Meanwhile, at Number Four Privet Drive, Albus Dumbledore stood in the front garden like a particularly overdressed scarecrow who'd gotten lost on his way to a Renaissance festival. His long purple robes, complete with silver stars that actually twinkled in the afternoon sunlight, made him stand out against the aggressively beige suburban landscape like a peacock at a penguin convention.
The neighbors were beginning to notice. Mrs. Peterson from Number Six had been watering the same hydrangea bush for twenty minutes while staring at him with the kind of fascination usually reserved for traffic accidents or reality television. Mr. Jameson from across the street had pretended to check his mail seventeen times, each trip taking him closer to the property line for a better look at whatever exotic variety of eccentric was currently gracing their determinedly normal neighborhood.
Dumbledore, however, was completely oblivious to the suburban surveillance network, because he was busy having what philosophers might call "a crisis of conscience" and what normal people would call "finally figuring out that maybe treating a ten-year-old like a chess piece wasn't his finest moment."
The conversation with Mrs. Figg had been... illuminating. And by illuminating, he meant it had been the kind of conversation that made you question every major decision you'd made in the past decade and possibly consider whether a career change might be in order.
*"The boy's been treated poorly, Albus. Very poorly. I've tried to intervene when I could, but there's only so much a neighbor can do without raising questions. Vernon Dursley treats that child like he's something unpleasant he found on the bottom of his shoe. And Petunia... Petunia acts like Harry's very existence is a personal insult to her carefully constructed normal life."*
But Mrs. Figg's words were one thing. Actually seeing the evidence was quite another.
The front door opened, and Vernon Dursley appeared like a angry purple walrus who'd been personally inconvenienced by the existence of gravity. His mustache bristled with the kind of righteous indignation that came from discovering that his perfectly normal Tuesday was about to be complicated by people who dressed like they'd raided a theatrical costume department.
"You," Vernon said, his voice carrying all the warmth of an Arctic winter during a blizzard, "are the ruddy great beard fellow from ten years ago. The one who left that... that *thing* on my doorstep like some sort of unwanted Christmas present that nobody asked for and everyone wished would just go away."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying that particular tone adults use when they're trying to be polite to people they find personally objectionable and potentially dangerous to children's welfare. "I hope you don't mind me calling unannounced, but I'm afraid we have rather urgent matters to discuss regarding Harry."
Vernon's face went through several interesting color changes, settling on a shade of purple that probably violated several laws of nature and definitely suggested that his blood pressure was operating at levels that would concern medical professionals.
"That freak isn't here," Vernon said with the kind of satisfaction that came from delivering news he thought would make his problems go away permanently. "Good riddance too. Haven't had to deal with his freakishness for days now. House has been peaceful for the first time in years."
Dumbledore felt something cold settle in his stomach that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the growing realization that his carefully constructed assumptions about Harry's care might have been built on foundations of willful ignorance and strategic blindness.
"Harry isn't here?" he asked carefully, his voice carrying the tone of someone who was beginning to suspect they were about to learn something that would require immediate action and possibly extensive damage control.
"Disappeared sometime Sunday night," Vernon said with the kind of cheerful callousness that suggested he'd received excellent news about something that most people would find deeply concerning. "Probably ran off to join some circus or freak show where his abnormalities would be properly appreciated by other deviants and social misfits."
"You seem remarkably unconcerned about the disappearance of a ten-year-old child in your care," Dumbledore observed, his voice taking on the kind of dangerous quiet that made smart people remember pressing engagements elsewhere.
"Wasn't in our care by choice," Vernon replied with the kind of aggressive defensiveness that came from people who knew they were being judged and had decided to double down on their position rather than admit they might have made some questionable decisions. "Forced to take the brat in because of bleeding heart relatives who couldn't be bothered to deal with the consequences of their own freak lifestyle choices."
Behind Vernon, Petunia appeared in the doorway like a disapproving giraffe who'd just spotted something personally offensive in her perfectly manicured suburban kingdom. Her neck stretched forward as she examined Dumbledore with the kind of disdain usually reserved for people who committed fashion crimes against nature.
"We did our duty," she said, her voice sharp enough to perform emergency surgery on unwilling patients. "Fed him, clothed him, kept a roof over his head for ten years. More than he deserved, considering what his sort brought down on our heads."
"His sort?" Dumbledore asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer and was definitely not going to like it.
"Freaks," Vernon said with the casual cruelty of someone who'd been perfecting this particular form of bigotry for years and had gotten really good at it. "Abnormals. People who think the rules don't apply to them just because they can do things that decent, normal folk can't do. The whole lot of them are trouble, mark my words."
Dumbledore felt his carefully maintained composure beginning to crack like ice under pressure. This wasn't just neglect or reluctant guardianship—this was active hostility toward a child whose only crime had been being born into circumstances beyond his control.
"Perhaps," he said with the kind of forced politeness that suggested he was working very hard to maintain civilized discourse when what he really wanted to do was demonstrate why annoying powerful wizards was traditionally considered a poor life choice, "you could show me where Harry lived while he was here? His room, perhaps?"
Vernon and Petunia exchanged the kind of look that suggested they'd just been asked to reveal something they really, really didn't want anyone to see, but couldn't figure out how to refuse without making themselves look even worse than they already did.
"His room," Petunia said finally, her voice carrying the tone of someone who was being forced to discuss something deeply embarrassing that she'd hoped no one would ever ask about.
She led Dumbledore through the house, past a living room that looked like it had been decorated by someone who thought beige was the height of sophistication and family photographs that notably failed to include any images of a dark-haired boy with green eyes.
"Here," she said, opening a door with the kind of reluctant resignation that suggested she'd rather be doing literally anything else with her Tuesday afternoon.
Dumbledore looked inside and felt his entire worldview shift like tectonic plates deciding they needed better working conditions.
It was a cupboard. Not a small room that might generously be called cozy—an actual cupboard under the stairs, barely large enough for storage, much less human habitation. The ceiling sloped so severely that an adult couldn't stand upright, and a child would have to duck to avoid hitting their head on the stairs above. A thin mattress lay on the floor, surrounded by the kind of desperate makeshift arrangements that came from someone trying to make an impossible living situation barely tolerable.
Spider webs decorated the corners like nature's own commentary on the neglect and abandonment. The walls were bare except for scratches that looked like they'd been made by someone keeping track of time, or possibly just trying to leave some mark that they'd existed in this space.
The door had multiple locks on the outside—the kind of locks that kept people in, not out.
"Sweet Merlin," Dumbledore whispered, his voice barely audible as the full implications of what he was seeing began to sink in like stones dropping into very deep, very cold water. "You kept him in a cupboard."
"It was perfectly adequate," Petunia said defensively, her voice carrying the sharp edge of someone who knew they were being judged and had decided to attack rather than defend. "He had everything he needed—a place to sleep, privacy, somewhere to keep his freakish belongings where decent people didn't have to look at them."
"You locked him in," Dumbledore said, his voice taking on the kind of dangerous quiet that made the air itself seem to thicken with barely controlled magical energy. "A child. In a cupboard. With locks on the outside."
"He was always trying to escape," Vernon said with the aggressive justification of someone explaining why their obviously unreasonable behavior was actually perfectly logical if you just looked at it from the right perspective. "Running off to cause trouble in the neighborhood with his abnormalities. The locks were for everyone's protection."
Dumbledore stepped into the cupboard, his robes brushing against walls that had been home to Harry Potter—the most famous child in the wizarding world, the boy he'd placed here for his own protection—for ten years. Ten years of living in a space barely fit for storage, locked away like something shameful that had to be hidden from decent society.
His fingers traced the scratches on the wall, and his worst suspicions were confirmed—they were tally marks. Days. Someone had been keeping track of days spent in this cupboard, which suggested there had been many, many days when Harry had been locked in here with nothing to do but mark time and wonder why the adults in his life thought he deserved to live like this.
"How often," Dumbledore asked, his voice carrying the kind of controlled fury that made nearby objects rattle with sympathetic vibration, "was Harry locked in here?"
"Whenever he misbehaved," Vernon said with the tone of someone explaining perfectly reasonable disciplinary procedures to someone who was obviously too soft-hearted to understand proper child-rearing techniques. "Whenever his freakishness caused problems for normal people trying to live normal lives. Sometimes for days at a time, until he learned to control his abnormalities and behave like a decent human being instead of the freak he was born to be."
"Days," Dumbledore repeated, his voice hollow with the kind of horror that came from realizing that your actions had directly led to systematic child abuse and you'd been too caught up in your own plans to notice or care.
"Without food?" he asked, though he already knew the answer and was beginning to understand why Mrs. Figg had been so concerned about Harry's welfare.
"Food was a privilege to be earned through good behavior," Petunia said with the sharp precision of someone who'd convinced herself that systematic starvation was actually character building and good for children who needed to learn proper respect for authority.
Dumbledore closed his eyes and leaned against the wall of the cupboard, feeling the weight of ten years of catastrophic misjudgment settling on his shoulders like a mountain made of guilt, regret, and the dawning realization that he'd failed Harry Potter in ways that probably required their own category in the literature about child welfare disasters.
This wasn't just neglect. This wasn't just reluctant guardianship by relatives who didn't understand magic. This was systematic abuse, deliberate cruelty, and the kind of treatment that would traumatize any child and definitely explained why Harry had apparently acquired cosmic allies who specialized in creative justice and had strong opinions about people who hurt children.
"Did it ever occur to you," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice carrying the kind of deadly calm that preceded the sort of magical accidents that required extensive property insurance claims and possibly grief counseling for surviving witnesses, "that Harry was just a child? A little boy who'd lost his parents and needed love, care, and protection instead of punishment for circumstances entirely beyond his control?"
"What he needed," Vernon said with the kind of aggressive certainty that came from people who'd spent years convincing themselves that their obviously wrong behavior was actually perfectly reasonable, "was discipline. Structure. Real-world consequences for his freakish behavior that would teach him to control his abnormalities and function in decent society like a normal human being instead of expecting special treatment for his genetic defects."
That was apparently the last straw for whatever remained of Dumbledore's legendary patience and careful emotional control.
"*Legilimens,*" he said quietly, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd just decided that subtle approaches to information gathering were no longer appropriate for this situation.
The spell hit Vernon's mind like a freight train loaded with righteous fury and decades of experience with people who lied to themselves about their own motivations. What Dumbledore saw there made his blood run cold and his magical core surge with the kind of protective rage that had made him legendary for reasons that had nothing to do with wise grandfatherly twinkles and strategic candy distribution.
Ten years of memories flooded through Vernon's mind, each one worse than the last. Harry at five, locked in the cupboard for three days because a glass had exploded during one of Dudley's tantrums, and Vernon had decided it must have been "freakish behavior" that needed correction. Harry at seven, forced to cook breakfast on a stove he could barely reach while Vernon screamed at him for being too slow and too stupid to manage simple tasks properly.
Harry at eight, systematically starved because Vernon had decided that "normal portions" were too much for "freaks who didn't deserve special treatment." Harry at nine, doing yard work in weather that would have endangered grown adults while Vernon watched from the window and complained about the boy's lack of proper enthusiasm for hard work and character building.
And through it all, the constant, systematic emotional abuse. The daily reminders that Harry was unwanted, abnormal, a burden that decent people had been forced to bear through no fault of their own. The careful destruction of any sense of self-worth, any belief that he might deserve love, care, or even basic human decency.
Dumbledore pulled back from Vernon's mind feeling like he'd been swimming in a sewer made of concentrated cruelty and willful ignorance. His hands shook with the effort required to maintain enough self-control not to demonstrate why making powerful wizards genuinely angry was traditionally considered an excellent way to become a cautionary tale in history books.
"Get out," he said quietly, his voice carrying harmonics that made the windows rattle and several small objects around the house spontaneously combust.
"I beg your pardon?" Vernon said, his voice rising with the kind of indignant confusion that came from people who'd just been told they couldn't continue doing things they'd convinced themselves were perfectly acceptable.
"GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE," Dumbledore roared, his voice carrying magical authority that made the very foundations of Number Four Privet Drive tremble like a building that had just realized it was structurally unsound and probably needed extensive repairs or complete demolition.
"GET OUT BEFORE I FORGET THAT I AM SUPPOSED TO BE A CIVILIZED HUMAN BEING AND REMEMBER THAT I AM ALSO ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL WIZARDS IN RECORDED HISTORY WITH VERY STRONG OPINIONS ABOUT PEOPLE WHO SYSTEMATICALLY ABUSE CHILDREN."
The magical pressure radiating from Dumbledore was like standing next to a barely contained nuclear reaction that had strong opinions about child welfare and was considering some very creative applications of physics-defying justice. The air itself seemed to sparkle with barely controlled energy that suggested anyone who didn't leave immediately might discover what it felt like to exist in several dimensions simultaneously.
Vernon and Petunia fled their own house like it was on fire and they were afraid the fire might spread to their moral character, which was probably already damaged beyond repair but might still be salvageable if they ran fast enough.
Dumbledore stood alone in the cupboard under the stairs, surrounded by the evidence of his spectacular failure as a guardian, a protector, and a human being who was supposed to care about children's welfare above his own convenience.
Harry Potter—the child he was supposed to protect, the boy whose parents had died trusting that the wizarding world would care for their son—had lived here. In this cupboard. For ten years. While Dumbledore had convinced himself that blood wards and the greater good justified ignoring the systematic abuse happening right under his nose.
And now Harry was gone, presumably with allies who specialized in cosmic justice and had very strong opinions about people who failed to protect children from obvious abuse. Allies who'd already demonstrated their approach to education involved consuming Death Eaters and Dementors, and probably had similar educational experiences planned for anyone else who'd been complicit in Harry's mistreatment.
"Oh, Harry," Dumbledore whispered, his voice breaking with the weight of ten years of accumulated guilt and the dawning realization that he might have lost the right to call himself the boy's protector through his own willful blindness and misplaced priorities. "What have I done? What have I allowed to happen to you?"
Outside, Vernon and Petunia stood on their perfect lawn, watching their house shake like it was having an existential crisis about its own structural integrity. Several neighbors had gathered to watch the show, probably wondering if they were witnessing a localized earthquake or just another Tuesday in suburban Surrey.
"Is the house supposed to do that?" Mrs. Peterson asked with the kind of scientific curiosity that came from watching impossible things happen in broad daylight and deciding that maybe her Tuesday was going to be more interesting than she'd planned.
"I don't think houses usually glow like that," Mr. Jameson observed, watching purple light flicker through the windows of Number Four like someone was having a disco party with supernatural lighting effects.
Inside the house, Dumbledore was having what psychologists might call "a complete breakdown" and what he preferred to think of as "a long-overdue reassessment of priorities and possibly also career choices."
For the first time in decades, Albus Dumbledore—Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Order of Merlin First Class, and generally acknowledged as one of the most powerful and wise wizards of his generation—was forced to confront the possibility that he'd made mistakes that were too big to fix with good intentions and strategic maneuvering.
Harry Potter was somewhere out there with cosmic allies who specialized in justice and had already demonstrated their educational methods on people who'd wronged innocent children. And honestly, after seeing what he'd seen and learning what he'd learned, Dumbledore was beginning to think that maybe cosmic justice was exactly what this situation required.
He just hoped that when Harry's new allies finished educating everyone who'd failed him, they might be willing to include one old wizard who'd let his plans and prejudices blind him to a child's suffering, and who desperately wanted the chance to make amends for failures that had nearly destroyed the boy he'd sworn to protect.
Though given what he'd learned about cosmic entity approaches to education, he suspected that conversation was going to be significantly more intense than any he'd ever had with the Wizengamot, the Ministry, or anyone else who'd made the mistake of thinking they knew better than a ten-year-old boy with access to interdimensional justice.
This was going to be very interesting for everyone involved. And by interesting, Dumbledore meant it was probably going to require therapy for everyone who survived the educational experience.
---
Meanwhile, at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, the ancestral Black family home was experiencing what could charitably be called "aggressive renovations" and what the neighbors might have described as "violent architectural improvements that probably violated several building codes and definitely weren't covered by standard homeowner's insurance."
The house had been uninhabited for over a decade, which in magical residences usually meant it had developed opinions about neglect, accumulated enough dust to qualify as a archaeological site, and possibly attracted residents who weren't technically alive but had very strong feelings about property maintenance.
"Right," Sirius said, standing in the front hallway and surveying the damage with the expression of someone who'd just remembered why he'd avoided coming home even before he'd been wrongfully imprisoned for mass murder, "I'd forgotten how charming Mother's decorating sense was. Very 'early medieval dungeon' with hints of 'psychological warfare through interior design.'"
The wallpaper appeared to be moving, which might have been a trick of the light or might have been the house's way of expressing displeasure at having been abandoned for so long. Several portraits lined the walls, their occupants currently sleeping but probably preparing to wake up and share their opinions about the current state of home maintenance and the general decline of proper Black family values.
"It's certainly... atmospheric," Ted said diplomatically, his legal mind already cataloguing health and safety violations that would probably require extensive consultation with experts in magical property law and possibly exorcists who specialized in houses with attitude problems.
Andromeda moved through the hallway with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd grown up in this house and knew exactly which floorboards creaked, which doors stuck, and which rooms were likely to contain relatives who'd never quite gotten around to dying properly.
"The important thing," she said, pulling out her wand and beginning the process of reactivating lighting systems that had been dormant for years, "is that it's secure, it's legally owned by Sirius as head of the family, and it has enough rooms to house everyone while we prepare our legal case."
"And the library," Bellatrix added, her voice carrying the wistful tone of someone who'd grown up reading in that library and still remembered it as one of the few peaceful places in a house that had specialized in training children to be prejudiced against everyone who wasn't pure-blood and personally successful at systematic oppression.
Harry looked around the hallway, taking in the grandeur and decay with the fascination of someone who'd spent his entire life in suburban purgatory and was now experiencing architecture that had been designed by people who thought subtlety was for people who lacked proper ambition and adequate funding.
*"Now this is more like it,"* Drakor said with genuine appreciation, his mental voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd just discovered accommodations that met his standards for cosmic entity housing. *"Proper dramatic architecture, centuries of accumulated magical energy, and just the right amount of ominous atmosphere to make visitors understand they're in the presence of people who take themselves very seriously and have the resources to back up that attitude."*
"Kreacher!" Sirius called, his voice echoing through the house like someone summoning either loyal assistance or supernatural judgment, depending on how you felt about house-elves who'd been left unsupervised for over a decade.
A sound like something extremely old and extremely irritated being forced to move faster than it wanted to echoed from the depths of the house, followed by muttering that probably violated several noise ordinances and definitely included opinions about ungrateful masters who abandoned their ancestral homes and then expected everything to be maintained in perfect condition without supervision, proper funding, or basic appreciation for house-elf dedication.
Kreacher appeared with the dramatic timing of someone who'd been practicing his entrance for years and wanted to make sure everyone understood exactly how put-upon he felt about current circumstances.
The ancient house-elf looked like he'd been designed by someone who'd heard descriptions of domestic help but had never actually seen any, then left to maintain a large house by himself for over a decade while developing increasingly strong opinions about proper household management and the general decline of wizard civilization.
"Master Sirius returns to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," Kreacher announced with the tone of someone delivering news that was either wonderfully exciting or absolutely terrible, depending on your perspective on family reunions involving wanted fugitives and property that hadn't been properly maintained in years.
His bulging eyes took in the assembled group with the calculating assessment of someone cataloguing problems that were definitely going to require extensive work and probably weren't going to be properly appreciated by anyone involved in creating them.
"And brings strangers into the house of his ancestors," Kreacher continued, his voice carrying increasing disapproval as he processed the presence of people who probably weren't pure-blood and definitely hadn't been invited by proper traditional methods involving formal written invitations and adequate background checks.
"Kreacher," Sirius said with the patient tone of someone who'd dealt with this particular house-elf before and knew that conversations involving household management were going to require careful negotiation and possibly bribery involving proper appreciation for decades of loyal service, "these are not strangers. This is Harry Potter—my godson, James and Lily's son, and the rightful heir to everything his parents wanted him to have."
Kreacher's eyes went even wider, which seemed physically impossible until you remembered that house-elf anatomy apparently operated on different principles than standard biology and was probably governed by magic that had strong opinions about dramatic facial expressions.
"Harry Potter," he breathed, his voice carrying the reverence usually reserved for discussing legendary figures or really excellent puddings. "The Boy Who Lived comes to Grimmauld Place."
His gaze shifted to Harry with something that might have been awe if house-elves were capable of normal emotions, or might have been the recognition that he was in the presence of someone who'd achieved fame through surviving things that usually killed people and might have very interesting stories about cosmic justice and educational violence.
"Kreacher serves the Noble House of Black," the house-elf continued with increasing formality, "and Harry Potter is blood of the blood, heir to the Ancient and Most Noble traditions, welcome in the house of his ancestors and entitled to all honors and services that Kreacher can provide."
"That's... surprisingly diplomatic," Ted observed, his legal training having prepared him for negotiations involving difficult clients but not necessarily house-elves who appeared to operate on protocols that had been established sometime around the Norman Conquest.
"Kreacher has had a lot of time to think about proper household management," Andromeda explained with the fond tone of someone who'd grown up with house-elf assistance and understood that they operated on principles that made perfect sense if you approached them from the right historical perspective and didn't think too hard about the legal implications.
"Also," Bellatrix added quietly, "he's probably the only one in this house who's been consistently loyal to the family for the past fifteen years. Even when the rest of us were either imprisoned, disowned, or magically enslaved into committing war crimes."
Harry stepped forward with the careful movements of someone who'd never had household help and wasn't entirely sure how you were supposed to talk to magical creatures who'd been maintaining your ancestral home while you lived in a cupboard under suburban stairs.
"Hello, Kreacher," he said politely, his voice carrying that careful courtesy that came from growing up with relatives who'd taught him to be polite to everyone because you never knew when someone might decide to make your life more difficult than it already was. "It's nice to meet you. I hope we're not causing too much trouble."
Kreacher looked like someone had just offered him the greatest compliment of his very long life and possibly several previous incarnations. House-elves, apparently, were not accustomed to being thanked for their service or having their convenience considered by the wizards they served.
"Master Harry Potter is most kind," Kreacher said with the kind of emotional reverence that suggested he was filing this interaction away as evidence that maybe the current generation of the Black family was going to be an improvement over previous management. "Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House and is most honored to assist in any way that brings credit to the ancient bloodlines and traditional values."
"Right then," Sirius said, clapping his hands together with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd decided to approach household management like a military operation that required clear objectives and efficient execution, "here's what we need: the house cleaned and aired out, enough bedrooms prepared for everyone, the kitchen stocked with proper food including substantial quantities of high-quality dark chocolate, and the library organized for extensive legal research involving centuries of pure-blood family documents and probably some very controversial historical precedents."
"And security," Ted added, his lawyer instincts reminding him that they were all technically fugitives from justice who were probably being actively sought by law enforcement officials with uncomfortable questions about prison breaks and missing Dementors. "We need to make sure no one can locate us here while we prepare our legal case."
"The house is protected by the Fidelius Charm," Andromeda said with the confidence of someone who'd grown up understanding exactly how extensive Black family security measures were and why they'd been necessary for people who'd made careers out of being politically controversial. "No one can find us here unless they're told the location by the Secret Keeper."
"Who is?" Harry asked, because when you're dealing with magical protection that depends on someone keeping secrets, it's important to know who's responsible for maintaining your safety and whether they're likely to be reliable under pressure.
"I am," Sirius said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just figured out how to turn his family's paranoid security measures into protection for people who actually deserved it. "Inherited the position when I became head of the family, along with all the other responsibilities that come with maintaining centuries of accumulated pure-blood drama and property that probably requires its own postal code."
*"Excellent defensive positioning,"* Drakor observed with professional approval, like a cosmic entity who'd evaluated security arrangements on multiple planets and had developed strong opinions about proper fortress management. *"Magical concealment, loyal household assistance, and extensive archives containing the legal precedents we need to systematically dismantle corrupt institutions. Very thorough preparation for educational campaigns involving governmental reform."*
"Kreacher," Sirius continued, "we're also going to need privacy for some very sensitive conversations about legal matters, family history, and possibly planning strategies that involve cosmic justice and creative applications of existing laws. Very confidential discussions that require absolute discretion."
Kreacher nodded with the understanding of someone who'd spent decades managing household affairs for a family that had made discretion an art form and had learned to keep secrets that would probably require their own classification system in government filing cabinets.
"Kreacher understands," he said solemnly, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been keeping Black family secrets since before most of the current generation had been born and was prepared to continue that tradition for whatever new varieties of family drama were about to unfold. "The Noble House requires privacy for important business. Kreacher will ensure absolute secrecy and proper security for all household operations."
"And," Harry added, because growing up with the Dursleys had taught him the importance of considering everyone's welfare when making household arrangements, "please make sure you have everything you need to be comfortable. Proper food, adequate rest, whatever you require to maintain your health and happiness while you're helping us."
Kreacher looked like someone had just offered him the Crown Jewels wrapped in recognition of his decades of loyal service and tied with a bow made of genuine appreciation for house-elf contributions to household management.
"Master Harry Potter is most gracious," he said with the kind of emotional overwhelm that suggested this was the first time in decades anyone had considered his personal welfare as part of household planning decisions. "Kreacher will serve with honor and pride, and will ensure that the Noble House provides proper hospitality for all guests and family members."
As they settled into the process of turning an abandoned mansion into headquarters for systematic governmental reform, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of rightness about the whole situation. For the first time in his life, he was in a place where he belonged, surrounded by people who actually wanted him there, planning to ensure that other children wouldn't have to suffer the way he had.
*"This is going to be beautiful,"* Drakor said with cosmic satisfaction, his mental voice carrying the anticipation of someone who was really looking forward to the educational experiences they were about to provide for people who'd spent years ignoring systematic injustice. *"Proper base of operations, excellent legal support, loyal household assistance, and enough accumulated family drama to power our campaign for months. Plus, I can already sense that this house has accumulated enough magical energy over the centuries to support some truly spectacular demonstrations of cosmic justice when the time comes."*
"When do we start?" Harry asked, settling into a chair in the library that was probably older than most governments and had definitely witnessed more family drama than any piece of furniture should reasonably be expected to handle.
"First, we document everything," Ted said, his legal mind already organizing their approach with the efficiency of someone who'd built a career on turning complex problems into systematic victories through superior preparation and really excellent attention to detail. "Every piece of evidence, every legal precedent, every document that proves systematic injustice and governmental corruption."
"Then we prepare our presentation to the Wizengamot," Andromeda added, her healer training contributing practical considerations about timing and medical evidence that would support their case for systematic reform of child protection laws.
"And then?" Bellatrix asked, her voice carrying the hopeful tone of someone who was beginning to believe that maybe, finally, the people responsible for her fifteen years of magical enslavement were going to face consequences for their actions.
*"Then we educate them,"* Drakor said cheerfully, his mental voice carrying the satisfaction of a cosmic entity who was really looking forward to providing some very memorable lessons about proper ethics, child welfare, and why treating people like property was both morally reprehensible and practically inadvisable when cosmic justice was available as an alternative.
*"Very comprehensive educational experiences. The kind that really stick with you. Possibly permanently."*
Harry grinned as he settled in to begin the most important research project of his life. It was time to show the wizarding world what happened when you underestimated ten-year-old boys with cosmic allies, access to centuries of legal precedents, and very strong opinions about justice, child welfare, and treating people with basic human decency.
This was going to be spectacular.
---
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