Dinner carried on with laughter, clinking glasses, and Molly's excellent cooking. Between bites and toasts, Li steered the table—subtly, casually—toward the subject of flying cars.
Arthur Weasley, despite working in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, couldn't hide his delight. He bought gadgets, stripped them in his shed, and occasionally charmed them into doing things no engineer had dreamed of. One project in particular: a car that could fly and vanish.
The piece Li wanted most, though, was the charm chain that let the car drive itself.
Arthur clocked Li's interest and hesitated—until he glanced at Molly. Once, she would have shut the whole topic down. Tonight, grateful to the man who had dragged her daughter out of the Chamber, she kept her silence.
Permission granted. Arthur warmed up to his favorite subject and soon was not only bragging but breaking down principles, safeguards, and wrench-to-metal steps. By the time plates were cleared, Li had a working blueprint in his head and a grin that said: my RV is going to be a dream. Sleeping while the vehicle flew itself? No more flak shells interrupting naps. No more midair near misses with jetliners he couldn't afford to replace.
By dessert, Arthur and Li were shoulder to shoulder, red-eared, clinking glasses, and calling each other "brother."
On the edges of the table, Ginny waited until her mother was distracted with tidying and her brothers were tearing into Li's gifts. She stepped forward, cheeks pink but courage high. "Mr. Austin, thank you for saving my life."
Li blinked through the warm blur of mead, homed in on her face, and smiled like a man floating. "Oh hey, it's the little redhead. I remember you—Harry's future wife, Ginny Potter, right?"
The words hit like a dropped tray.
Arthur—pleasantly soused—missed it. Harry and Ginny didn't. Both ducked, crimson to the ears. Molly's smile froze. She liked Harry, she did. But her daughter was twelve. Twelve was not "wedding talk" territory. If her guest weren't her guest, she might have fetched a broom.
Ron stared at his best friend, then at his sister. "No way," he muttered, desperate to drag reality back on track.
"Mr. Austin's had a bit too much," Molly said briskly. "He's talking nonsense."
Harry, who had hoped for one last night of normal fun, had not signed up for betrothal prophecies.
Alcohol loosens brakes. Li, squarely in the chatty, overconfident zone, took in their doubtful faces and felt the sting. A dimensional traveler called a liar by a roomful of kids? Plot? What plot?
"Don't believe me?" he said, pushing to his feet. "I know more than you can imagine. For instance—"
He snapped his fingers.
Glass broke without breaking. Space cracked like ice and peeled back into mirrored facets. The Weasley kitchen slid into a crystalline pocket of reality.
Li swayed over to Ron, jabbed a finger at the fat gray rat cradled in his arm, and barked, "Show yourself, vermin. Reveal your true form before a master."
Ron blinked. This guy had saved Ginny? Something was definitely off.
Scabbers went still.
Molly moved instantly, planting herself between Li and her son, wand drawn, maternal fury banked hot. "Mr. Austin, that isn't funny. You will apologize to Ron when you've sobered up. He is my son, not…'vermin.'"
Li's fog parted just enough. He pointed past Ron's shoulder. "Not him. That rat. Peter Pettigrew."
The name sliced the air cold. Peter Pettigrew—the dead hero of twelve years past. Impossible.
"Enough," Li said. He raised his hand and conjured a globe of rippling water, bright as crystal and heavy with time. The orb throbbed—thick, syrupy. He locked on the rat like a target. "Pettigrew, would you rather end as roast rodent in an owl's crop, or stand on two feet and rest in a proper grave?"
If Molly hadn't been shielding her son, Li would have frozen both boy and rat in stasis and sorted apologies later. It wasn't lethal. And kids forgave anything if the gift pile was tall enough.
The rat panicked. Scabbers bit Ron hard, sprang free, and bolted—out from Molly's guard and into open fire.
Li's grin sharpened. The water orb shot forward, engulfing the fleeing rat. Pettigrew froze mid-scamper, a grotesque little statue, limbs pumping in place, time locked around him.
A circular portal opened in the air.
Dumbledore stepped through.
Li tipped his chin toward Harry. "Told you the old man could do portals."
Relief washed over Molly's face. "Professor—"
"One moment," Dumbledore said kindly, eyes twinkling as he circled the suspended rat and took in the mirrored walls. "An elegant arena. For those who can't open a door out, it's a sealed tomb. Even if they kill you, they can't escape the pocket."
He peered at the sphere. "And that is a remarkable temporal construct. Tell me, Mr. Austin—are time and space your specialties?"
Thirsty, Li grabbed a bottle, took a long pull, and flashed a thumbs-up. Man of taste—yes, they are.
He didn't get to elaborate. The swig hit like a hammer. He toppled sideways, out cold, bottle thumping harmlessly to the rug.
Molly stared from the snoring body to the suspended rat. "Time magic," she whispered. "People study it for centuries and never touch it—and he—"
"Professor Dumbledore," she said louder, voice tight, "what is happening?"
Dumbledore felt the Mirror Dimension begin to unravel with its caster unconscious. He flicked his wand: stone-skin raced over the rat, locking it down. Another gesture opened a portal. Arthur and Li rose from the floor and drifted after him like dandelion fluff.
"Not the safest place for explanations," Dumbledore said. "Let's step out first."
The glass walls folded away. In the Weasley kitchen proper, Dumbledore tapped the petrified rat once. Fur shrank, bones stretched, and a ragged, trembling man collapsed onto the tiles.
Molly froze. Animagus. In her home. For twelve years.
She thought of every conversation, every off-guard moment, every time the children changed clothes with a "pet" in the room. A chill ran up her spine.
"By Merlin," she whispered, face white with fury. "Tell me everything."
Dumbledore exhaled, satisfied the man on the floor wasn't going anywhere. He folded his hands.
"I will," he said gently. "All of it—now."
Morning sunlight speared through the Weasleys' living room window and landed square on Li's face. He tried to crack an eyelid. Failed. Defaulted to the ancient counterspell: roll over.
Unfortunately, he wasn't in his own bed. He was on the Weasleys' sofa. The roll dumped him straight to the floor—face first.
The impact finally pried his eyes open. He yawned, scrubbed at his hair, and nearly called for Kreacher before the unfamiliar room snapped him back. Right. Not home.
Why am I still here?
He rubbed at a throbbing skull, fishing for memories through a fog of firewhisky and zero water. His throat ached. His limbs felt like wet rope.
From the kitchen, Molly Weasley glanced over as her wand sent a steaming cup of water floating his way. "Good morning, Mr. Austin."
"Morning," Li croaked, downing the cup in one go. He staggered to the table, set it down, and offered a sheepish smile. "I… didn't say anything too crazy last night, did I? Sorry if I did. When I drink, I either pass out or run my mouth. Hope I didn't cause trouble."
Molly's eyebrow twitched. Her smile didn't. "Trouble? I'm thinking I ought to thank you for removing a… household hazard."
Li blinked. "Uh—what did I do?"
"Peter Pettigrew," she said, handing him a sandwich. "I still can't believe it. The pet rat we kept for twelve years—a murderer. Every time I think about it, I get chills."
She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. A single night wasn't enough to banish that kind of dread.
Li ate as she spoke, piecing together last night like shards of a broken bottle. By the time he swallowed the last bite, he had the headline.
"So Dumbledore took Pettigrew? You also know Sirius Black was framed? And Harry knows he has a godfather?"
Molly nodded, genuine relief softening her features.
Li's headache deepened. Great. Harry's third-year plotline was toast. Not that he planned to ride it, but still. He grimaced. And why did I bag Pettigrew in front of an audience? Could've done it quietly. There goes my shot at that street-leveling curse…
Breakfast finished, he nursed a cup of tea under a black cloud, silently vowing never to mix alcohol with heroics again.
From the doorway, Molly studied his back—the set of his shoulders oddly desolate. She shook it off and raised her voice. "Arthur! Kids! Breakfast! We still need to stop at the Leaky Cauldron for Harry's books. If you sleep in, you'll miss the Hogwarts Express!"
Her shout jolted Li from his sulk. He drained the tea, forced his expression brighter. Pettigrew's with Dumbledore. It is what it is. Focus. Practice Fiendfyre. He stood, setting the cup aside. "Mrs. Weasley, thank you for the hospitality. I'll get out of your hair."
Molly winced. Arthur was still dead to the world upstairs; letting a guest leave while the man of the house snored felt wrong. "Let Arthur see you off. You're not used to London—"
"I'll Floo to the Leaky Cauldron," Li said, slinging his flat little shoulder bag into place. "Let Mr. Weasley sleep. With any luck, he won't be yawning at his desk."
She considered, then nodded, guilt warring with practicalities. Arthur's salary kept the lights on.
Li Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron, then caught the Knight Bus to King's Cross. Through the barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he boarded the Hogwarts Express.
He was early; only a scatter of students dotted the cars. Sleep tugged hard. He drifted toward the rear coach in search of a quiet compartment.
Remus Lupin was there too.
Lupin blinked, about to ask why a man who could open portals was slumming it on a train—when Li caught sight of his hollowed eyes and burst out laughing. "New look? Bold. If you weren't dressed, I'd assume you escaped the panda enclosure."
He eyed the threadbare patches on Lupin's coat and grinned. "Also, you've made a decent haul lately. Why no new clothes? Or is 'patchwork chic' your thing?"
Lupin rolled his eyes, opened an empty compartment, and waved Li in before shutting the door. "The wizarding world knows I'm broke. If I suddenly show up in a new wardrobe, questions follow. I'll buy later—after the Dementor 'burglaries' blow over." He tapped the raccoon-dark circles under his eyes. "These are on you, by the way. I was up all night."
Li's mouth twitched. "That phrasing has so much room for misunderstanding. I was at the Weasleys drinking, for the record."
"I meant Pettigrew." Lupin pinched the bridge of his nose. "We had him at Grimmauld Place. I interrogated him most of the night."
"Get anything?" Sleep tugged at Li again. He kneaded his temples, eyes shut. "Keep him locked down. That rat's slick. Blink and he's gone."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Lupin's smile was bitter. "Dumbledore had to return to Hogwarts pre-dawn for first-year intake. I never imagined Sirius's hatred ran that deep. While I was on watch the second half of the night, Sirius found an excuse to pull me away—he meant to kill Pettigrew." He spread his hands. "And somehow, Pettigrew slipped the noose in the chaos."
"Considering Sirius can't exactly stroll the streets," Lupin added, "I spent the rest of the night combing London. No luck."
Li clicked his tongue. "No wonder—the old rat's turned crafty. That escape game? Top tier."
Lupin lifted a shoulder, equal parts exhausted and chagrined. Blame Li for detonating their careful plan to clear Sirius and bag Pettigrew? Tempting. But Pettigrew had slipped on their watch. The failure was theirs.
There was at least one shred of good news. Under questioning, Pettigrew had coughed up scraps of corroboration. With time, they could stitch together enough to petition the Ministry. Until then, Sirius would have to stay buried at Grimmauld.
Lupin pulled off his coat and draped it over himself like a blanket, slumping into the cushion. "Wake me if the world ends."
Li smirked, dragged his own coat from the bag, and folded it over his face to block the sun. Sleep took him quickly.
Elsewhere, Molly hustled her brood and Harry through the Leaky Cauldron, scooped up schoolbooks and clothes, collected Hermione, and hustled them to the platform with seconds to spare.
On board, the Golden Trio wandered the corridor, peeking into compartments—most full, some with only a seat or two free. They wanted three together. No luck.
Until they reached the last coach. Two men slept in the corner—one in patched brown, one with his coat over his face.
The trio exchanged glances, decided three seats were three seats, and slipped inside.
Harry shut the door, practically vibrating. "You won't believe it, Hermione—I have family. A godfather—"
Excitement tangled his story into knots—Harry tripping over sentences, Ron jumping in with corrections. Hermione sat between them, brow furrowed tighter with every detail.
At last, she sorted the thread: how Sirius Black had been framed; how he'd been thrown into Azkaban without trial; how the real murderer had been Ron's pet rat all along.
She stared between them, stunned. "I—what—? Does the wizarding world not have due process?"
The train rattled toward Scotland, and in the corner, both men slept through the question.
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