Harry smiled then, and it was a terrible thing to see.
"You lost the paperwork," he said. "You delayed the reviews. You deemed the risks 'acceptable.'"
The reporters' quills were flying now.
"And no," Harry went on, "after calling him a freak in public, after suggesting he be studied like a specimen, you want custody?"
Harry shook his head.
"No."
The word echoed.
"You don't get him," Harry said. "You don't get access. You don't get interviews, tests, or observations. And you certainly don't get to use language that would make Death Eaters nod along in agreement and pretend it's concern."
The man's mouth opened and closed uselessly. Harry leaned in just enough that only he could hear the last part.
"If you ever speak about Teddy like that again," Harry said quietly, "I will dismantle your department so thoroughly they'll teach it as a cautionary tale in bureaucratic ethics courses."
He straightened, turned, and walked away. Behind him, the Atrium erupted-voices overlapping, questions shouted, the Ministry's carefully cultivated calm cracking like old plaster. By sunset, the Ministry issued a statement walking back its "reteach considerations."
By midnight, three oversight committees were under investigation. And back at Grimmauld Place, Teddy fell asleep on Harry's bed with his head against Harry's side, hair shifting lazily between colors, safe, utterly unaware that the world had tried to name him something small and ugly, and had been corrected with fire.
The fire didn't burn out.
It banked.
Morning came quietly to Grimmauld Place, the kind of quiet that followed decisive violence, not chaos, but aftermath. The house knew the difference. It creaked and settled like an old guard resuming its watch. Harry was awake before the light reached the windows. Teddy still slept, sprawled sideways now, one sock missing, hair a soft, untroubled green. Harry didn't move. He'd learned, over the years, how to hold still without going numb. The house held its breath with him.
The Floo exploded into life downstairs. Harry closed his eyes. He'd shut off the owls. Apparently, the Floo was fair game. He reached out anyway. Teddy's blankets were twisted into a knot around his legs, one foot bare. Harry eased the fabric loose, tucked the edge back around him, and drew the sock up where it belonged. Teddy sighed, hair shifting briefly from green to light blue, but didn't wake. Satisfied, Harry sat back a moment. Grimmauld Place creaked in relief. Then he stood and went downstairs.
The Daily Prophet lay spread across the hearth rug, photos still twitching with excitement. MINISTRY FACES SCRUTINY AFTER POTTER CONFRONTATION
Harry exhaled through his nose. "That didn't take long."
Daryl appeared in the doorway, already dressed, already holding a stack of parchment that looked weaponized by intent alone.
"They're scrambling," he said. "Retractions, clarifications, anonymous briefings. Too many cooks. They're stepping on each other."
George followed, coffee in hand, grin sharp. "I've got three different versions of 'we never meant that' and one spectacular attempt at 'taken out of context.'"
Harry reached out and stilled the Prophet's with a flick of his fingers. The headline dimmed, obedient.
"What about the committees?" he asked.
"Two chair resignations overnight," Daryl said. "One attempted memory charm on a junior clerk, badly done. We've got witnesses."
Harry noddy. He felt it then: the shift. The moment when power realized it had miscalculated and was now flailing.
"They'll try for a compromise next," George said. "Offer oversight instead of custody. Sell it as a partnership."
"They won't get it," Harry said.
Daryl smiled thinly. "No. Because we're not done."
He laid the parchments out on the table. Reports. Dates. Names. Footnotes like nails.
"Every ignored complaint," Daryl continued. "Every deferred review involving children of nonstandard magical inheritance. Including Teddy. Including others."
Harry's jaw tightened. "How many?"
"Enough," Daryl said, "and once this is public, it stops being about you."
"Good," he said. "It never was."
The house gave a low, approving groan, as if something deep in its bones had finally settled into place. Outside, the city was waking up to a Ministry that had lost control of its own story. Inside, Grimmauld Place held fast, not hiding, not bracing, but standing squarely in the open now, daring anyone to mistake protection for weakness again. And somewhere deep in the Ministry archives, files long buried were beginning to surface, blinking in the light, learning too late that some fires don't consume-they illuminate. Harry let the thought settle. The day had only just begun. After getting the half-asleep Teddy dressed, Harry stepped into the quiet streets of London, Teddy against his chest, hair shifting from light blue to black like Harry's hair. George and Daryl flanked him, each carrying parchment and magical instruments that looked far too sharp to be safe in humane hands.
Diagon Alley was waking. Enchanted signs creaked into motion, cauldrons hissed, and floating lanterns adjusted their glow with the sun. Harry moved through it all with Teddy cradled against his chest, hair staying the black to match Harry, while murmurs followed them along the cobblestones:
"That's… Harry Potter, isn't it?"
"I heard about the Ministry debacle."
Harry kept his eyes forward, ignoring the murmurs, though he felt their weight like a wind brushing the back of his neck. Teddy stirred slightly and murmured something about dragons, and Harry eased the sling to keep him comfortable. The murmurs faded as they reached Gringotts; the goblins moved with precise, almost impatient efficiency, opening long-forgotten archives, sorting scrolls that hadn't seen daylight in decades, and letting enchanted ledgers hum faintly, pulsing like tiny, trapped heartbeats.
"Some of this hasn't been touched since before the Ministry moved in," Daryl murmured, setting down a stack of reports.
Harry knelt beside one of the glowing ledgers; he ran a finger along the edges of the parchment, feeling the shimmer of old magic brushing against his skin. Not dangerous. Not visible to anyone else. Just… aware. Patient. Waiting.
A sharp, metallic voice cut through the quiet. "Harry Potter," said Ragnok, stepping forward, eyes scanning the ledgers as if they might bite. "About the Virginia farmhouse… it won't be up and running before you leave for America. Too much structural damage, too many wards destabilized. You'd be chasing ghosts."
Harry exchanged a look with Daryl. "Then what do you suggest?"
Ragnock's lips twisted, almost a smirk. "There is another location. Secluded. Strong natural wards. Minimal magical residue. Georgia. Safe from unwelcome attention."
George's grin spread, sharp and conspiratorial. "Sounds like a field trip, then."
Teddy stirred in Harry's arm, murmuring something about dragons. Harry adjusted him without looking, easing the sling so his son stayed secure. "Is this another place we're checking?" Teddy mumbled.
"Yes, little one," Harry said softly. "But don't worry. You'll be safe."
He returned his attention to the ledgers. The glow of the pages pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat echoing through the vault. Faint, patient. He'd felt this before-on the edges of old family trees, in the margins of names long dead. Something waiting. Something aware. Harry exhaled, a quiet tension settling into his shoulder. "We'll prep for Georgia," he said, looking at Daryl and George. "And keep monitoring the Ministry files. Whatever fires they try to light… We'll make sure they illuminate instead."
The goblins resumed their work with renewed precision, oblivious to the subtle pulse Harry alone could feel. Outside, London stirred, indifferent. Inside Gringotts, amidst ledgers and enchantments, the future was quietly assembling itself: a safe house in the American South, Ministry secrets coming to light, and a boy asleep against his chest who had no idea yet just how far the threads of legacy, magic, and death would reach.