The rain intensified, drumming against the windows like desperate fingers seeking entrance. Inside the bedroom, silence stretched taut as a bowstring after Arcturus's words.
Dorea sat frozen, her hands clenched in the bedsheets so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Charlus had turned to stone beside her, his face emptied of everything except a terrible, waiting stillness.
"Tell us," Dorea said finally, and her voice was a blade. "Everything. From the beginning."
Arcturus exchanged another glance with Melania, then moved to the chair beside the bed. He sat slowly, suddenly looking every one of his eighty-seven years. When he began speaking, his voice carried the weight of someone who'd rehearsed these words a thousand times in his head, hoping he'd never have to say them aloud.
"After the attack, we brought you here. The healers said it was a magical coma—Voldemort's parting gift. Your magic was keeping you alive, but locked too deeply to reach consciousness. We tried everything." His jaw tightened. "Everything. The best healers in Britain. Potions masters from the Continent. Even consulted with the goblins about curse-breaking. Nothing worked."
"James," Charlus said hoarsely. "What happened to James?"
"He graduated Hogwarts in 1978. Head Boy." A ghost of pride flickered across Arcturus's face. "Got his head out of his arse, finally. Stopped hexing Snape in the corridors, stopped showing off like a peacock in mating season. Grew up, essentially."
"And?" Dorea's voice was sharp with impatience.
"And Lily Evans noticed."
Despite everything—despite the grief and horror and the weight of years—Charlus made a sound that might have been a laugh. "The girl who called him an arrogant toerag for six years straight?"
"That's the one." Melania smiled softly, moving to sit on the edge of Dorea's bed. She took her sister-in-law's hand gently. "Turns out, James without the ego was rather impressive. Brave. Funny. Fiercely loyal to his friends. Lily started seeing past the hair-preening and the Quidditch swagger to the young man underneath."
"They started dating in seventh year," Arcturus continued. "Married in November of 1979. Small ceremony—just close friends and family. They came here, to Black Manor, so you could be there." His voice softened. "They said their vows in this very room. James insisted. Said you'd kill him if you missed his wedding, and he'd rather face Voldemort than your wrath."
Dorea's eyes filled with tears. "Did he—was he happy?"
"Deliriously," Melania said gently. "He loved her completely. She loved him just as much. It was..." She paused, searching for words. "It was the kind of love that makes you believe in magic all over again. Not our magic—the other kind. The fairy tale kind."
"They had a son," Charlus said. It wasn't a question. His hands were shaking now, trembling against the sheets. "You said they had a son."
"Hadrian James Potter." Arcturus's voice carried fierce pride and equally fierce pain. "Born July thirty-first, 1980. Though everyone called him Harry, for some gods-forsaken reason. Hadrian is a perfectly good name. Strong. Historical. But no, Harry." He shook his head with aristocratic disdain that couldn't quite mask the grief underneath.
"I want to see him," Dorea said immediately. "Where is he? Bring him here. Now."
The silence that fell was different this time. Heavier.
"That," Arcturus said slowly, "is complicated."
"Uncomplicate it." Dorea's voice could have cut diamond. "That's our grandson. James's son. Where. Is. He?"
Arcturus stood, began pacing. It was unlike him—the restless movement, the inability to stay still. Arcturus Black was a man of perfect composure, perfect control. Seeing him agitated was like watching a mountain learn to dance.
"James and Lily came here often," he began. "Every Sunday, without fail. They'd sit with you, talk to you. Tell you about their week, about the war, about..." He swallowed hard. "About little Harry. They'd bring him, let him babble at you. He was starting to talk, near the end. His first word was 'Mama,' but his second was 'Puff.' Because Lily had conjured a rabbit for him, and he found the disappearing puff of smoke hilarious."
Charlus made a sound like he'd been stabbed.
"They loved you," Melania said softly. "Never doubted you'd wake up. James used to say you were too stubborn to let something like a magical coma keep you down permanently."
"What happened?" Dorea demanded. "What happened to my son?"
Arcturus stopped pacing. Turned to face them. His face was a mask of fury and grief.
"Voldemort happened."
The name fell like a curse.
"There was a prophecy," Arcturus continued, his voice flat and controlled now. "Trelawney—you remember, Cassandra's daughter, the one who can't prophesy her way out of a wet paper bag ninety percent of the time—had a genuine vision. Said a child born at the end of July would have the power to defeat the Dark Lord. Could have been Harry. Could have been the Longbottom boy—Frank and Alice's son, Neville, born a day earlier."
"Voldemort chose Harry," Charlus said. It wasn't a question. His voice was dead.
"He chose Harry," Arcturus confirmed. "We still don't know why. Maybe because James and Lily had defied him three times personally. Maybe because Harry was a half-blood, like him. Maybe..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter why. He chose Harry, and James and Lily went into hiding."
"Under the Fidelius Charm," Melania added. "Unbreakable. Untrackable. Unless the Secret Keeper reveals the location."
"Who?" Dorea's voice was ice. "Who was the Secret Keeper?"
"That," Arcturus said, and his voice carried a rage so cold it burned, "is where everything went to hell."
He resumed pacing, his hands clenched behind his back.
"Sirius was supposed to be the Secret Keeper. Of course he was—James's brother in everything but blood. They'd die for each other. Had almost died for each other, multiple times during the war. But at the last moment, they switched."
"To whom?" Charlus asked.
"Peter Pettigrew."
The name hung in the air like a bad smell.
"The Pettigrew boy?" Dorea's voice was sharp with disbelief. "That useless little—James told us about him. Couldn't hex his way out of a duel with a first-year. Spent most of his time following Sirius and James around like a lost puppy."
"That's the one," Arcturus said bitterly. "Turns out, the rat was a Death Eater. Had been for over a year. Voldemort had him in his pocket, and none of us knew."
"Oh gods," Charlus whispered.
"Pettigrew sold them out. Gave Voldemort the location—a house in Godric's Hollow. October thirty-first, 1981, Voldemort appeared, blew through the wards like they were tissue paper."
Arcturus's voice went very quiet.
"James held him off. Died buying Lily and Harry time to run. Wandless—he'd left his wand on the couch like a bloody idiot. But he tried anyway. Died in the entrance hall."
Dorea made that sound again—not a scream, something worse.
"Lily died protecting Harry. Put herself between her son and the killing curse. The magic in that sacrifice..." Arcturus shook his head. "When Voldemort cast at Harry, the curse rebounded. Destroyed him. Left nothing but robes and a wand. Left Harry alive with just a scar."
"Harry's alive?" Charlus's voice cracked on the word. "Our grandson is alive?"
"He's alive," Melania confirmed gently.
"Then where is he?" Dorea demanded. "Bring him here. Now. He's family. He's *ours*."
The silence fell again.
"Sirius got there first," Arcturus said heavily. "Found the house destroyed. Found James and Lily dead. Found Harry alive in his crib, crying. Sirius..." He paused. "Sirius broke. You could see it happen. The grief just... shattered him."
"Hagrid arrived—Dumbledore's pet half-giant. Said he had orders to take Harry. Sirius argued, but eventually handed Harry over. Told Hagrid he wouldn't need his motorcycle anymore. Said he had to 'check on something.'"
"He went after Pettigrew," Charlus said flatly.
"He went after Pettigrew," Arcturus confirmed. "Found him the next day. Middle of a crowded Muggle street. Pettigrew was screaming about Sirius betraying James. Sirius just laughed—that mad laugh, the one he gets when his control snaps—and Pettigrew blew up the street. Killed twelve Muggles. Blew off his own finger. Transformed into a rat and escaped into the sewers."
"A rat," Dorea repeated slowly. "He's an Animagus?"
"Apparently. Unregistered. We had no idea." Arcturus's jaw clenched. "The Aurors arrived. Found Sirius standing in the rubble, still laughing. Decided that was all the evidence they needed. Crouch—Barty Crouch, the sadistic bastard—had him hauled to Azkaban that same day."
"Without a trial?" Charlus's voice was dangerous.
"Without a trial," Arcturus confirmed, and his fury was a palpable thing. "Crouch suspended habeas corpus under wartime emergency powers. Threw Sirius in a cell and left him to rot. I've spent five years fighting that. Five years trying to get him a trial. The Wizengamot won't hear it. Fudge won't hear it. Even the ones who'd normally support the Blacks..." He trailed off, bitter.
"Because of Bellatrix," Dorea said quietly. "And your darling daughter-in-law Walburga."
"Because of Bellatrix and Walburga," Arcturus agreed. "Bellatrix tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity two days after James and Lily died. Used the Cruciatus until their minds broke. She's in Azkaban now, screaming about her Dark Lord's glory. And Walburga..." He spat the name like a curse. "Walburga spent the last few years of her life loudly proclaiming that the Blacks are proud pureblood supremacists. That Sirius was always Dark. That the whole family supported Voldemort."
"That treacherous, snake-faced *bitch*," Dorea hissed. "I should have killed her when she first tortured Sirius."
"The point is," Arcturus continued grimly, "the Black family name is poison right now. Everyone 'knows' we're Dark. Everyone 'knows' Sirius betrayed James. Getting him a trial is impossible. I've tried everything—bribes, blackmail, calling in every favor I've accumulated over eight decades. Nothing works."
"And Harry?" Charlus asked quietly. "Where did Hagrid take our grandson?"
Melania and Arcturus exchanged another look.
"Dumbledore took custody," Melania said carefully. "Legally. He was named Harry's magical guardian in James and Lily's will—if something happened to both parents, and if his godparents couldn't take him."
"Then Sirius was arrested—"
"And the Longbottoms were destroyed," Arcturus interjected. "Alice was Harry's godmother. She and Frank would have taken him. But after Bellatrix..." He shook his head. "They're at St. Mungo's now. Long-term care ward. They don't recognize their own son."
"So Dumbledore has Harry," Dorea said. Her voice was eerily calm. "Where?"
"We don't know."
The words dropped like stones.
Charlus turned to stare at Arcturus. "You don't *know*? He's our grandson, Arcturus. He's the Potter heir. He's—"
"I KNOW," Arcturus roared, and for the first time, his control shattered. "Do you think I don't know? Do you think I haven't tried everything? I've used every contact, every spy, every favor. Dumbledore placed him somewhere in the Muggle world—we know that much. He's with one of Lily's relatives. We've tried tracking him magically, but there are wards. *Blood* wards, keyed to Lily's sacrifice. Impossibly strong. My best curse-breakers can't touch them."
"Lily's relatives," Dorea repeated slowly. "Her parents?"
"Dead," Melania said gently. "Car accident in 1979. But she had a sister. Petunia. Married to a man named Vernon Dursley. They have a son—Dudley, born around the same time as Harry."
"So Harry's with his aunt," Charlus said. "That's... that's not terrible. Family is—"
"Lily hated her sister," Arcturus interrupted flatly. "James told me. Said Petunia called Lily a freak. Said terrible things about magic. Lily hadn't spoken to her in years."
The horror of it settled over the room like a shroud.
"Dumbledore placed our grandson," Dorea said slowly, "with a woman who hates magic. Who hated his mother. And you can't find him because of blood wards."
"I've tried everything," Arcturus said, and he sounded old. Tired. "Everything. But blood wards keyed to Lily's sacrifice? They're... they're some of the most powerful magic that exists. I can't break them. Can't circumvent them. Can't even locate him precisely—just narrow it down to Surrey somewhere."
"Surrey," Charlus repeated. "That's... that's hundreds of square miles."
"We've been searching," Melania said quietly. "Every day. Every lead. But Dumbledore's hidden him well. And he insists it's for Harry's safety. Says the blood wards will protect him from any remaining Death Eaters."
"Or," Dorea said coldly, "he wants control. Control of the Boy-Who-Lived. Control of the Potter fortune—"
"Which is sealed," Arcturus interjected. "I made sure of that. Potter family magic. Harry's the heir. When he turns eleven and gets his Hogwarts letter, the vaults will open to him. Not before. Not even Dumbledore can touch that."
"Eleven," Charlus said. "He'll be... what, five now?"
"Five in July," Melania confirmed. "Five years old. With relatives who hate magic. Who probably hate *him*."
Dorea stood up.
She swayed immediately, her legs unable to support her weight after nine years of disuse. Melania caught her, but Dorea pushed her away.
"I'm fine."
"Dorea, you need to—"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice was pure Black steel. She took a step. Her leg trembled but held. Another step. "I've spent nine years asleep while my son died and my grandson was stolen. I'm *done* being weak."
Charlus was standing too, leaning heavily on the bedpost but standing. His face was set in lines of absolute determination.
"We get him back," he said simply. "However long it takes. Whatever it costs. We find Harry, and we bring him home."
"The blood wards—" Arcturus began.
"Bugger the blood wards," Dorea snarled. "We held off Voldemort himself, Arcturus. We fought Grindelwald's inner circle. We survived torture and war and being buried alive. You think I'm going to let some jumped-up blood magic keep me from my grandson?"
"The law is on Dumbledore's side," Melania warned. "He has legal custody. The Wizengamot won't challenge him—he's too respected, too powerful politically. If you try to take Harry by force—"
"Then I'll go to Azkaban too," Charlus said flatly. "I'll sit in a cell next to Sirius and count it worth it if it means Harry's safe."
Arcturus stared at them—his sister and brother-in-law, awake for less than an hour, barely able to stand, already planning war against the most powerful wizard in Britain.
Then he smiled. It was a terrible smile, full of Black family pride and something darker.
"The Black Dragon Legion," he said softly. "Welcome back, you magnificent, stubborn bastards."
"The Legion," Dorea repeated. Then she looked at Arcturus sharply. "The others? Moody? Benjy? Are they—"
"Alive," Arcturus confirmed. "Scattered. Retired, mostly. After James and Lily died, after Sirius was arrested, after you didn't wake up... the Legion sort of dissolved. No leadership. No purpose. But I can call them back. If we're really doing this."
"We're really doing this," Charlus said.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The sun was breaking through clouds, turning the world golden.
"Then we need a plan," Melania said practically. "A real one. Not a 'storm Dumbledore's office' plan. Something subtle. Something that won't land you all in Azkaban."
"I don't do subtle," Dorea said.
"I noticed," Melania replied dryly. "Which is why *I'm* going to help plan this. Arcturus can call in the old Legion members. We'll need intelligence—where exactly in Surrey, what the Dursleys are like, whether Harry is being... treated well."
The pause before those last two words was weighted.
"And if he's not?" Charlus asked quietly.
Melania's smile was sharp as broken glass. "Then we improvise. Violently if necessary."
"Sirius first," Dorea decided. "We get Sirius a trial. Prove his innocence. He's Harry's godfather—he should have custody rights."
"I've been trying—" Arcturus began.
"You've been trying alone," Charlus interrupted. "Now you have the Black Dragon Legion back. Time to remind Britain why Grindelwald himself feared us."
Arcturus considered this. Then he nodded slowly.
"There's a Wizengamot session in two weeks. If we can find new evidence, get someone to listen—"
"We'll make them listen," Dorea said coldly. "One way or another."
She moved to the window, looking out at Black Manor's gardens. Somewhere out there, hidden behind blood wards and Dumbledore's machinations, was her grandson. Five years old. Growing up without knowing his family. Without knowing his parents had died heroes. Without knowing he had grandparents who'd moved heaven and earth to reach him.
"James," she whispered to the glass. "I'm so sorry. We failed you. But we won't fail Harry. I swear it on the Black family magic. I swear it on every drop of Potter blood in my veins. We'll bring him home."
Behind her, Charlus moved to stand at her side. His hand found hers, their fingers interlacing automatically after fifty years of marriage.
"Together," he said softly.
"Together," she agreed.
And in that moment, with the sun breaking through storm clouds and the old warriors awakening from their long sleep, the Black Dragon Legion was reborn.
Dumbledore wouldn't know what hit him.
—
Arcturus had conjured a map of Britain, spread across the mahogany table like a battle plan. Which, Dorea supposed, it essentially was.
"Surrey's too large," he was saying, his finger tracing the county boundaries. "Even knowing they're somewhere in this area, we're talking dozens of towns. Hundreds of streets. And that's assuming Dumbledore hasn't added additional protections beyond the blood wards."
Charlus leaned heavily against the table, still weak but refusing to sit. "What about property records? The Dursleys own a house, presumably. We find the deed—"
"I've tried," Arcturus interrupted. "The Muggle records are... extensive. And accessing them without alerting Dumbledore requires delicacy. I've had people searching, but quietly. Very quietly. So far, nothing concrete. We've found fourteen Vernon Dursleys in Surrey alone."
"Fourteen," Charlus repeated flatly.
"It's apparently a more common name than one would hope."
"What about magical signatures?" Melania suggested. She'd conjured tea—because some situations called for alcohol, but a discussion about finding lost grandchildren apparently called for Earl Grey. "Harry's magical. Even at five, he should be generating some kind of trace."
"The blood wards suppress that too," Arcturus said grimly. "That's part of their function—they hide him magically. Make him appear no different from the Muggles around him. It's actually rather brilliant, from a curse-breaking perspective. Infuriating, but brilliant."
Dorea had been silent through this exchange, standing by the window, her mind working through the problem from every angle. The Black family specialty—finding solutions others missed, usually because those solutions involved magic that polite society preferred to ignore.
Blood wards. Ancient magic. Keyed to Lily's sacrifice.
Powerful enough to hide Harry from magical tracking.
Powerful enough to—
She froze.
"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, you idiots."
Three heads turned to stare at her.
"I beg your pardon?" Arcturus's voice carried aristocratic offense.
Dorea spun around, and her eyes were bright with the kind of dangerous intelligence that had made her legendary during the Grindelwald wars. "We've been thinking about this wrong. Completely wrong."
"In what way?" Charlus asked carefully. He knew that tone. That was his wife's 'I've just had a terrible idea that will absolutely work' tone.
"The blood wards block *wizarding* magic," Dorea said, speaking quickly now, her mind racing ahead. "They hide Harry from *wizarding* tracking spells. They suppress his *wizarding* magical signature. Yes?"
"Yes," Arcturus confirmed slowly, not yet seeing where she was going.
"But they're wizarding wards. Built with wizarding magic. Following wizarding rules." Her smile was sharp as broken glass. "House elves don't follow wizarding rules."
The silence that fell was profound.
Melania set down her teacup with a soft *click*. "Oh my."
"House elf magic operates on completely different principles," Dorea continued, pacing now, her weakness forgotten in the surge of discovery. "Different frequencies, different fundamental structures. That's why they can apparate through anti-apparition wards. Why they can perform magic in places where wizard magic fails. They're not *breaking* the rules—they're playing an entirely different game."
"The blood wards wouldn't stop them," Charlus said, catching up. His eyes were wide. "Because the wards were designed to stop *wizards*."
"Exactly." Dorea's voice was triumphant. "Dumbledore built an impenetrable fortress. And then forgot to lock the servants' entrance."
Arcturus was staring at her with something approaching awe. "Nine years in a coma, awake for two hours, and you've already solved what I've been failing at for five years. I'd forgotten how irritating you are."
"You love me."
"Irrelevant."
"Kreth!" Dorea called, her voice sharp with command.
The house elf appeared instantly, his large eyes blinking in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. "Madam Dorea called?"
"Kreth," Dorea knelt—her legs protesting but holding—so she was eye level with the elf. "I need you to answer a question, and I need you to be completely honest. Can house elves sense other house elves? Even at a distance?"
Kreth's ears twitched. "Yes, Madam. House elves can always sense other house elves. It is part of the bond to our magic."
"Can you sense... human children? Specifically, wizarding children?"
The elf's enormous eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Not usually, Madam. Human magic is different. But..." He paused. "If a house elf is bonded to a family, they can sense that family. The blood. The connection. Master Charlus and Madam Dorea, Kreth always knows where you are. Even when you were sleeping. Even if you traveled to Scotland. The bond tells Kreth."
"And Harry," Dorea said slowly, carefully. "James and Lily's son. Harry Potter. Does the Potter family magic recognize him as family?"
"Of course, Madam. He is the heir. The last Potter. The family magic flows strong in him."
"Could you sense him? Through that family bond?"
Kreth went very still. His ears slowly rose from their drooping position, standing straight up in surprise or realization.
"Kreth... Kreth has never tried," he admitted. "Master Charlus and Madam Dorea were here. Master James is..." His voice dropped. "Master James is gone. But young Master Harry... yes. Yes, if Kreth looks for the family bond, Kreth might sense him."
"Might?" Arcturus had moved closer, his voice intense.
"The bond is there," Kreth said with certainty. "Harry Potter is Potter family. But he is far away. And there are... walls. Not physical walls. Magic walls. Big magic. Old magic. But house elf magic..." He tilted his head, considering. "House elf magic does not care about walls."
"Try," Charlus said. His voice was rough. "Kreth, please. Try to sense him."
The house elf nodded slowly. He closed his enormous eyes, his bat-like ears quivering. The air around him seemed to shimmer slightly—that peculiar distortion that accompanied house elf magic, so different from the structured patterns of wizarding spells.
The silence stretched.
Dorea found she was holding her breath.
"There," Kreth whispered, and his eyes snapped open. "Kreth can feel him. Young Master Harry. He is... far. Many miles. To the southeast. There is the big magic around him, yes, but underneath... Kreth can feel the Potter blood. The family bond."
"Can you apparate to him?" Melania asked urgently.
"No," Kreth said regretfully. "The walls are too thick for that. But Kreth can sense the direction. The... the pull. Like a string, connecting young Master Harry to this house. To the Potter family magic."
"How precise can you be?" Arcturus demanded. "Can you narrow it down? Specific locations?"
Kreth's ears drooped slightly. "Kreth would need to be closer. Much closer. From here, Kreth can only sense the general direction. But if Kreth travels toward the pull, gets nearer, then Kreth could find the exact place."
"Southeast," Dorea said, moving to the map. "Surrey is southeast of here. Arcturus, you said you'd narrowed it down to Surrey?"
"Generally, yes. Based on Dumbledore's known movements, property records for families named Dursley, and—" He stopped. "We can use Kreth as a compass."
"Exactly," Dorea said. "We take him to Surrey. Drive through the towns—Muggles use automobiles, we can blend in. Kreth senses which direction the pull grows stronger. We narrow it down, street by street if we have to."
"That could take days," Melania pointed out. "Possibly weeks. Surrey isn't small."
"Then we take days or weeks," Charlus said flatly. "But we find him."
"There's a risk," Arcturus warned. "Dumbledore has people watching. The Order of the Phoenix. If they see us searching—"
"Then we're careful," Dorea interrupted. "We're subtle. We don't storm through Surrey in Black family robes announcing our intentions. We dress like Muggles. Act like Muggles. Kreth stays hidden, guides us quietly."
"I can do this," Kreth said firmly. His ears were standing straight up now, and there was something fierce in his ancient eyes. "Master James was kind to Kreth. Read stories to Kreth when he was a young wizard. Treated Kreth like... like a person. Kreth will find Master James's son. Will bring young Master Harry home."
The simple conviction in those words hit harder than any spell.
"We'll need a Muggle automobile," Melania said practically. She'd already moved into planning mode, her healer's precision applied to logistics. "I can procure one. And Muggle clothes—we can't exactly wander Surrey in robes."
"I have contacts who can help," Arcturus said. "Give me two days to arrange things quietly. We'll need identification, in case anyone asks. Money—Muggle money. Maps of Surrey."
"I want to go now," Dorea said. Her hands were clenched at her sides. "Every day we wait is another day Harry's with those people. Another day he doesn't know his family is looking for him."
"I know," Charlus said gently, moving to her side. "But we do this right. We can't afford mistakes. If Dumbledore catches wind of this, if he moves Harry somewhere else, we might never find him."
Dorea closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Every instinct screamed at her to act *now*, to tear Surrey apart brick by brick until she found her grandson. But Charlus was right. Rushing in blind had gotten them buried under Potter Manor. This time, they needed to be smart.
"Two days," she said finally. "But not one hour more, Arcturus."
"Two days," he agreed. Then he smiled—that sharp Black family smile. "Though I must say, waking up from a nine-year coma and immediately planning to subvert the most powerful wizard in Britain is very on-brand for you both."
"We try," Charlus said dryly.
"Kreth," Dorea turned to the house elf, "can you maintain the connection? Keep sensing for Harry while we prepare?"
"Yes, Madam. Kreth will hold the bond. Will know if young Master Harry moves or if something changes."
"Good." She straightened, despite her trembling legs, despite the exhaustion pulling at her. "Then we have work to do."
"You need rest," Melania interjected firmly. "Both of you. Your bodies have been still for nine years. You're running on adrenaline and stubbornness right now, but that won't last. You need food, proper healing spells, physical therapy—"
"After we find Harry," Dorea said.
"During," Melania countered. "You're no good to him if you collapse halfway through Surrey. You'll eat. You'll submit to healing spells. You'll rebuild your strength. And *then* you'll go charging off to rescue your grandson like the magnificent idiots you are."
Dorea opened her mouth to argue.
Charlus put a hand on her arm. "She's right, love. We're not twenty anymore. We can't run on fury alone."
"We managed it in Prague—"
"In Prague, we weren't recovering from a nine-year magical coma. In Prague, we had full access to our magic and our strength. Right now, you can barely walk across a room."
It galled her to admit it, but he was right. Already, the surge of energy from discovery was fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Her legs were shaking. Her magic felt thin, stretched, not quite connected properly.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Two days to prepare and recover. But Arcturus? I want information. Everything you know about these Dursleys. Everything you've learned about where Harry might be. Every scrap of intelligence."
"You'll have it," Arcturus promised. He moved to the door, then paused. "For what it's worth? I'm glad you're awake. I've missed having someone to argue with who's actually intelligent."
"Melania's intelligent," Dorea pointed out.
"Melania agrees with me too often. Where's the fun in that?"
"I heard that," Melania called from where she was organizing medical supplies.
"You were meant to, darling."
After Arcturus left, the room felt quieter. More real, somehow. The enormity of what they'd learned—what they'd lost—began to sink in properly.
James was dead.
Lily was dead.
They'd missed their son's graduation, his wedding, the birth of their grandson. Missed nine years of life while they'd slept, trapped in Voldemort's final curse.
"Charlus," Dorea said quietly.
"I know." He pulled her close, and they stood like that, holding each other up in all the ways that mattered. "We'll get him back. Whatever it takes."
"And Sirius?"
"Him too. The Legion didn't abandon people. We're not starting now."
From the doorway, Kreth watched his masters—watched them grieve and plan and refuse to break—and felt the old Potter magic stir in his bones. The family he served had been devastated, but not defeated.
The Black Dragon Legion was waking up.
And Merlin help anyone who stood in their way.
---
**Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey**
The cupboard under the stairs smelled like dust and spiders and something else—something sour that Harry couldn't name but knew was fear. His fear, soaked into the wood over years of crying in the dark.
He was five years old, and he hurt everywhere.
His ribs ached where Uncle Vernon had grabbed him—big meaty hands that left bruises shaped like fingers. His back stung from where he'd been shoved against the wall. His stomach was empty, had been empty since yesterday's breakfast, because he'd accidentally made Aunt Petunia's hair turn blue while she was yelling at him.
He hadn't *meant* to. He never meant to. The strange things just *happened* when he was scared or angry or desperate. And then Uncle Vernon would go purple, and Aunt Petunia would screech about freakishness, and Harry would end up here.
In the dark.
Always in the dark.
Dudley was eating chocolate cake upstairs. Harry could hear him, could hear his cousin's delighted squeals as Aunt Petunia praised him for being such a good boy, such a *normal* boy.
Harry's stomach cramped with hunger.
He curled tighter in the cramped space, his small body folding around the pain. The thin blanket they'd thrown in with him did nothing against the October cold seeping through the walls.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the darkness. "I'm sorry I'm a freak. I'm sorry I do bad things. I'm sorry..."
But sorry never helped. Sorry never made the hunger go away or the bruises heal faster or Uncle Vernon less angry.
Through the thin door, he could hear the television. Hear his aunt and uncle laughing at something. Hear Dudley demanding another slice of cake.
Hear life happening without him.
Harry pressed his forehead against his knees and tried not to cry. Crying made his eyes puffy, and if Uncle Vernon saw he'd been crying, he'd get angry about that too. About Harry being weak. Being pathetic. Being a burden they'd been forced to take in when his parents—
"Died in a car crash," Aunt Petunia always said, her face pinched with distaste. "Because they were drunk. Worthless drunks who got themselves killed and left us stuck with *you*."
But sometimes, late at night, Harry dreamed of green light and someone screaming. Dreamed of warmth and love and a voice singing softly. Dreams that felt too real to be just dreams.
"Please," Harry whispered into the darkness. Not to his aunt and uncle—they never listened. Not to God—Aunt Petunia said freaks like him didn't deserve God's attention.
To anyone. To no one. To the strange magic that lived in his bones and made impossible things happen.
"Please, if anyone can hear me... if anyone cares..."
His voice cracked.
"I want to go home."
Even though he'd never had a home. Even though this cupboard was the only space that had ever been *his*, horrible as it was.
"I want someone to want me. I want... I want to not be alone anymore."
The words came out broken, barely audible. A child's desperate prayer, cast into the void.
"Please. Anyone. I'll be good, I promise. I'll be so good. Just... please..."
The darkness didn't answer.
Upstairs, Dudley laughed.
And Harry Potter, five years old and so terribly alone, cried silently into his knees while his family celebrated without him.
He didn't know that miles away, a house elf had suddenly stiffened, ears standing straight up in alarm.
Didn't know that his grandmother had gasped, feeling something tug at her heart.
Didn't know that the family bond—ancient Potter magic, blood calling to blood—had just carried his desperate prayer across Surrey like a flare in the darkness.
Didn't know that help was coming.
He just knew he was alone, and cold, and so very hungry.
And he prayed.
---
**Back at the Black Manor**
Kreth's eyes snapped open, glowing faintly in the dimness of the servant's quarters.
"Young master," he whispered. "Young master is *hurting*."
The bond between house elf and family had many purposes. Protection. Service. Connection.
And sometimes, when the need was great enough, it carried prayers.
Kreth disappeared with a soft *pop*, reappearing in Dorea's chambers where she was submitting to Melania's healing spells.
"Madam Dorea," he said urgently. "Kreth felt it. The bond. Young Master Harry is calling. He is *calling for help*."
Dorea's eyes went wide. Then they went cold as winter.
"How far?"
"Same direction. Southeast. But Madam—" Kreth's voice shook. "He is hurting. Scared. Hungry. Kreth can feel it through the bond."
"Melania," Dorea said, her voice deadly calm. "How quickly can you make me functional?"
"Dorea, you need at least—"
"*How quickly*."
Melania looked at her sister-in-law. Saw the Black steel. The Potter fury. The mother who had woken to find her child dead and her grandchild suffering.
"Give me an hour," she said. "I'll make you functional."
"Make it thirty minutes."
"Done."
---
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