The Tonks family cottage in Kent had always been the kind of place where unexpected visitors were welcome, assuming they arrived at reasonable hours and didn't require immediate medical attention, legal representation, or crisis counseling. This morning, it was about to become the kind of place that specialized in all three.
Ted and Andromeda Tonks were currently engaged in what married couples with an empty nest call "quality time"—which is a polite way of saying they were taking advantage of their daughter Nymphadora being away at Hogwarts for her seventh year to rediscover why they'd fallen in love in the first place.
Andromeda, despite being in her forties, possessed the kind of timeless Black family beauty that made people stop and stare even when she was just buying groceries. This morning, she'd decided to surprise her husband with a particularly fetching negligee that was midnight blue silk and strategic transparency, and had been designed by someone who clearly understood that subtle was overrated when you had a house to yourself.
Ted Tonks, who had always considered himself the luckiest wizard in Britain for winning the heart of a Black family daughter, was currently demonstrating his appreciation for his wife's fashion choices with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested they were about to have a very good morning indeed.
"You know," Ted murmured against his wife's neck, his hands tracing patterns on silk that probably violated several public decency laws, "I'm beginning to think we should send Dora away more often."
"Careful," Andromeda laughed, her voice carrying that throaty quality that had made Ted walk into walls during their Hogwarts years, "or she'll come home to find us in a permanent state of celebration."
"I can think of worse fates," Ted replied, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below her ear that made her make sounds that definitely weren't appropriate for family-friendly conversation.
It was at that exact moment—because the universe apparently had a subscription service to Murphy's Law and really enjoyed getting its money's worth—that someone knocked on their front door.
Not a polite tap or a gentle rap, but the kind of firm, urgent knocking that suggested whoever was on the other side had important business that couldn't wait for more convenient timing. The kind of knocking that made married couples stop what they were doing and remember that the outside world still existed and occasionally had opinions about their personal schedule.
"Ignore it," Ted murmured, his attention focused on more pressing matters that involved significantly less clothing and considerably more appreciation for his wife's excellent taste in lingerie.
The knocking came again, more insistent this time, followed by a voice that made both Tonks freeze like deer caught in headlights during hunting season.
"Andromeda? Ted? It's Sirius. I know it's early, but we have a situation that requires immediate family consultation and possibly legal representation."
Andromeda's eyes went wide with the kind of shock usually reserved for discovering that your electricity bill has been paid by lottery winnings or that your least favorite relative has developed a personality.
"Sirius?" she whispered, her voice carrying all the confusion of someone who'd just heard from a family member who was supposed to be permanently unavailable for social visits due to being imprisoned in the wizarding world's equivalent of Alcatraz. "But he's in Azkaban. He's been in Azkaban for nine years."
"That's what I thought too," Ted said grimly, reaching for his robe with the resigned efficiency of someone who'd learned that when Black family members showed up at your door unexpectedly, it usually meant your peaceful morning was about to become significantly more complicated.
The knocking came a third time, accompanied by another voice—this one female, carrying the precise articulation of expensive education mixed with what sounded like barely controlled hysteria.
"Please, Andy. I know this is impossible to believe, but it's really us. It's Sirius and Bella, and we have Harry Potter with us, and we really, really need help."
Andromeda went very still, which was somehow more alarming than if she'd started screaming or throwing things around the bedroom. When Andromeda Tonks went still, it meant she was processing information that was probably going to require immediate action and definitely going to require her to put on actual clothes.
"Bella," she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of fifteen years of believing her sister was a homicidal maniac who'd tortured people for fun. "Bellatrix is with him. And they have Harry Potter."
"The ten-year-old Harry Potter?" Ted asked, because when Black family members arrived at your door with famous orphans, it was important to clarify exactly which impossible situation you were dealing with.
"I can only assume," Andromeda said, slipping out of bed with the fluid grace that had survived marriage, motherhood, and middle age. She reached for her robe—a sensible terry cloth affair that was significantly less interesting than her negligee but considerably more appropriate for family crises involving escaped prisoners and missing children. "Though why Sirius would have Harry Potter, and how either of them managed to escape from Azkaban..."
"One way to find out," Ted said, pulling on his own robe with the resigned efficiency of someone who'd learned that when your wife's family was involved, it was better to address the crisis immediately rather than pretend it would go away if you ignored it long enough.
They made their way downstairs, Andromeda's mind racing through possibilities while Ted's legal training kicked in with protocols for dealing with situations that probably weren't covered in any law textbook but definitely required careful handling.
Ted opened the front door, and immediately understood why their morning had just become infinitely more complicated than any reasonable person should have to deal with before coffee.
Standing on their doorstep were three people who shouldn't have been able to exist in the same place at the same time without causing several governmental agencies to have collective nervous breakdowns.
Sirius Black looked like he'd been carved from moonlight and bad decisions, all sharp cheekbones and storm-gray eyes that held the kind of intensity that suggested he'd seen too much and had very strong opinions about most of it. Despite nine years in Azkaban, he still possessed that casual elegance that made even prison rags look like a fashion statement. His dark hair was longer than Ted remembered, but he moved with the same fluid grace that had made him legendary at Hogwarts for reasons that ranged from Quidditch to pranks to making professors question their life choices.
Bellatrix Lestrange—and this was definitely Bellatrix, despite looking nothing like the wild-eyed madwoman from her trial photos—stood slightly behind Sirius with the careful posture of someone who wasn't entirely sure she was welcome. Her dark hair was matted from prison life, but her eyes held a clarity that Ted had never seen in any of the photos from her Death Eater days. She looked like someone who'd been carrying the weight of the world and had just been told she was allowed to put it down.
But it was the child standing between them that made Ted's legal training and Andromeda's healer instincts scream simultaneous alarms.
Harry Potter was tiny. Not just small for his age—tiny in the way that spoke of systematic malnutrition and calculated neglect. His clothes hung on his skeletal frame like a tent that had given up trying to be supportive, and his green eyes—definitely Lily's eyes, exactly Lily's eyes—held the kind of watchful caution that came from growing up in a war zone where safety was a luxury you couldn't afford.
But despite his size, there was something about him that made the air itself seem to hum with barely contained energy. Like he was connected to something vast and powerful that was currently being very, very patient but wouldn't be patient forever.
"Hello, Andy," Sirius said, his voice carrying that familiar blend of aristocratic breeding and motorcycle gang attitude that had always made authority figures unsure whether to give him detention or ask for his autograph. "Sorry about the timing, but we've had rather an eventful evening that involved prison breaks, cosmic justice, and what I can only describe as interdimensional cuisine."
"Sirius," Andromeda said quietly, her voice carrying all the weight of nine years of believing her cousin was a mass murderer who'd betrayed his best friends. "You're supposed to be in Azkaban."
"Temporary change of venue," Sirius replied with that reckless grin that had gotten him into trouble for most of his life. "Turns out I was innocent all along. Who could have predicted that the justice system might make mistakes?"
"And you're supposed to be in Azkaban too," Ted said to Bellatrix, his legal training cataloguing details that would probably require extensive documentation and possibly several specialist consultations.
"Also innocent," Bellatrix said quietly, her voice carrying that precise articulation that came from expensive education mixed with genuine vulnerability. "Magically enslaved through a marriage contract for fifteen years, forced to commit atrocities while remaining fully conscious for the entire horrible experience."
Ted and Andromeda exchanged the kind of look that married couples use when they've just realized their peaceful morning has become the opening scene of what's probably going to be the most complicated legal case of their careers.
"And you," Andromeda said, kneeling down to Harry's eye level with the gentle movements of someone who'd spent years dealing with children and had developed strong opinions about proper care and feeding, "are Harry Potter. James and Lily's son."
"Yes, ma'am," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying that particular quality of someone who'd learned to speak softly to avoid attracting negative attention. Despite everything he'd apparently been through, his words held that careful politeness that suggested someone had tried to teach him proper manners even if they'd failed spectacularly at everything else.
Andromeda's healer training took one look at Harry's condition and began filing formal complaints with several government agencies and possibly the universe in general. The child was severely malnourished, clearly exhausted, and carrying himself with the careful posture of someone who'd learned to expect pain from the adults in his life.
"Right," she said, standing up with the decisive movement of someone who'd just shifted into full crisis management mode. "Everyone inside. Ted, put the kettle on and start thinking about legal precedents for wrongful imprisonment and cosmic justice. I'll get Harry something to eat and begin a preliminary medical assessment."
"Actually," Sirius said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "before we go any further, there's something you should know about Harry's current... situation. It's rather complicated and involves what I can only describe as a cosmic entity with very strong opinions about child welfare and an apparent fondness for eating creatures that probably shouldn't exist."
"I'm sorry," Ted said, his legal training struggling to process this information, "did you just say cosmic entity?"
"His name is Drakor," Harry said helpfully, his small voice carrying the matter-of-fact tone that children use when explaining things that adults find impossible to believe. "He's an ancient alien symbiote who's been living in space for millions of years, and he recently bonded with me because I made a wish for help when Uncle Vernon was being particularly awful."
The silence that followed was the kind of profound quiet that usually preceded either great revelations or complete nervous breakdowns. In this case, it was probably both.
"Harry," Andromeda said carefully, her voice carrying the patient tone that healers use when dealing with patients who might be experiencing trauma-induced hallucinations, "when you say cosmic entity..."
"Oh, he's quite real," Bellatrix interjected, her voice carrying genuine respect mixed with what might have been awe if she'd remembered how to feel normal emotions. "We watched him eat eighteen Dementors and both Lestrange brothers last night. Very efficiently, too. I have to admit, it was quite satisfying to watch Rodolphus get converted into cosmic enhancement supplements."
Ted blinked slowly, processing this information with the careful consideration of someone whose worldview was being systematically demolished and rebuilt with significantly more disturbing components.
"Eighteen Dementors," he repeated, just to make sure he'd heard correctly.
"And two Death Eaters," Sirius confirmed cheerfully. "Turned out they were quite nutritious. High in magical essence, apparently. Like cosmic protein bars, but with more screaming and significantly better flavor profiles according to Drakor's restaurant reviews."
"The cosmic entity provides restaurant reviews," Andromeda said, her voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone who was trying very hard not to have a complete mental breakdown before coffee.
"Oh yes," Harry said, warming to the subject with the enthusiasm that ten-year-olds bring to topics they find genuinely interesting. "He's very sophisticated about interdimensional cuisine. Says Dementors taste like concentrated despair with notes of vanilla, which is apparently quite pleasant if you have the right palate for existential horror."
Ted ran a hand through his graying hair, trying to reconcile this information with approximately forty years of legal practice that had never once involved cosmic entities, interdimensional cuisine, or restaurant reviews written by alien symbiotes.
"Right," he said finally. "Perhaps we should start from the beginning. The actual beginning, with all the details, no matter how impossible they seem. Because I have a feeling this is going to require very careful legal documentation and possibly several new categories in the Ministry's case classification system."
As they settled into the Tonks family kitchen—which had seen its share of complicated conversations but never anything quite like this—Harry began the story that would probably require several therapists to properly process and definitely wasn't covered in any parenting manual ever written.
Outside, the Kent countryside continued its morning routine, completely unaware that it was about to become the headquarters for what would probably be the most spectacular legal challenge in wizarding history, involving wrongful imprisonment, cosmic justice, and the kind of family reunion that required extensive documentation and possibly hazard pay for everyone involved.
---
Meanwhile, in the Minister's office at the Ministry of Magic, Cornelius Fudge was having what could charitably be called "a morning of escalating administrative nightmares."
Fudge had always prided himself on being the kind of Minister who could handle a crisis with dignity, wisdom, and the appropriate amount of political maneuvering to ensure that blame landed somewhere other than his own desk. This morning, however, was testing that particular skill set in ways that probably required hazard pay and definitely needed better coffee.
"Albus," he said into the Floo connection, his voice carrying the carefully controlled panic of someone who'd just realized that his morning briefing was going to require explanations that violated several fundamental principles of reality, "please tell me you have good news about Harry Potter's location."
On the other end of the Floo, Albus Dumbledore's face appeared in the green flames, looking like someone who'd been up all night dealing with impossible situations and had developed very strong opinions about the reliability of protective charms and the competence of suburban surveillance operations.
"I'm afraid not, Cornelius," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying that particular tone that suggested he was about to deliver news that would make everyone's day significantly more complicated. "Harry appears to have vanished sometime during the night, along with all the protective wards that kept him safe at his relatives' home."
Fudge felt his stomach drop like it had just discovered that gravity was more enthusiastic than previously advertised, which was already an unpleasant sensation before you added in the political implications of losing the most famous child in the wizarding world.
"Vanished how?" Fudge asked, though something in Dumbledore's tone suggested the answer was going to require several new categories in the Ministry's threat assessment files.
"We're still investigating," Dumbledore replied diplomatically, which was his way of saying 'I have theories but you're not going to like any of them.' "Mrs. Figg is conducting interviews with the neighbors, and I have people checking for any signs of magical transportation or hostile intervention."
It was at that exact moment—because the universe apparently had a premium subscription to Murphy's Law and really enjoyed getting its money's worth—that the office door burst open with enough force to rattle the windows and probably disturb several portraits of former Ministers who were trying to have peaceful morning naps.
Amelia Bones strode into the office like someone who'd just discovered that reality was more of a suggestion than a reliable reference point, and she was prepared to file formal complaints with whatever cosmic authorities were responsible for maintaining basic consistency in the laws of physics.
"Cornelius," she said without preamble, because when you're dealing with prison breaks that involve interdimensional cuisine and architectural renovation by cosmic entities, you don't waste time with pleasantries, "we have a situation at Azkaban that requires immediate attention and probably several emergency sessions with the Wizengamot."
Fudge looked between Dumbledore's face in the fireplace and Amelia's expression, and came to the uncomfortable realization that his morning was about to become the kind of disaster that required very creative explanation and possibly therapy for everyone involved.
"What kind of situation?" he asked, though his political instincts were already suggesting that whatever happened at Azkaban was probably connected to Harry Potter's disappearance in ways that would make everything infinitely more complicated.
"Prison break," Amelia said grimly, settling into the chair across from Fudge's desk with the efficient movements of someone who'd just spent several hours examining crime scenes that violated multiple laws of physics. "Two prisoners escaped, two others were killed, and eighteen Dementors are missing."
The silence that followed was the kind of profound quiet that usually preceded either great revelations or complete governmental collapse. In this case, it was probably both.
"Which prisoners?" Dumbledore asked from the Floo, though something in his voice suggested he already knew the answer and wasn't particularly looking forward to having his suspicions confirmed.
"Sirius Black and Bellatrix Lestrange," Amelia confirmed, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized her career was about to become significantly more complicated than any reasonable person should have to deal with. "Escaped sometime during the night using methods that appear to violate several fundamental laws of reality and definitely aren't covered in any prison security manual."
Fudge felt like someone had just explained that his least favorite nightmare had decided to move in permanently and redecorate his office using methods that involved a lot of screaming and possibly several violations of international treaties.
"And the dead prisoners?" he asked, though he suspected he didn't want to know the answer.
"Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange," Amelia said flatly. "Completely consumed by what Auror Moody describes as 'interdimensional predation with educational components.' No bodies, no remains, just magical residue that suggests they were converted into cosmic enhancement supplements."
"Consumed," Fudge repeated, his voice taking on the careful tone of someone who was trying very hard not to think about the implications of that statement.
"Eaten," Amelia clarified helpfully. "By something that operates on magical frequencies that don't appear in any textbook and probably require several new branches of magical theory to properly classify."
Dumbledore's expression in the Floo had gone very still, which was never a good sign when you were dealing with Albus Dumbledore and situations that involved missing children and impossible events happening simultaneously.
"Amelia," he said carefully, "what exactly did the investigation reveal about how this escape was accomplished?"
Amelia consulted her notes with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to document impossible events with the same attention to detail she'd use for parking violations, because in her experience, impossible events usually turned out to be considerably more possible than anyone wanted to admit.
"According to Moody's analysis, someone or something broke through the prison walls using what he describes as 'selective reality editing,'" she said, reading from her report with the tone of someone who'd given up trying to make sense of impossible evidence. "No conventional magical signatures, but there was one trace that he found... interesting."
"Interesting how?" Fudge asked, though his political instincts were screaming that 'interesting' was probably going to be the kind of detail that made everything else seem reasonable by comparison.
"Potter family magic," Amelia said, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just connected dots that created a picture nobody wanted to look at. "Specifically, the magical signature of someone around ten or eleven years old with considerable power and what Moody describes as 'cosmic enhancement beyond anything in recorded wizarding history.'"
The silence that followed was so profound that it probably could have been bottled and sold as a meditation aid, if meditation aids usually came with side effects that included existential crisis and the dawning realization that reality was significantly more flexible than previously advertised.
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just solved a very complex puzzle and discovered that the solution was considerably more disturbing than the mystery.
"That's Moody's assessment," Amelia confirmed. "Harry Potter broke Sirius Black and Bellatrix Lestrange out of Azkaban using something that eats Dementors and violates the fundamental laws of physics."
Fudge buried his face in his hands with the gesture of someone who'd just realized that his political career was about to become the most interesting footnote in wizarding history, and not in a good way.
"So," he said slowly, his voice muffled by his hands, "the Boy Who Lived has apparently bonded with some kind of cosmic entity, broken two Death Eaters out of the most secure prison in magical Britain, and fed two other Death Eaters to something that writes restaurant reviews about interdimensional cuisine."
"That's our current working theory," Amelia confirmed with the cheerful tone of someone who'd given up trying to make sense of her job and had decided to embrace the cosmic absurdity of it all. "Though we should probably add that according to the magical residue analysis, at least one of the escapees was extracted against their will, which suggests rescue rather than traditional prison break."
"Rescue," Dumbledore repeated thoughtfully, his expression taking on the kind of calculating look that suggested he was already several steps ahead of whatever crisis was developing. "If Harry was conducting a rescue operation..."
"Then either Sirius Black is innocent and Harry somehow discovered this," Fudge said, completing the thought with the dawning horror of someone who'd just realized the political implications of wrongfully imprisoning innocent people, "or Harry Potter has been somehow corrupted by whatever cosmic entity he's bonded with and is now liberating dangerous criminals for reasons we can't begin to understand."
"There's a third option, Cornelius," Dumbledore said gently, his voice carrying that particular tone he used when explaining things that were obvious in hindsight but completely invisible until someone pointed them out.
"Which is?"
"That Harry Potter is exactly who we've always believed him to be—a fundamentally good child with a strong sense of justice—and he's simply acquired the resources to do something about injustices that the rest of us have been too comfortable ignoring."
Amelia nodded thoughtfully, her expression taking on the kind of professional interest that came from years of investigating cases that seemed simple until you looked at them closely and discovered they were considerably more complex than anyone wanted to admit.
"It would explain why he took Bellatrix Lestrange as well," she said, consulting her notes again. "According to the magical residue analysis, she was also extracted against her will, which suggests Harry believed she was innocent of the crimes she was imprisoned for."
"Bellatrix Lestrange is innocent?" Fudge asked, his voice rising slightly in pitch as he contemplated the political implications of having wrongfully imprisoned not one but two people for crimes they didn't commit.
"It's possible," Amelia said carefully, her voice carrying the tone of someone who'd learned to present uncomfortable theories in ways that didn't cause immediate panic attacks in government officials. "We never actually investigated the circumstances of her involvement in the war crimes she was accused of. Given the magical evidence from the prison break, it might be worth reviewing her case."
The office fell quiet as all three of them contemplated the implications of what they'd just discovered. If Harry Potter was innocent of any wrongdoing, if Sirius Black had been wrongfully imprisoned, if Bellatrix Lestrange had been forced to commit war crimes against her will, then the wizarding world's justice system had just been revealed to have some very serious problems that probably required immediate attention and possibly complete overhaul.
"What do we do?" Fudge asked finally, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just realized that his next decision was probably going to determine whether he went down in history as a competent Minister or a cautionary tale about political incompetence.
"We find Harry Potter," Dumbledore said firmly, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been dealing with impossible situations for longer than most people had been alive. "We find him, we listen to his story, and we figure out how to fix whatever mistakes we've made before this situation becomes any more complicated than it already is."
"And if he's been corrupted by this cosmic entity?" Amelia asked, though her tone suggested she was asking for the sake of thoroughness rather than because she believed it was likely.
"Then we help him," Dumbledore replied simply. "Harry Potter is ten years old, Amelia. Whatever he's been through, whatever resources he's acquired, he's still a child who's probably scared and confused and in need of adults who can provide guidance and support."
"A child who can apparently break people out of Azkaban and feed Death Eaters to interdimensional predators," Fudge pointed out, though his voice carried more awe than fear.
"Which," Dumbledore said with the first genuine smile he'd worn all morning, "suggests that when we do find him, we should probably approach the conversation with considerable respect for his new capabilities and definitely bring chocolate."
Outside the Minister's office, the Ministry of Magic continued its daily routine, completely unaware that the most famous child in wizarding history had just been reclassified from "missing person" to "cosmic entity with strong opinions about justice and an apparent fondness for creative problem-solving."
This was going to be a very interesting investigation.
---
Back in the Tonks family kitchen, Harry had just finished explaining about Drakor's recent dietary discoveries, and the adult conversation that followed was the kind that would probably require family therapy for everyone involved.
"So let me make sure I understand this correctly," Ted said, his legal training struggling to create appropriate filing categories for information that violated several fundamental principles of reality. He'd pushed his breakfast aside—not because it wasn't delicious, but because discussing interdimensional cuisine tended to affect one's appetite in unpredictable ways. "You're bonded to an ancient cosmic entity who eats Dementors, provides restaurant reviews for existential horror, and has very strong opinions about child welfare?"
"That's about the size of it," Harry confirmed, tucking into the full English breakfast that Andromeda had prepared with the focused determination of someone who'd been systematically underfed and had just discovered what properly cooked food actually tasted like. "Though you should probably know that Drakor can hear everything you're saying and has been taking very detailed notes about this conversation for future reference."
"Can he... can he talk to us directly?" Andromeda asked, her healer instincts warring with her curiosity about cosmic entities and their communication preferences.
"If you'd like," Harry said, swallowing a bite of eggs that had been prepared by someone who actually knew how eggs were supposed to taste. "Though fair warning—he has some very strong opinions about the wizarding justice system and the general competence of adults when it comes to child protection."
"By all means," Ted said with the professional curiosity of someone who'd spent forty years dealing with difficult clients and had developed a healthy respect for entities with strong opinions about justice. "I'd be interested to hear his perspective on our legal system."
Harry's expression shifted slightly, taking on a more ancient quality that suggested someone considerably older and more experienced was currently borrowing his vocal cords.
"Ted Tonks," came Harry's voice, but with harmonics that seemed to resonate in dimensions that probably weren't supposed to exist, "magical lawyer and apparently the only adult in this entire civilization who understands that proper legal representation involves actually listening to your clients' stories before deciding they're guilty."
"Thank you?" Ted said cautiously, unsure whether he'd just been complimented or subtly criticized by a cosmic entity with interdisciplinary expertise.
"You're welcome," Drakor continued through Harry's transformed voice. "I've spent the last twenty-four hours reviewing Tom Riddle's memories of your justice system, and I have to say, I'm impressed by the sheer creativity of your approach to ignoring due process. Very artistic. Completely useless for actually determining guilt or innocence, but artistically quite striking."
Andromeda leaned forward with the kind of professional interest that came from years of dealing with patients who had unusual conditions requiring specialized treatment.
"Harry mentioned that you absorbed memories from Voldemort's soul fragment," she said, her voice carrying the careful tone that healers use when discussing symptoms that probably aren't covered in any medical textbook. "Are you experiencing any adverse effects from that absorption?"
"Adverse effects?" Drakor's voice carried genuine amusement that made the kitchen windows vibrate slightly. "My dear woman, absorbing the memories of history's most creative psychopath has been the most educational experience of my multidimensional existence. I now have access to centuries of magical knowledge, detailed information about every Death Eater conspiracy, and what amounts to a comprehensive database of everything wrong with wizarding society."
"That's... actually quite useful for building legal cases," Ted admitted, his professional curiosity overriding his concern about the cosmic implications of interdimensional memory absorption. "Though I should ask—are Harry's own memories and personality intact?"
Harry's expression shifted back to his normal ten-year-old self, though his eyes still held that otherworldly gleam that suggested his cosmic roommate was never entirely absent.
"I'm still me," Harry said with the matter-of-fact tone that children use when explaining things that adults find impossible to believe. "Drakor doesn't control me or make me do things I don't want to do. He's more like... like having a really smart, really powerful friend who lives in my head and occasionally eats things that probably shouldn't exist."
"Occasionally eats Dementors," Sirius corrected with the fond tone of someone who'd developed a genuine appreciation for cosmic entities with creative dining preferences. "Don't undersell your cosmic partner's achievements in pest control."
"And Death Eaters," Bellatrix added helpfully, her voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd watched her abusers get converted into cosmic enhancement supplements. "Don't forget the Death Eaters. That was very satisfying to witness."
Andromeda looked between her sister, her cousin, and the famous orphan who was apparently bonded to something that could rewrite reality for fun, and came to the professional conclusion that her morning had become the most interesting medical consultation of her career.
"Right," she said, standing up with the decisive movement of someone who'd just shifted into full crisis management mode. "Ted, I need you to start researching legal precedents for wrongful imprisonment, cosmic entity partnerships, and whatever categories cover interdimensional justice. Harry, I need to conduct a proper medical examination to assess the damage from ten years of systematic neglect."
"What about us?" Sirius asked, gesturing to himself and Bellatrix with the casual elegance that had survived nine years in Azkaban and still made simple movements look like they belonged in action movies.
"You," Andromeda said firmly, pointing at her cousin with the authority of someone who'd been dealing with Black family drama for decades, "are going to help me document every detail of Harry's abuse so we can build a case for removing him from the Dursleys permanently. And you," she continued, turning to Bellatrix, "are going to tell me everything you remember about those marriage contracts so we can make sure they're completely severed and can never be used against you again."
"What if the Ministry shows up before we're ready?" Bellatrix asked, her voice carrying the careful caution of someone who'd learned to expect the worst from authority figures and plan accordingly.
"Then," came Drakor's voice through Harry again, carrying the satisfied tone of someone who'd just figured out a particularly elegant solution to a complex problem, "they're going to have a very educational conversation about the importance of due process, proper child protection, and why cosmic entities don't appreciate being ignored when they're trying to dispense justice."
Ted paused in his note-taking to look at Harry with the professional assessment of someone who'd spent forty years evaluating clients and their likelihood of success in complicated legal situations.
"Drakor," he said carefully, "when you say 'educational conversation,' are we talking about dialogue and negotiation, or are we talking about the kind of education that involves interdimensional cuisine and creative applications of cosmic justice?"
"That," Drakor replied cheerfully, "depends entirely on whether they're willing to listen to reason or if they insist on being stubborn about acknowledging their mistakes. I'm perfectly happy to resolve this situation through civilized discussion, but I should mention that my patience with incompetent authority figures has been significantly reduced by recent discoveries about child abuse and wrongful imprisonment."
Sirius grinned with the kind of reckless delight that had gotten him into trouble for most of his life and probably would continue to do so.
"I think," he said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just realized his godson had acquired the kind of backup that made facing down governmental incompetence feel like a recreational activity, "this is going to be the most interesting legal challenge in wizarding history."
"Definitely," Ted agreed, his legal mind already working through strategies that would probably require several new categories in the law books and definitely weren't covered in any standard legal education. "Though we should probably prepare for the possibility that this case is going to attract attention from every major political figure in magical Britain."
"Let them come," Harry said quietly, his ten-year-old voice carrying the kind of determination that suggested he'd inherited both his father's reckless heroism and his mother's fierce protective instincts. "I'm tired of being treated like a thing instead of a person. I'm tired of good people suffering because bad people are more convenient to believe. And I'm especially tired of adults making decisions about my life without bothering to ask what I want."
Andromeda felt something warm settle in her chest that had nothing to do with the morning sunshine and everything to do with watching a child who'd been broken by the system finally acquire the resources to fight back.
"Right then," she said, her voice taking on the brisk efficiency that had made her one of the most respected healers in magical Britain. "Let's get to work. We have a justice system to fix, a child to properly care for, and probably a government to educate about the importance of listening to cosmic entities with strong opinions about child welfare."
Outside, the Kent countryside continued its peaceful morning routine, completely unaware that it had just become the headquarters for what would probably be the most spectacular legal revolution in wizarding history.
This was going to be very, very interesting for everyone involved.
---
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