The warmth of Daryl's kiss, the solid promise of his presence, was a shield Harry clung to as he apparated them both to Andromeda Tonk's home. Has Harry stood frozen in Andromeda's doorway, her words echoing like a curse. "He's at the orphanage. What was I to do with a werewolf child?" The betrayal by Dumbledore, Molly, Ginny Weasley, and Granger was a dull ache compared to this fresh wound. Teddy, his godson, was abandoned.
"What is the name of the orphanage?" Harry growls out, his magic crackling just beneath his skin, a storm held in check by sheer will. Beside him, Daryl leaned against the door frame, crossbow held loosely, but eyes missing nothing.
"Wool's Orphanage," she says.
Harry apparated outside the wrought-iron gates of Wool's Orphanage, which were not so much an entrance as a warning. They stood tall and black, tipped with Fleur-DE-lis spikes that seemed less decorative and more deterrent, a stark silhouette against the Grey, weeping sky of London. The building beyond was a monument to Victorian austerity- a hulking edifice of soot-stained brick, its rows of windows narrow and uniform, many with curtains drawn tight like closed eyelids. It was a place that had learned to hide its secrets, to absorb sound and light and hope into its cold, damp walls. Harry stood on the pavement, the name 'Wool's' echoing in his mind with a significance that chilled him to the bone. This was not just any orphanage; it was the orphanage. The place where Tom Riddle had learned to hone his cruelty, to covet what was not his, to see the world as a collection of things to be owned or destroyed. The irony was a bitter pill. His godson, a child of light and chaotic metamorphmagus hair, was now within the same walls that had once caged wizardkind's greatest monster.
His magic, which had been crackling, restless storm since Andromeda's doorstep, now went preternaturally still and cold. It was the calm at the eye of the hurricane, a focused, deadly intent. Beside him, Daryl shifted, his crossbow now held with purposeful ease. He didn't understand the magical history, but he understood the architecture of despair.
"Place looks like it eats kids," he muttered, his gaze scanning the high walls, the empty, muddy play yard.
"It tried," Harry said, his voice low and flat. "Once. And it succeeded."
They moved through the gates, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the ghosts of neglected childhoods. As they approached the large, oak door, it swung open before Harry could raise a hand to knock. A woman stood there, her frame gaunt, dressed in a severe gray dress that matched the building's exterior. Her name gate read 'Mrs. Cole,' and the sight of it sent another through Harry. This woman, or her predecessor? The continuity of misery here was staggering.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice devoid of warmth, her eyes assessing them with bureaucratic suspicion. They lingered on Daryl's crossbow, but a subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer in the air around Harry- a mild *Confundus Charm he'd cast the moment he saw her- made her blink and look past it, her concern smoothing into bland acceptance.
"We're here regarding a recent placement," Harry said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Edward Lupin."
Mrs. Cole's thin lips tightened. "Ah. The… special case. Follow me."
The interior was worse than the exterior. It was clean, scrupulously so, but the cleanliness spoke of harsh chemicals and obligation, not care. The floors were bare, polished linoleum, the walls a cheerless mint green, interrupted only by fire-drill instructions. The silence was profound, broken not by the sounds of children playing, but by the distant clatter of a kitchen and the faint, stifled cries from behind a closed door. It was a silence that punished noise. Harry's heart hammered against his ribs. Teddy was here. In this. His knuckles were white where he clenched his fists. As they passed a small, bleak office, a wireless radio crackled with a familiar, wheezing voice. "…and we remind our listers that the Minister's Werewolf Registry is a vital tool for public safety. Compliance is not just a legal obligation, but a civic duty. Remember, the bite is not the only danger; the instability, the inherent volatility of the condition, poses a risk to all, especially the sound and impressionable…"
It was Percy Weasley. The pompous, bureaucratic cadence was unmistakable. Harry stopped dead, the sound hitting him like a physical blow. Percy, spouting the very rhetoric that had justified locking his godson away. The betrayal, a hydra-headed beast, grew another head. Daryl saw the change in him, the way his stillness turned lethal. He stepped closer, his shoulder a solid, grounding presence against Harry's arm. "Focus," he murmured, the word barely a breath. "The kid first. The rest after."
Harry forced a breath into his lungs. Daryl was right. He gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod, and they continued after Mrs. Cole, who seemed oblivious to the seismic fury she was escorting. She led them to a door at the end of a long corridor. "He's in here. We've found it's best for everyone if he has… separate accommodations on the pertinent nights." Her key turned in the lock with a loud, metallic scrape.
The room was a small, square cell. A narrow cot, a bare nightstand, a high, barred window letting in slivers of the gray day. And on the cot, curled into a tight ball, was a small boy with hair that was a lifeless, dull brown- the color of dirt, of forgotten things. It was Teddy's natural, un-metamorphmagus state, a sign of profound distress or magical suppression. He was clutching a faded, stuffed wolf, a lone spot of softness in the harsh room. The storm inside Harry broke. The cold focus evaporated, replaced by a wave of such profound, aching sorrow and rage that the ceiling lightbulb flickered and died. He didn't notice. He was across the room in two strides, sinking to his knees beside the cot.
"Teddy," he whispered, his voice cracking.
The boy uncurled slowly. Big, brown eyes- Remus's eyes, Tonks's eyes- blinked up at him, filled with a confusion and fear that no two-year-old should ever know. Then, recognition dawned. The dull brown hair shimmered, flickering uncertainly through shades of blue and purple before settling into a vibrant, messy black- Harry's black.
"H-Harry?" a small, trembling voice asked.
The word shattered what was left of Harry's composure. He gathered the boy into his arms, holding him tightly, as if he could absorb all the coldness of the room into himself. "I'm here, Teddy. I'm so sorry. I'm here now."
Over Teddy's head, Harry's eyes met Daryl's. The hunter stood guard at the open door, his back to them, his posture a clear warning to the outside world. His presence was a silent vow: This ends now. And in that moment, amidst the despair of Wool's, Harry's path crystallized. Teddy was coming home. And then, there would be a reckoning. But first, there was one more stop to make. He needed to see what remained of the family he'd once bled for. He needed to look George Weasley in the eye. After soothing Teddy with whispered promises and watching the boy's hair finally burst into a tentative, happy gold as Daryl offered him a finger to grip with surprising gentleness, Harry cast the strongest protective and tracking charms he knew on his godson.