed to collapse inward like a building losing its supports. Pages of financial laundering routes appeared one after another, each stamped and cross-referenced across four nations, and the quiet murmur that followed was not confusion but recognition. This was no longer a question of harsh parenting or isolated cruelty, because the evidence mapped years of calculated harm, of trafficking routes and falsified documentation, and of funds redirected through shell companies that linked directly back to the accused.
"Every transfer," the prosecutor said steadily, "passed through accounts controlled by Vernon Dursley or individuals acting under his instruction." The next set of documents hit harder.
Medical evaluations from the Paris hospital filled the screen, charts detailing Helena's height and weight against international pediatric standards, and the courtroom grew silent as the disparity became undeniable. The report confirmed Central Precocious Puberty, but it also detailed the trauma markers, noting that prolonged stress and malnutrition had altered her physical development, accelerating certain hormonal patterns while limiting natural fat distribution.
Dr. Marceau's recorded testimony played clearly. "Her body adapted to prolonged stress," she explained. "In response, she developed muscle tone more rapidly than expected for her age, a physiological survival mechanism. It is not normal, but it is consistent with sustained trauma."
Helena's fingers tightened around Gabrielle's hand in the gallery, confusion flashing across her face as she looked at Susan. "I'm going to be… different?" she asked softly, fear creeping into her voice.
Susan swallowed and answered carefully. "You're going to grow strong, love," she said, brushing Helena's hair back gently. "Strong isn't something to be afraid of."
John stood when the prosecution acknowledged him formally, and the International Court addressed him not as a soldier but as a witness whose actions had prevented a death. "Captain John Price," the presiding judge stated, voice measured, "your intervention is recognized by this court and by the four nations represented here as the act of a protector."
John stiffened, uncomfortable with the word hero, and answered simply. "I did what any family would have done," he said quietly. Then Helena was called.
Petunia walked beside her, pale but steady, seated next to Helena as required under protective witness protocol, and the military police from each nation took positions without drawing attention. Helena climbed into the witness seat with Gabrielle's whispered encouragement still warm in her ears and Selene's presence anchored somewhere behind her like a shadow that loved her.
The courtroom adjusted instantly to her height, microphones lowered, lights softened, because even international justice understood that a seven-and-a-half-year-old did not belong in a battlefield of adults. "Helena," the prosecutor asked gently, "can you tell the court what happened in the house?"
Helena inhaled slowly, remembering Hestia's warmth, remembering Mama Apo's hands, remembering Uncle J's promise. "He was angry," she said softly, eyes forward. "He didn't like that Aunt Petunia fed me when he wasn't looking. He didn't like that I remembered my mum."
A murmur moved through the gallery like wind. "I tried to be quiet," Helena continued, voice trembling but unbroken. "I tried to be small. I thought if I was small enough, he wouldn't see me." Petunia covered her mouth with one shaking hand, tears streaming freely now.
The defense attempted interruption, but the judge cut it down sharply, and Helena continued, her voice steadying as something deeper than fear took hold. "I don't hate him," she said finally, and the room leaned forward as one. "But I don't want him near me ever again." It was enough.
The court recessed briefly, protective measures escalating immediately, additional security placed around Helena's seating area, and the tension that followed was sharp enough to cut skin. When Helena stepped down from the witness stand and turned to rejoin her family, Vernon's restraint snapped and He lunged.
It happened in less than a second, a desperate, furious movement driven by humiliation rather than strength, but it was enough to send gasps echoing through the chamber. Selene moved faster than anyone saw, her form blurring across the aisle as she intercepted him cleanly and without hesitation. There was no spectacle, no flourish, only efficiency as she stopped him mid-motion and disabled him decisively before he could reach Helena. Vernon hit the floor hard, groaning, his attempt ending in disgrace rather than impact.
Selene didn't look triumphant; she looked furious in a quiet, controlled way as she scooped Helena up effortlessly and carried her back to the others. No one in the room tried to stop her, because everyone understood in that moment that whatever Vernon had intended, he had forfeited any claim to leniency. Helena clung to Selene's neck, shaking but not crying, and whispered, "It's over, right?" "Yes, love," Selene answered firmly. "He doesn't get to touch you again."
The judge returned with final orders expanding protective custody and condemning the assault attempt as further evidence of violent intent. The courtroom, and the world watching it, saw clearly then what the trial had been building toward: Helena was small, yes, but she was not breakable anymore.
And for the first time since she had been found, she did not look afraid.
Time: 04:42 PM
The courtroom did not buzz before the verdicts were read; it held itself rigid, as if the entire building understood that history was about to be written in careful, irreversible language. Four national flags stood behind the bench, and four judges rose in sequence, each representing a nation bound together not by treaty alone, but by the survival of a single child who had nearly been erased. Helena sat between Petunia and Susan, her bond mates close enough to touch, Selene watchful but still, and John positioned where she could see him without turning her head.
The French judge spoke first, voice clear and controlled as the cameras carried his words across borders. "In the name of the Republic of France," he began, "this court finds Vernon Dursley guilty of aggravated abuse, trafficking conspiracy, financial laundering, and attempted assault within the jurisdiction of France." His gavel struck once, heavy and decisive. "Sentence: life imprisonment under high-security confinement, without parole under French law."
The American judge followed, tone firm but precise. "Under United States jurisdiction, including cross-border financial crimes and trafficking violations," she stated, "the court affirms guilty verdicts on all counts." She paused briefly, glancing toward Helena with measured gravity. "Sentence: permanent federal incarceration and forfeiture of all assets linked to illicit operations."
The Greek judge rose next, his voice steady and deliberate. "Under Hellenic law, and in recognition of harm committed against a citizen of Greece, this court affirms conviction." His expression did not soften. "Sentence: concurrent life sentence and designation as an international offender under treaty enforcement."
Murmurs rippled faintly through the courtroom, but silence returned quickly when the British judge stood last.
"In the name of the United Kingdom," he said, "this court recognizes not only criminal violation but betrayal of civic trust." His voice deepened slightly. "Sentence: life imprisonment under British authority, concurrent with allied rulings, and formal stripping of state-recognized honors or entitlements previously granted."
He paused then, turning slightly toward the entrance. "This court also recognizes the unique constitutional standing of the harmed party," he continued. "Her Majesty has requested to address the chamber." The doors opened.
Queen Elizabeth II entered without spectacle, without entourage fanfare, carrying not a handbag but a single folded sheet of paper. The courtroom did not rise in confusion; it rose in instinct, because presence alone carried authority. She walked with quiet steadiness to the front, eyes scanning the chamber once before settling briefly on Helena, then shifting to the accused.
Her voice was calm when she spoke, but no one mistook it for weakness. "In my capacity as sovereign," she began, "and as grandmother to Helena Alexandra Potter, I deliver the Crown's formal decree." She unfolded the paper slowly.
"Vernon Dursley is hereby stripped of British citizenship under emergency constitutional authority, due to acts of severe abuse against a member of the Royal Family and violations against the Crown." Her eyes did not waver. "Marjorie Dursley and Dudley Dursley are likewise stripped of citizenship privileges under charges of complicity and sustained neglect."
The words landed like iron. "This decision is not vengeance," Elizabeth continued steadily. "It is protection."
Vernon stared at her in disbelief, rage and fear battling across his face, but the weight of four nations and the Crown left him with nowhere to stand. He began to speak, then stopped when his voice failed him entirely.
Elizabeth turned slightly then, her gaze brushing Selene, and a faint, knowing smile touched her lips not approval of violence, but acknowledgment that justice had already intervened when needed. Selene inclined her head just slightly, understanding passing between them without words.
Then Elizabeth looked at Helena as everything else in the room seemed to fade. Helena stood slowly, heart pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears, and for a moment she was seven and a half years old and terrified of stepping forward in front of cameras and judges and nations. Then she saw Elizabeth's face, and something in her broke open as she cries out. With her voice cracking as she ran forward without hesitation "Gran!"
Elizabeth did not step back, she bent, arms opening, and Helena collided into her with all the force of a child who had waited too long to be held. Cameras captured it, but the world did not matter in that second; only the sound of Helena sobbing against her grandmother's shoulder and Elizabeth whispering fiercely into her hair.
"I've got you now," Elizabeth murmured, voice thick with restrained emotion. "You are never lost again." Helena pulled back just enough to look at her face, hands gripping tightly. "You came," she said breathlessly. "Of course I came," Elizabeth answered softly. "You are mine."
Around them, the courtroom did not clap, did not cheer, because the moment required reverence rather than noise. Four nations had spoken in law, but the Crown had spoken in blood.
And Helena, Daughter of the Gods and granddaughter of a Queen, stood held in both worlds at once.
Time: 10:47 PM
Location: Delacour Residence, Private Garden Wing, France
Night settled differently after history had been made, quieter but heavier, as if the world itself needed time to absorb what it had witnessed. The Delacour residence slept in careful layers of security and soft lamplight, and Helena lay awake beneath linen sheets that smelled faintly of lavender, staring at the ceiling with thoughts too large for a seven-and-a-half-year-old heart. Gabrielle slept curled nearby, Fleur resting in a chair that she refused to abandon, Selene positioned where shadows gathered, and Susan across the hall with the door slightly open because distance no longer felt safe.
Helena did not shiver in the cool air drifting through the balcony doors, her godly blood keeping her comfortable, but her chest still felt tight with the weight of the day. She had been small under cameras, small under law, small under history, and yet everyone had spoken her name like it mattered. She turned onto her side and whispered into the dark, unsure who she meant to call for.
"Gran?" she murmured first, thinking of Elizabeth's embrace. The answer did not come in the way thunder answers prayer.
It came in the soft sound of soil shifting somewhere beyond the window, in the scent of stone warmed by ancient sun, and in the steady presence that felt like mountains rather than fire. The garden beyond the balcony seemed to deepen, shadows settling into shape until a figure stood among the olive trees, not crowned in glory but grounded in something older than crowns.
Rhea did not blaze into the room; she entered as one steps into their own home, calm and inevitable. Helena sat up slowly, heart pounding not with fear but with recognition that felt like memory stretching across centuries. "I know you," Helena whispered, her voice fragile and sure at once.
Rhea's smile was soft, lines of age and endurance etched gently across her face like stories carved into rock. "Of course you do, my Daughter's Daughter," she replied, voice carrying the sound of rivers carving through earth. "I have watched you longer than you know."
Helena slipped out of bed without waking Gabrielle, padding toward the open balcony doors as if drawn by gravity itself. The night air wrapped around her gently, but it did not bite, because she belonged to it as much as the soil did. She stepped onto the stone terrace, looking up into Rhea's eyes without shrinking.
"You're… not like Mama Fire," Helena said carefully. "You feel heavier. Stronger." "I am the ground beneath the hearth," Rhea answered with quiet warmth. "I am what holds the fire steady."
Helena swallowed, emotions rising fast and confusing, because she had held Elizabeth that afternoon and had felt something powerful and real there too. "I have two grandmothers," she said softly, almost asking permission to believe it.
Rhea nodded slowly, stepping closer until the space between them felt safe rather than vast. "You belong to both bloodlines," she said, her voice steady and certain. "And neither cancels the other."
Helena's eyes filled with tears that she did not try to hide. "I don't want to choose," she admitted in a trembling whisper. "I don't want to lose one to keep the other."
"You will not," Rhea said firmly, reaching out to brush her hand gently over Helena's hair in a gesture as natural as sunrise. "Mortal blood gave you balance. Divine blood gave you endurance. Your human grandmother gave you duty. I give you foundation. You are not torn between worlds. You are the bridge."
Behind her, Selene stirred faintly, sensing presence but not danger, and Apollo, watching unseen, did not interfere. This was not a moment for sun or flame or spectacle; it was for roots.
Rhea crouched slightly to meet Helena eye-to-eye, her ancient gaze steady and kind. "You were born of light too bright to remain," she said softly. "You chose to be small so you could live. That choice was strength, not weakness."
Helena stepped forward without hesitation and wrapped her arms around Rhea's waist, and though the goddess was ancient earth and titan-blood, she held her granddaughter gently, carefully, like something fragile and infinite at once.
"I'm still little," Helena whispered against her. "Yes," Rhea agreed with a quiet smile. "And that is not the same as being powerless."
The night deepened, and for the first time since the trial, Helena felt not only protected, but anchored. She did not need to be only royal or only divine. She could be both, and neither world would claim her at the expense of the other.
When Rhea faded back into the garden shadows, she left behind no thunder, no tremor, only the steady assurance of soil beneath stone.
Helena returned to her bed and lay down beside Gabrielle, her breathing evening out slowly as sleep came easier than it had in years. She did not feel divided anymore. She felt whole.
Date: Saturday, July 23rd, 1988
Time: 06:14 AM
Location: Delacour Estate, Private Garden Grounds, France
One year had not erased what had happened, but it had reshaped it.
The gardens behind the Delacour estate glowed softly in early summer light, dew clinging to trimmed hedges and stone paths that Helena now walked without hesitation. She was taller than she had been the year before, though still small for her age, her movements more controlled, her posture steadier, and the fragile tension that once lived permanently in her shoulders now replaced by quiet awareness. The trauma that had once forced her body into survival had not vanished, but it had been studied, understood, and gently guided into something deliberate.
John stood at the far edge of the lawn with his arms folded, no longer looking like a soldier waiting for an attack but like a man watching a child learn balance. Helena faced him barefoot in the grass, fists raised in a playful defensive stance she had practiced hundreds of times now, her expression focused but not afraid.
"Again," Helena said with determined seriousness, bouncing lightly on her feet.
John exhaled through his nose, trying not to smile. "You sure, sweetheart?"
"Yes," she insisted, chin lifting. "I'm not scared of being strong anymore."
He stepped forward slowly, guiding rather than pushing, and when Helena blocked his movement cleanly and shifted her weight correctly, he nodded with quiet pride. Her strength no longer came from panic; it came from repetition, structure, and safety. Structured therapy had helped her understand her body instead of fearing it, and careful physical training had shaped her trauma-adapted muscle development into something controlled rather than reactive.
Gabrielle clapped softly from the stone bench, her voice warm and bright. "You did it, love!"
Fleur crossed her arms but couldn't hide her smile. "She is improving every week."
Selene, ever observant, added calmly, "She's not bracing anymore. She's choosing."
Helena straightened, brushing grass from her knees, breathing steady instead of ragged. She did not overheat in the summer sun, nor did the cool morning air bother her when clouds passed overhead, because her godly blood held her temperature in perfect balance. For the first time in her life, her body felt like something she lived in rather than something she survived through.
Later that morning, structured therapy continued indoors under Dr. Marceau's supervision, exercises designed not to build size but to build trust between mind and muscle. Charts showed healthy progression despite the earlier diagnosis of Central Precocious Puberty, and specialists noted with cautious optimism that Helena's unique hormonal response once triggered by prolonged stress had stabilized within safe parameters.
"I don't feel broken anymore," Helena said quietly during a rest interval, looking at Susan and Amelia who were visiting from Britain that week. "You were never broken," Susan replied gently, brushing Helena's hair back. "You were surviving." "And now?" Helena asked. "Now you're living," Amelia answered firmly.
That afternoon, under the olive trees where Rhea had once appeared, Helena sat with Apolline and Jean while papers lay neatly arranged on a small table between them. They were not frightening documents this time, but plans structured transitions, educational arrangements, security agreements preparing her gradual movement between France and Britain without tearing her roots up again.
"You won't be leaving tomorrow," Jean assured her calmly. "We prepare slowly. You will always have France." "And you will always have us," Apolline added, voice soft but unwavering.
Helena nodded, processing carefully, because she had learned that sudden change hurt, but guided change healed.
That evening, as twilight painted the estate in gold and lavender, Apollo stood unseen near the treeline while Hestia's warmth lingered faintly near the house, and Rhea's presence felt like steady ground beneath it all. The gods did not intervene; they observed with quiet satisfaction, because their Daughter was not being sharpened into a weapon or hidden as a relic. She was growing.
As night settled fully, Helena lay between Gabrielle and Susan in her familiar room, listening to the soft hum of a house that felt lived-in and safe. Her bond mates' breathing was steady, Selene alert but calm near the window, and John's quiet patrol footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor.
"I'm not afraid of Britain," Helena whispered into the dark. "You won't face it alone, sweetheart," Gabrielle murmured sleepily. "Never alone," Selene added firmly.
Helena closed her eyes and felt something she had not felt in years anticipation without dread. The bridge was no longer fragile. It was being built deliberately, stone by stone. And summer, for the first time, belonged to her.