Harry didn't bend to pick up the letter at his feet. He stepped over it instead, deliberate, as if the parchment were nothing more than debris. The owls, rebuffed, fluttered and circled, confused by the lack of response. One made an indignant noise and pecked sharply at the corridor's wall scone, setting the lamp swaying before launching itself back into the air.
"Clear them," Daryl said quietly.
Harry lifted his wand. "Gently."
A low, controlled pulse of magic rolled down the corridor-not a banishing charm, but a refusal. The air thickened just enough to make the house uninteresting. One by one, the owls shook their feathers, disgruntled, and retreated the way they'd come, slipping back through cracked windows and gaps in wards that now closed behind them like healed skin. The silence afterward was heavier for having been earned. George stuck his head out of his room, hair standing on end, eyes bloodshot. "Please tell me that was a nightmare and not the post."
"Post," Harry said.
George groaned. "Brilliant."
From the first floor came a small thump, followed by a muttered, sleepy, "Harry?"
Harry was already moving. Teddy sat up on the bed, hair a pale, uncertain blue, wolf clutched to his chest. His eyes tracked Harry instantly, anxiety sharpening his focus in a way no child should have to learn.
"Bad people?" Teddy asked.
Harry knelt in front of him, bringing himself level. "People who don't get to decide things for us," he said carefully.
Teddy considered that. "Do they know where we are?"
"No," Harry said, honest and steady. "And they can't come in."
That seemed to matter. Teddy relaxed, just a fraction, and leaned forward until his forehead bumped Harry's shoulder. Harry stayed there a moment longer than necessary, anchoring the promise in more than words. Behind them, Kreacher appeared with a pop, scowling deeply. "The house is under assault," he rasped. "Owls banging and screeching and outsiders pressing their noses to secrets not meant for them."
"They're not getting in," Harry said.
Kreacher sniffed. "Naturally not. The protections are… adequate." A pause. "Kreacher will see the windows."
"That would be helpful," Harry said.
Kreacher froze, clearly unsettled by being thanked, then vanished with a sharp crack. Daryl was already sorting the letters Harry had dumped on the table, skimming, categorizing, and discarding. "We're past informal pressure," he said. "This is coordinated, Ministry, Emotionalize-adjacent, and-" his mouth thinned "-Order members acting unofficially."
George slumped into his chair. "They always do that. Makes them feel righteous."
"They'll escalate," Daryl continued. "Public concern angle first. Child welfare. Emotional manipulation. Then legal force."
Harry nodded. He felt calm now. Cold, but calm. "Then we respond publicly."
George blinked. "We do?"
"Yes," Harry said. "On our terms."
He reached for a clean sheet of parchment. The house seemed to lean in-not eager, exactly, but attentive. "We don't argue about custody," Harry said as he wrote. "We assert it. We don't defend removing Teddy from the orphanage- we document why leaving him there constituted negligence."
Daryl's eyes lit with approval. "And we force disclosure."
"Exactly," Harry said. "Names. Reports. Prior complaints. Every time the system failed him."
George whistled softly. "You're going to make a lot of enemies."
Harry looked toward Teddy, who was now on the floor, lining up toy soldiers he'd found in a battered tin, utterly absorbed. "I already have them," Harry said. "Now they'll be accountable."
A distant thud echoed through the house as something heavy settled into place- another ward, locking. Grimmauld Place approved of clarity. It had always hated hesitation.
"George," Harry said, not looking up. "I need you to handle external noise. Jokes, deflection, misdirection. Let them underestimate us."
George straightened. "I can do that."
"Daryl," Harry continued. "Draft the formal response. I want it filed before sunset."
Daryl nodded once. "They'll feel it."
Harry finished the last line and set his quill down. The parchment dried itself, ink sinking deep and permanent. Outside, the city moved on, oblivious. Inside, old stone and newer magic held fast. This wasn't hiding. It was fortifying. And when the next knock came-legal or otherwise- it would find a house that no longer mistook silence for surrender. The next knock didn't come to the door. It came through the wards. A Ministry summons slid onto the table, parchment already warm, already irritated by the protections it had passed through. Harry read it once, then again, jaw tightening.
"Request for voluntary consultation," George read over his shoulder. "Oh, that's rich."
"Child Welfare Subcommittee," Daryl said. "Open session. Public gallery."
Harry exhaled slowly. This was the shift. Not force- exposure.
"They want witnesses," Harry said. "They want tone policing. They want to look reasonable."
"And if you don't go?" George asked.
Harry folded the parchment with precise care. "Then they control the narrative."
The house settled around them, wards humming-not resisting, not panicking. Releasing. Grimmauld Place didn't object to him leaving. It understood the difference between retreat and advance.
"I'll go," Harry said. "Alone."
——————————
The first comment broke containment at noon.
It wasn't in a letter or a closed-door meeting. It was said aloud, in the Atrium, by a man who thought the marble pillars and the echoing space would swallow his voice.
They didn't.
"-honestly, keeping that in a private residence," the wizard scoffed, tone oily with false concern. "A half-bred anomaly raised by vigilantes? It's irresponsible. Those things turn unstable. Everyone knows that."
The word he used- sharp, old, and ugly-hit the air like a thrown stone. The Atrium went quiet in that brittle, awful way crowds do when they're deciding whether to look away.
Harry stopped walking.
The wizard noticed then. Color drained from his face as recognition dawned too late.
Harry turned slowly.
There was no want in his hand. He didn't need one.
"Say it again," Harry said, very softly.
"I-Mr. Potter, I didn't mean-"
"No," Harry cut in. His voice carried. Not loud. Carrying. "You meant exactly what you said. You just didn't expect me to hear it."
People were staring now. Ministry clerks. Aurors. A pair of reporters who had been hovering uselessly near the Fountain.
"You are talking about a child," Harry continued. "A two-year-old who lost both parents in a war you were too cowardly to fight in."
The man tried to laugh it off. "Now, really, Potter, emotionality isn't helpful. The Ministry's position is that the boy represents a unique case. A convergence of conditions. Magical inheritance, trauma exposure, philanthropic proximity-"
Harry stepped closer.
Every protective instinct he had ever learned-every battlefield reflex-locked into place.
"You do not get to reduce him to a case file," Harry said. "You do not get to call him an experiment."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
The wizard swallowed. "There are questions that need answering. His abilities, his stability. For his own good, of course. Observation. Controlled environments-"
That was when Harry snapped.
"His parents were war heroes," Harry said, and now his voice rang, sharp as breaking glass. "Remus Lupin died defending Hogwarts when half this building was still hiding behind wards. Nymphadora Tonks was murdered fighting Death Eaters so your children could grow up without Dark Marks on their arms."
Harry gestured, encompassing the Atrium, the Ministry itself.
"And this," he said, "is how you honor that?"
Someone tried to interrupt. "Mr. Potter, please, this isn't the time-"
"Oh, it's exactly the time."
Harry turned, eyes blazing, and addressed the watchers as much as the man in front of him.
"You want to know why Teddy Lupin doesn't belong to you?" he said. "Because every system you're so eager to place him into already failed him. His parents asked for protection. For oversight. For contingency plans."