Chapter 1235 - Ch: 21-25

Chapter 21 - A Little Too Smooth

Krakow, 1990

There are no indication of anything being wrong. None at all.

And then suddenly—it all turned to shit.

Sirius had thought that his old friend will be shocked, yes, and then he will get over it and they'll have a brilliant reunion and be a team again, like old times, or at least, similar to old times since they didn't have James, but then it didn't happen the way he'd thought it would.

No, Remus didn't get over his shock.

In fact, it completely took over him.

His face, so full of dawning, impossible hope, twisted.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep in his chest. It was a sound that did not belong to the kind, weary man Sirius knew. It was the sound of an animal.

"Remus?" he said, his hand instinctively going to his wand.

But his friend's fingers elongated, the joints cracking. His nails thickened, turning a sick, yellowed-black, clawing at the air.

His shoulders hunched and broadened, the worn, patched fabric of his robes ripping at the seams with a sound like tearing parchment.

"Sirius…" Remus choked out, but the name was mangled, half-snarl, half-word.

Sirius stepped back, shielding Harry.

Remus' amber eyes, once so gentle and thoughtful, turned feral. The pupils narrowed to hateful, vertical slits, and they fixed on him with a murderous, unrecognizing hunger.

And then he lunged.

Not like a man, but like a predator.

Sirius, his reflexes honed by almost a decade of paranoia, didn't hesitate. "Harry, back! NOW!"

He threw up a shield, an almost solid wall of white light. Remus, impossibly fast, was too close. His claws raked across the Protego Moir, the sound like knives on glass, the force of it sending spiderweb cracks through the magical barrier.

He dove on instinct, yanking Harry with him, rolling over a stack of empty cages as Remus's fist smashed the shield into a thousand glittering pieces.

"Remus, it's me! It's Padfoot!" he shouted, scrambling to his feet and pushing Harry behind him.

His old friend didn't answer though. He just snarled and came again, a blur of tattered robes and bared fangs.

So he cast, his voice a sharp command. "Muro!"

A solid wall of stone, five feet thick, erupted from the shop's wooden floorboards, blocking Remus's charge.

CRACK.

A fist, now covered in coarse, brown fur, punched straight through the centre of the wall as if it were paper. Dust and stone fragments exploded outward.

Remus ripped the rest of the wall apart with his bare hands.

"Harry, hide! Back of the shop! GO!" Sirius roared, not daring to look away from his attacker.

He heard the hurried scrape of Harry's shoes on the floorboards, and then he was alone, facing the monster his friend had become.

"Moony, snap out of it!" Sirius yelled, dodging another swipe that sent a three-tiered cage of screeching Fwoopers crashing to the ground.

"Relashio!"

A jet of hot, blue sparks hit Remus square in the chest. It didn't stop him. It didn't even slow him down. It just made him angrier.

With a roar, Remus grabbed a heavy, iron cauldron stand and hurled it end-over-end at Sirius.

He didn't flinch. He just transfigured it mid-air. "Oppugno!"

The stand dissolved into a flock of large, black ravens. They swarmed Remus, cawing and pecking, their talons seeking his eyes.

Remus roared, swatting them out of the air, his arms flailing. He caught one bird and crushed it, its body falling to the floor in a puff of black feathers.

"It's me, Remus! It's Padfoot!"

The plea was met with a feral howl. Remus charged, faster than Sirius had anticipated, his head low.

He caught him with a glancing blow to the shoulder, claws tearing through the thick travel cloak and the flesh beneath.

Pain, white-hot and searing, shot through Sirius's arm. The anger, the grief, the sheer, crushing frustration of the last decade, exploded.

"I didn't come all this way to be mauled to death by my oldest friend!" he bellowed.

He put his full, unrestrained power into a single, non-verbal Depulso.

The shockwave hit Remus like an invisible battering ram.

Remus, or rather, this half-transformed monster, was lifted off his feet. He flew backward, crashing through a tall, rickety shelf of glass vials. The entire structure splintered, burying him in a catastrophic shower of broken glass, foul-smelling liquids, and dried herbs.

Ruin was all that was around them. Cages were broken, and small, magical creatures were screeching and fleeing into the rafters.

"Fuck, Remus!" Sirius shouted, breathing heavily, his left arm bleeding freely, staining his sleeve dark red. "What in the bloody Merlin is wrong with you!"

A low, painful groan came from the wreckage. Remus pushed a broken shelf off his chest. He was bleeding from a dozen small cuts, the feral glint in his amber eyes clouded with a desperate, human pain.

"Sirius…?" he groaned, his voice a pathetic rasp. He tried to stand, but his legs trembled. "I... I don't know..."

Sirius's anger vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold, sharp confusion. He lowered his wand. "Moony?"

He took a cautious step forward. "Remus, what's happening to you? Is it a curse? Did someone do this?"

"I... I can't... control it!" Remus gasped, clutching his head.

And then the feral mask slammed back down. His body contorted, his spine arching, and he launched himself from the pile of debris, roaring.

Sirius cursed, throwing himself sideways as Remus's claws raked the floor where he'd just been standing. "Damn it!"

He was thankful, in that split second, that this wasn't a full moon. This was something else. A half-transformation, driven by shock, by some kind of stupid magic, but it wasn't the Wolf.

If it had been the Wolf, Sirius knew he would already be close to dead.

Remus was crying now, tears streaming from the animalistic eyes as he attacked. "It hurts, Padfoot! I can't stop it! I don't know what's happening to me!"

He swiped again, and Sirius was forced to erect another shield, the impact rattling his teeth.

"Then find out!" Sirius roared, parrying a claw with a solid shield that sent him skidding back. "Stop fucking attacking me! Fight it, man! Fight it!"

"I'm trying!" Remus howled, and he slammed his fists, now more like paws, into the shield. The magic cracked under the sheer, unnatural brute force.

"NO!"

The shout didn't come from Sirius or Remus.

Sirius's head whipped toward the back of the shop. "Harry, stay back! I told you to hide!"

Harry was running, his glamoured face a mask of pale, fierce determination. He wasn't running away. He was running at them.

"Harry, NO! Don't come here!"

Remus turned, distracted by the new arrival, and raised a clawed hand, ready to strike.

But the ten year old didn't slow down. He slid the last few feet on the potion-slicked floor, ducking under Remus's wild, unfocused swing.

He slammed both of his small hands flat against the small of Remus's back.

He closed his eyes. He didn't just say the word, he commanded it, pouring every ounce of his focused will, all his intent, into that single, precise incantation.

"Finite!"

It wasn't a spell. It was a hammer blow of pure, anti-magic. A focused negation.

The effect was instantaneous. And Sirius felt it even from the other side of his own wall of magic.

Remus's body went rigid. The snarl died in his throat. The coarse fur on his arms and face seemed to retract, the claws shrinking back into his fingers. The feral, inhuman light in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a blank, unfocused stare.

He slumped forward, boneless, and collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor.

The shop fell into a dead, shocked silence, broken only by the drip of spilled potions and the nervous chirping of a Fwooper from a surviving cage.

Sirius stared, his wand still raised, his arm throbbing, his mind completely blank. He looked at Remus's still, very human-looking form, and then at Harry, who was panting, his small hands still held out, trembling from the exertion.

"Harry..." Sirius breathed, his voice hoarse. "What... what did you just do?"

Harry looked up, his face morphing slowly to his usual calm demeanour. The strategist was coming back again, as the adrenaline was going away.

"Shouldn't we get out of here first?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over the destroyed menagerie.

Sirius blinked, the adrenaline finally receding, replaced by a dawning sense of horror at the sheer, unmitigated messthey'd made. The shop owner would be back. The Polish Ministry would be called. Aurors would be here any minute.

Fuck.

He looked at the wreckage, then at his unconscious friend, then at his godson. A sheepish, almost hysterical grin tugged at his lips.

"Yes," Sirius said, a little breathlessly. "Yes, we should."

He pointed his wand at Remus. "Mobilicorpus."

Remus's limp body floated into the air.

"This way," Harry said, already moving, his voice now calm. "The back door is this way."

Sirius levitated his oldest and only surviving friend's body and followed his ten year old godson out of the ruins of their reunion.

~~ .

The sombre diner was small and quiet and absolutely perfect for this kind of messy reunion.

Nobody asked why Remus was half-sitting, half-lying down on the other side of the booth while Sirius nursed a large beer and Harry dove into a nice, hearty sandwich with some apple juice.

Nobody paid a second glance to them.

Which was good.

Sirius took a long, slow pull from his beer, his grey eyes fixed on the man opposite him. The man he thought was dead just a few months ago. The man who had just tried to kill him.

Remus had a glass of water in his hands, but he wasn't drinking. He was just staring into it, his knuckles white. The feral edge was gone, and now he looked just… shattered, haunted, even.

"So," Sirius began, his voice low, trying to keep the volatile cocktail of anger, relief, and confusion out of it. "Start from the beginning, Moony. What in the bloody hell was thatback at the shop?"

Remus flinched, a pained groan escaping him. "I… I don't know, Padfoot. I swear I don't. It just… it happens. When I get angry. Or shocked. It's been happening for years. It's... a curse, I think. Something unknown."

"We'll figure that out later," Sirius said, waving it away, though his mind was already filing the information. "Before that. Where have you been? I thought you were dead, Remus. Everyone did. Dumbledore..."

"I've been here," Remus said, his voice a dull, empty rasp. "In Poland. For about... six years, I think. After... after."

"After what?" Sirius pressed.

Remus finally looked up, his scarred face a mask of old, unhealed grief. "After that night, Sirius. After Halloween. I… I felt the wards fall. I felt... I don't know how, I just felt the magic there…that's all... I went to Godric's Hollow."

His voice broke. "It was... just rubble, Padfoot. The house... gone. I... I searched... I was looking for... for any of you. I found James. And then... Lily." He choked on the name, his eyes squeezing shut.

Harry stopped eating his sandwich. He sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed on Remus.

"There was no sign of you," Remus whispered. "Or Peter. And Harry... Harry was gone. I thought... I thought he was dead, too. I thought Voldemort had taken the body."

"So what did you do?" Sirius asked, his voice now dangerously soft.

"I went to the only person I could," Remus said, his expression darkening, a shadow passing over his features. "I went to Dumbledore."

Sirius noticed it instantly. The shift in tone. The flicker of something... hollow.

"I found him at Hogwarts," Remus continued, his voice a monotone, as if reciting a script he'd gone over a thousand times. "I told him what I'd seen. He... he told me to be patient. That all would be well."

"Patient," Sirius repeated, the word a snarl.

"He told me Harry was safe," Remus said. "He told me Lily's magic had saved him, and that he'd taken Harry to his only living relatives, his aunt."

Sirius's grip on his beer mug tightened so hard his knuckles cracked. "And you believed that? He just told you that, and you... what? You just accepted it?"

"He said it was for the best," Remus said, his gaze distant. "I... I asked to see him. To help. He was my cub, too, Padfoot. I wanted to be there. But Albus... he forbade it. He said it was for Harry's own sake. That he needed to grow up away from the magical world, away from the fame, away from... us. He said no one was to have any contact with him."

The dam of Sirius's control finally broke. He slammed his mug down, beer sloshing over the rim. "And you didn't question that?" he roared, his voice low and furious, making the few other patrons in the diner look over. "He told you to abandon James's son to those... those Muggles, and you just nodded and said 'Yes, Albus, whatever you say'?"

"I... I..." Remus put his head in his hands, his whole body trembling. A low groan of pure, agonising confusion tore from his throat. "I don't know why! I don't know why I didn't fight him! It... it felt... right. It felt logical. I just... accepted it. Like it was the only possible answer. I just..."

"Because your mind was not your own."

The voice was not Sirius'. Neither was it Remus's.

It was Harry's.

Both men froze. They turned and stared at the ten year old boy.

He had finished his sandwich. He was sitting with his hands folded neatly on the table, his glamoured face a mask of calm, cold analysis.

He looked at Remus, his green eyes, so much like Lily's, holding a disturbing, adult-like clarity and began to speak.

Chapter 22 - The Scent of Betrayal

"Because your mind was not your own."

Both men froze. They turned and stared at the ten-year-old boy who looked too serious and a little too aware of what had been going on.

Sirius kept his question to himself as he observed Harry.

He had finished his sandwich. He was sitting with his hands folded neatly on the table, his glamoured face a mask of calm, cold analysis. He looked at Remus, his green eyes, so much like Lily's, holding a disturbing, adult-like clarity.

Remus stared, not used to Harry's behaviour at all, completely baffled. "Harry? What… what are you talking about?"

"He's talking about Dumbledore," Sirius said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He had gone utterly still, as he thought of the implications. He was no longer looking at his godson; he was looking at a strategist. His godson's age didn't matter when his intelligence was concerned.

"Explain what you mean, Harry."

"You didn't question him," Harry said, his voice flat, as if reciting a lesson. He addressed Remus directly, and it felt like a diagnosis. "You didn't fight him. You, a man who was a part of the Marauders, one who was the most logical beings my father had ever come across," he glanced at Sirius as he said it, supplying information he'd gotten from him, "just… accepted it. Because the man who told you to do it had already ensured you would agree."

Harry then leaned forward, his small, glamoured face intense. "It's a classic application of layered magical compulsion. A long-term, low-level Confundus Charm, reinforced by the loyalty you already feel towards him, your criminal compliance for his authority almost woven into your very magic. You didn't want to question him because you were trusting enough that you were easily led to believe that his insane logic was your own. You had no desire to question it."

The diner suddenly felt silent, save for the distant clatter of dishes. The noise of conversation was drowning in the silence that dawned right then.

Remus was pale, his hands trembling. "Harry, that's... that's Albus Dumbledore. He… he wouldn't. He couldn't. He's the—He's Dumbledore—the leader of the light!"

"He's an enemy," Harry stated, his voice like chipped ice. "He is a man who left me on a doorstep to be abused by an Aunt that hated me, hoped that I would grow up…with what? Happy to be abused? Happy to follow him along because I had a chip on my shoulder and no self-confidence because I'd been hated all my life?" Harry's disgust was almost tangible in that moment, "His definitions of 'light' and 'dark' are irrelevant. He is a threat, and he neutralized you. Simple. You were his most dangerous liability—a living connection to my parents, so he disarmed you with your need to trust him and a little bit of magic."

Sirius slammed his fist on the table, not in anger at Harry, but in a terrible comprehension that left no room for doubt.

"He's right," he breathed, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Moony, everything he's said is bang on."

He turned to his old friend—well, oldest now—his eyes blazing with a new, terrifying fury. "It's why you never looked for me, isn't it? It's why you never once questioned the story that I, I, would ever betray James. You believed I was a traitor because he let you. He needed you out of the way. Compliant and broken."

"No," Remus whispered, but the word was weak, his face ashen. He was looking back, trying to piece together a decade of memories that suddenly felt… thin. Artificial. "He… he was kind. He gave me a place at Hogwarts…"

"He gave you a cage!" Sirius spat. "And he told you to be grateful for it! And this… thing," he gestured at Remus's tattered robes, "this curse that almost made you kill me in that shop. You think that's a coincidence? You think it just… happened? Or did he, perhaps, help it along, to make sure you were too broken and too dependent to ever be a threat to his plans?"

That was the blow that landed. Remus's face, which had been pale with denial, now filled with a dawning, soul-shattering horror.

"Sirius…" Remus's voice was a ragged plea. "He… he wouldn't…"

"We need to be sure," Sirius said, his voice all business. The decision was made. He threw a handful of currency on the table, far more than the meal cost.

He stood, grabbing his cloak. "We're leaving."

"Leaving? Where?" Remus asked, still dazed.

"Somewhere I can work," Sirius said, his eyes hard as flint. "Harry, you were right. I'm going to prove it. And then, I'm going to fix this."

Harry nodded decisively.

~~ .

The Price of Truth

The room Sirius had rented was in the attic of a dingy, magic-warded boarding house. It was small, cold, and anonymous.

It was perfect.

He'd cast so many privacy and silencing charms on the door that not a single sound would escape.

"Sit," Sirius commanded, pointing to a single wooden chair in the centre of the room.

Remus, lanky, thin, and looking like a man walking to his own execution, did as he was told.

Harry stood by the door, like a silent, unglamoured sentinel. Zerina was coiled on his shoulders, her black, beady eyes fixed on Remus, sensing the tension.

"What are you going to do?" Remus asked, his voice trembling.

"I'm going to run a diagnostic," Sirius said, rolling up his sleeves. "A Black family diagnostic. It's… somewhat invasive. Not pleasant. But it will find any foreign magic on you. Curses, compulsions, potions, anything."

"Sirius, if Dumbledore really did this, he'll know," Remus pleaded. "The moment you tamper with his magic, he'll get an alert…"

"Good," Sirius said, his smile a terrifying, wolffish baring of teeth. "Let him. Let him know that we know exactly what he did. Let him know the wolf is about to wake up."

He raised his wand and pointed it at Remus's chest. "This is going to hurt, Moony. I'm not sorry."

He began to chant.

The words were not Latin. They were older, guttural, a series of binding and unbinding syllables from the oldest, darkest rites of his family. The air in the room grew thick and heavy.

Remus's body went rigid. A low groan escaped his lips.

"What do you see, Harry?" Sirius asked, his eyes closed in concentration.

His godson, who was watching Remus, answered, his voice calm and precise. "Nothing on the surface. Now a faint, silver light, like a spiderweb, is appearing on his skin. It's very faint. It's wrapped around his chest and his head."

"That's it," Sirius grunted, sweat beading on his forehead. "The compulsion weave. It's delicate. Masterfully done. Woven right into his magical core. Trying to just cut it would be like trying to pull a single thread from a tapestry. You'd unravel his whole sanity perhaps."

He opened his eyes, his gaze hard. "But there's something else. Something… under it. Something worse."

Remus let out a shriek. His body arched in the chair, and his eyes, though he was conscious, turned feral. The half-transformation was trying to fight its way out, triggered by the diagnostic.

"Harry!" Sirius yelled. "He's fighting me! The magic is fighting back! I can't hold the diagnostic and keep him contained!"

So Harry didn't wait. He moved forward, just as he had in the shop. He placed his hands on Remus's trembling shoulders.

§ Master, no! The beast is angry! § Zerina hissed from his neck.

"Hold him steady, Zerina," Harry whispered.

He closed his eyes, not in fear, but in focus. He didn't channel a spell. He channeled intent. He was the anchor. He had stopped the curse before. He needed to do it again.

Love was a powerful magic that could never be broken.

Beneath all of Remus' loyalty to Dumbledore, his allegiance, his devotion to his friend ran deeper.

And to him? The only son of a friend who had accepted him as a brother? It was unbreakable.

Harry focused on the man beneath the magic, the kind, tired man, who still had his wits about him, but had been forced into slavery, and he willed the transformations to stop.

Remus's thrashing lessened, his growls turning into pained whimpers. He went still.

"Sirius," Harry said, his eyes still closed. "Do it now. It's fighting me. It's strong."

Sirius looked at his godson, a ten-year-old boy acting as a human lightning rod for two separate, powerful curses, his face pale with strain but his will unbroken. The pride he felt was so fierce it was painful.

"Right," Sirius growled. He pointed his wand not at the silver, Dumbledore-spun web, but at the dark, pulsing stain beneath it. "The animal first. The master second."

He changed his chant, his voice now a low, rasping command. He was no longer diagnosing. He was cutting.

"Exscinde!"

Remus's entire body went taught, and he let out a single, silent scream.

A plume of oily, black-red smoke erupted from his chest, hitting the ceiling like a physical thing before dissolving with a sound like a dying shriek.

The feral, animalistic pressure in the room vanished.

Utterly.

Remus slumped, unconscious, held up only by Harry's small, determined hands.

"Is it done?" Harry panted, the strain ebbing.

"The curse is," Sirius said, his voice grim. He was sweating, his wand arm shaking, but he wasn't finished. He immediately turned his wand back to the glowing web of Dumbledore's magic.

"And now," he whispered, his voice full of venom, "for the shepherd."

This time, his magic was precise. He did not cut. He unwove. He found the central knot of the compulsion, the anchor point Dumbledore had tied to Remus's own magic, and he channeled a single, focused burst of pure, chaotic Black family magic into it.

The silver web flared, burning a brilliant, blinding white for a single second. Then, it shattered into a million points of light, which faded and died.

In the small, silent attic room, Remus Lupin, for the first time in nine years, was completely and totally himself.

Harry slumped panting on the floor, Zerina hissing soothingly into his ear.

~~ .

The Last Marauder

It was an hour later. They were back in the diner, at the same booth. Sirius was nursing a fresh beer. Harry was sipping a hot chocolate, his reward for…everything.

Remus just stared at the scarred wooden table. He had not spoken. He had not moved. He had just been… absorbing. The fog of a decade had lifted, and the reality of what he'd lost, what had been stolen from him, was crashing down.

Finally, he looked up. The hollow, haunted look was gone.

His amber-flecked eyes, though filled with a profound, soul-deep grief, were sharp. They were the eyes Sirius remembered. The eyes of the brightest, kindest, and most quietly dangerous of all the Marauders.

"He... he didn't just let it happen," Remus whispered, his voice rough. "He used me. He used my grief for James and Lily to… to chain me. To turn me into his pliant, broken wolf."

"Yes," Sirius said simply.

"And you," Remus turned his gaze to Harry. The awe in his eyes was palpable. "You… you're just like her. Just like James and Lily. Your magic… it's clean. It's… pure. Not light, just… fundamental. You... you saved me."

"There is no need to thank me," Harry replied with a smile. "You fought it."

Remus blinked, then let out a short, barking laugh. It was a rusty, broken sound, but it was a laugh. "Gods, Sirius. I don't know how to—" he sighed. "I don't know to thank you two."

"The world is not a kind place, Moony," Sirius said, taking a drink. "That's your lesson."

Remus looked from Sirius's hard, cynical face to Harry's friendly but analytical one. He saw the warrior and the strategist. He saw the last of his family. And he felt the last of his old, Dumbledore-fed weakness burn away, leaving only a cold, hard, Gryffindor rage.

He pushed his untouched water glass away.

"Well," Remus said, his voice no longer weak, a new, harder edge to it. "He wanted a broken wolf, did he? Now he's going to get a monster. He took my friends. He took my cub. He took my mind."

He held out his hand, placing it in the centre of the table.

"To hell with Poland. To hell with hiding. I'm with you. Both of you."

Sirius looked at the scarred, steady hand. He put his own on top of it.

They both looked at Harry.

Harry placed his small hand on top of the pile.

Sirius grinned. For the first time in a decade, it was a true, genuine, Marauder grin.

"Welcome back, Moony."

Chapter 23 - The Tug and The War

The Grand Game

While the last of the Marauders had a tearful reunion in a grimy Polish diner, Albus Dumbledore stood at the centre of the world.

The Grand Amphitheater of the International Confederation of Wizards in Paris was a breathtaking tiered chamber of white marble and magical light. Hundreds of delegates from over two hundred nations were present, their multi-coloured robes like a living tapestry of global magical society.

Dumbledore was at the central lectern, his robes a deep, celestial blue. He was not just a delegate, of course, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, he was the conductor of this orchestra.

"...and so I say to the delegate from the Japanese Ministry," Dumbledore's voice boomed, magically amplified, "that while his concerns regarding the Dragon Pox quarantine lines are valid, a global standard must be paramount. We cannot allow national interests to endanger the international Statute of Secrecy. The health of our world must come before the pride of one nation!"

A wave of applause broke forth into the hollow chamber, led by the European and African blocs, rippled amongst his colleagues as a wave of approval.

He had them agreeing on the issue before he'd even spoken five sentences.

So he stepped down, his face a mask of serene, grandfatherly wisdom. As he returned to his seat, the French Minister of Magic, a sharp woman by the name of Delphine Arnault, leaned in.

"A masterful stroke, Albus," she murmured in flawless English. "You have cornered the Japanese delegation. They will have to concede the new warding boundaries."

"We must all be prepared to make small sacrifices for the greater good, Delphine," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling.

"Indeed," she said, her expression turning shrewd. "Speaking of which, I trust you will be supporting my proposal to restrict the sale of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder? It is causing chaos in our markets."

"I believe a reasonable compromise can be found," he said, giving her a reassuring nod.

He was in his element. He felt assured and confident at his job, at his role in giving advice to his fellow colleagues.

Here the game of politics was different than back home. Here, the game was actually grand.

Here, he was a global leader, balancing the fragile peace of the entire magical world. He was negotiating trade, containing dark artifacts from the former Soviet bloc, and drafting global policy on everything from centaur relations to the ethics of Obscurial containment. This was where he truly made a difference.

A young, flustered aide wearing distinguishable robes of the British Ministry hurried up the steps to him, handing him a note on a small, silver tray.

Dumbledore took it with a slight frown, his musings pausing as he unrolled the parchment.

Fudge is being pushed for the election of the Head Undersecretary to the Minister. Supported by Malfoy and his group. Can we do something? - A.B.

His gaze lingered on the note for a moment, his mind suddenly beginning to picture the chaos in Britain. Bagnold's incompetence, the Wizengamot's corruption, Fudge's bumbling ambition. It was a... regrettable, messy situation. A festering sore.

But he could not be everywhere. The world was so much larger than one small, backwards island. What was the election of a minor bureaucratic position compared to the global containment of dragon-sickness?

Besides, Amelia was just being paranoid and looking too much into little things, as always. He had faith that Cornelius was nowhere near attaining the majority vote required to sway himself into the Minister's seat, as he knew that was the exact thing she was worried about.

He closed his hand, the parchment crinkling.

His failure in Geneva still stung, and it was now a sharp, personal wound. A dangerous one too, if he did not find his charge soon. The loss of Harry was a tragedy that day.

He had no idea where he was being hidden as of now, but he would soon. He had faith it would be resolved, and Harry would be back to where he belongs.

He just needed to have patience.

He discreetly vanished the note with a flick of his wand. The Chinese delegate was now rising to speak about centaur migration patterns in the Gobi Desert. A far more pressing and important matter to focus on right now than Harry Potter.

Harry will be found. And Black will be in prison. That was essential for the greater good, and it will be done.

The delay will grate on him, however, and also continue to distract him.

~~ .

The Great Focus

His concentration was absolute as he sat crosslegged upon the cosy rug, the fire crackling away in the hearth while Zerina coiled comfortably on his knee, her unlinking eyes watching him.

His mind was much more organized now, his thoughts calmer, better sorted, and easier to sift through. His emotions were becoming much harder to not only control, but also predict.

He'd never imagined it would be this much of a difference.

Previously, he would feel something, and his brain, his heart, and his magic would all simultaneously urge him to act.

Now, his brain received the emotional spike, processed it, reduced it down to analyze whether it was worth being actioned, and then and only then was he allowed to respond.

It was no longer a whirlpool of emotions, where even a tiny pebble would cause ripples throughout. It was a instead a reception to a library, where every thought, every emotion, every action had to be measured before it was allowed to be put into a shelf that made sense.

And the best part was—now that his own mind was so organized, perceiving thoughts that were not his own was becoming extremely easier.

Like right about now when his eyes flew open as he repelled, by closing the doors to his library of thoughts, the mental probe from his godfather.

"That was excellent, Harry!"

That brought a smile to his face. "Really?"

Sirius was nodding. "One of the hardest things in Occlumency is differentiating your own thoughts, feelings, and desires from an external entity's. A skilled practitioner will make it that much harder for you to interpret. I would admit that my own Legilimency is not as great as it could be, but at an age like yours, it is still astounding that you managed to throw me off from your mind."

He sighed, accepting the information, and the praise. "Did you see anything?"

Sirius shook his head. "Not a thing. Which is insane. Your parents would be so proud of you, pup. As I am."

The pride he felt in that moment had no need for words to express. It made his chest swell.

"Where's Moony?"

Sirius smiled. "He's with the Dwarves, sorting out your banking situation right now."

Harry looked curious at that. "With the Dwarves? I thought you already had all our banking figured out."

Sirius let out a short, dry laugh. "I have my banking figured out, Harry. The Black family assets. That was different."

He leaned forward then, his voice dropping slightly, the way it always did when he was giving a lesson. "My grandfather, Arcturus, was many things. He was also an extremely dangerous wizard and never, in his life, had anyone make a fool of us. He didn't trust the Ministry, and he despised the Goblins. He saw them as greedy, unreliable, and... well, common."

"So what did he do?" Harry asked, his interest piqued. This was new information.

"He spent three decades quietly moving the true Black wealth out of Britain. He diversified. Not just in the Muggle world, which was his masterstroke, but in the magical one, too. He moved the ancestral vaults, the artifacts, the grimoires... he moved them all through Europe and a little to South America."

"Do the Goblins not know any of it?"

"Nope," Sirius confirmed, his eyes glinting. "The Goblins are masters of metal. But the Dwarves, or Gnomes as they're sometimes called, they are masters of stone. Grandfather wanted no one institution or nation to have all our wealth. So he made sure that our vaults aren't in a city, but in the mountains, or beneath the ground, or even in top, most secure skyscrapers in the world. Amongst them, Dwarves are some of the oldest bankers in the world, the true keepers of secrets as some say. They care about contracts, blood, and secrecy, not just profit. They are quite literally the perfect rivals for Gringotts, and my grandfather's perfect fail-safe."

He processed this. It was a sound, long-term strategy. "So, our accounts were safe with them."

"My accounts are," Sirius corrected. "The Black inheritance. It was a simple matter of showing up as the new Lord Black and claiming what was mine. But the Potter accounts... that's a different, much messier, problem."

"They're still in Britain," Harry stated.

"Most of them, yes," Sirius said grimly. "Trapped in Gringotts, where I can't touch them without walking into a cell. But your ancestral family, Harry, the Potters were as old and as powerful as the Blacks. They had holdings everywhere. They would have had their own ancestral vaults with the Dwarves, just like my family did. A place to keep their oldest, most valuable assets safe, long before Gringotts ever became the standard."

"And Remus is doing what? Asking for access on our behalf?"

"He's our test case, yes," Sirius said. "He's a neutral party, just taking a Gringotts key, one your father gave me, from a joint vault we had, to the Dwarven bank. According to the ICW Banking Charter, that key, combined with my authority as your guardian, should act as a universal identifier. It proves who he represents. He's not there to withdraw. He's just there to ask for a statement. To see what the Potters left in the stone."

Before Harry could ask another question, as his mind really was brimming with many, the heavy oak door of the study suddenly opened, breaking the lesson and Remus stepped in, not from the hallway, but from the Floo, brushing emerald-green powder from the shoulders of his travelling cloak.

Sirius's easy, academic tone vanished, replaced by a sharp, anxious energy. "Well?" he demanded, rising from his chair. "Did you find it? How much does he have? Enough to buy a small country I hope?"

But Remus didn't smile. He looked exhausted, his scarred face grim.

Walking over to the fireplace and leaning on the mantel, he stared into the flames.

"Moony?" Sirius pressed, his smile fading. "What is it?" Harry also sat up.

"There's a problem, Padfoot," Remus said, his voice a low, tired rumble. "A very big problem."

They waited, the silence in the room suddenly heavy, broken only by the crackle of the golden fire.

"I went to the bank, the main Dwarven exchange here," Remus began, his eyes still on the fire. "It was quite impressive. Makes Gringotts look like a child's piggy bank. I was polite. I presented my signed credentials as 'Mr. R. Lupin, the steward for the Black and Potter estate'."

"And?" Sirius said.

"And I presented the key. The one from the Potter-Black vault."

"Did it work?"

"Oh, it worked," Remus said, a bitter laugh escaping him. "They took it. They recognized it. The magic in it is sound. The Head Teller, a dwarf with a beard down to his knees, took it into the back. He was gone for almost an hour."

Sirius's impatience was palpable. "Get on with it, Moony."

Remus finally turned to look at him, his amber-flecked eyes filled with a look of grim defeat. "They have no accounts in the name of Potter, Sirius."

Sirius stared. And then he blinked.

"What? That's stupid! I told you, Charlus told me himself. The Potters have had it for five hundred years. It's their great ancestral vault, and should be accessible with the Gringotts key!"

"I told them that," Remus said, his voice flat. "I told them the key proved the account's existence. I argued with them. I even quoted the ICW Banking Charter on inter-bank recognition and inheritance law."

"And what did they say?" Harry asked, his voice cutting cleanly through the tension.

Remus looked at Harry, a flicker of surprise in his eyes at the boy's serious tone. "They said, 'The key is valid, sir. But the vault it is tied to is... empty. And closed.'"

Although Harry didn't understand it fully, he just felt confused.

But for Sirius, these words landed like a physical blow.

He staggered back, as if he'd been struck. "Empty? Closed? No. No, they're lying. The Dwarves don't lie. They can't lie about contracts. It's their magic."

"They weren't lying, Sirius," Remus said, his voice heavy with the weight of the news. "I asked them when. I asked them how is it empty since it's not been used for, what? Ten years now?. They were very precise. They said the account was liquidated, its contents transferred, and the vault itself sealed on November 8th, 1981. By order of Gringotts Britain."

Sirius's face went white.

"Gringotts. The Goblins. They... they couldn't. The Dwarves would never allow the Goblins access to their vaults. It would be an act of war! The charter... the... the treaties... they would...never..."

His voice trailed off as he saw the terrible, cold logic of it.

"They didn't let them in, Padfoot," Remus said quietly, driving the final nail in. "They were legally compelled. I asked. The Head Teller was quite smug about it, in a stony sort of way."

"How?" Sirius whispered, his voice hoarse. "How was it legal? For fuck's sake?!"

"Because Gringotts acted as the 'executor in absentia for a defunct line'," Remus recited, the words tasting like ash, his scowl more than describing what he wasn't saying out loud. "When they seized the British vaults, they filed an emergency petition with the ICW Banking Conclave for control of all known international assets. They presented proof: the primary magical guardian, you, was an incarcerated, convicted traitor. The only living blood-kin had formally abandoned the child. And the child," he looked at Harry then, "the child was missing, presumed dead."

Sirius sank into his chair, his head in his hands.

Silence reigned in the room that suddenly felt empty and a little too suffocating. Harry had no idea what to do except that someone had played a very very terrible joke upon his family.

"So they... they took everything. Not just the galleons in Diagon Alley. They took Harry's legacy? The ancestral magic? Everything?"

Harry couldn't keep himself silent. "And the Dwarves just rolled over? They did nothing?"

"Yes," Remus said, his frustration finally showing. "It was legal. And to make it all perfectly, sickeningly binding, the entire motion was witnessed and ratified by the ICW."

"What?" Sirius said, his voice now deathly silent. "If the ICW did that, then that means…"

Remus hung his head.

Harry said the words.

"Dumbledore must know."

Dumbledore hadn't just been negligent. He hadn't just been manipulative. He had been complicit. His signature would've given the Goblins the legal power to gut the Potter legacy on a global scale.

Sirius looked apoplectic, a low, animalistic growl building in his chest. He was lost in a red haze of fury, seeing this grave, horrifying injustice.

And then it was Harry who spoke, his voice calm, clear, and utterly cold.

"They are wrong."

Sirius and Remus both looked at him. He was standing by the desk, his arms crossed, his expression one of pure, analytical focus.

"Their entire legal premise," Harry continued, "is based on a single, flawed piece of data. The line is not defunct. The heir is not missing."

Remus looked confused. "But Harry, they have the law, the treaty, the ICW—"

"Their law is a contract," Harry said, his eyes fixed on Sirius. "And that contract has a loophole. It was executed in absentia. Without the presence of the account holder. But the account holder is no longer absent."

"What?" Remus asked, looking between them. "What are you talking about?"

"They refused you, Moony," Harry said, standing up, "They refused a consultant with a key. They refused a legal petition from Gringotts. But they haven't had to deal with the owner of the fortune they've illegally seized."

Harry nodded. "My blood is the key. My magic is the signature. They cannot refuse the Head of the House, can they?"

Sirius looked at his godson, the ten-year-old boy who was about to call the bluff of the most powerful, ancient bank in the world. The risk was astronomical. Walking Harry, probably unglamoured, into the heart of the Dwarven bank was a move of pure recklessness.

It would put them on the radar of every power in the world.

But it was, he realized, the only way to get Harry what was rightfully his.

"No, Harry," Sirius said, his voice filled with a new, dark pride. "No, they can't. But we will have to do this right."

Chapter 24 - How to spot a fugitive

The Greengrass Gardens, Kent - 5th November, 1990

Daphne Greengrass always knew she was privileged.

She'd been born in a great family, with centuries of heritage, and her blood was as pure as they come. Nobody in the world, as her father had told her often, could look down upon her simply by virtue of her family's rich, unblemished history.

A history, she mused, of survival and competence.

She sat on the old, wrought-iron swing at the edge of the formal gardens, her feet brushing the first of the crisp, fallen leaves. The late afternoon in November had a sharp, clean bite to it, but she was bundled in a thick, dark green cashmere sweater and a soft woolly scarf. She pushed off gently, moving in slow, lazy arcs, her gaze fixed on the grey, overcast sky.

The Greengrasses, she understood, were different from the other families. They were not "Light" like the Weasleys, who had more children than sense, or "Dark" like the Notts, who seemed to think cruelty was a personality trait. They were simply... Greengrass.

Her father, for instance, was the anchor of the Neutral faction. A position, she was learning, that was far more difficult than simply choosing a side.

Since it required a constant, exhausting balancing act or never swaying to the whims of people on either faction.

She was ten years old, and she understood the world mostly through the conversations she was not supposed to be listening to.

She knew her father was displeased. He had come home from the last Wizengamot session in a quiet, stewing temper.

He'd had a private Floo-call with her mother, and Daphne had heard the names. Malfoy. Fudge. Dumbledore.

She knew, in the way a child knows the complex currents of her own home, that Lord Malfoy was a "player," as her father put it, a man who moved pieces on a board for his own gain. She knew Minister Bagnold was "ineffective," and that the man Malfoy was pushing to replace her, Cornelius Fudge, was a "pawn."

And Dumbledore was something else. He was "an institution," a man her father seemed to respect for his power but deeply distrusted for his motives.

Motives that were never fully revealed to anyone but his trusted comrades.

Her father liked to say that election season was always the most chaotic time in their country. It made people foolish, and desperate. And the Greengrass family did not do desperate.

She blinked as a particularly sharp gust of wind cut through her reverie, stinging her cheeks. It was getting too cold, even for her.

So she slowed the swing and hopped off, her small, dragon-hide boots sinking slightly into the soft grass. She pulled her scarf tighter and headed inside, drawn by the pull of habit to the one place she felt most at ease.

Her father's study was her true sanctuary. It was a grand, two-story library, smelling of old parchment, sandalwood, and the faint, clean scent of the Floo-powder he used. She loved it. Her father simply expected quiet competence from himself and everyone around him, and she liked it the most about him, than her mother was almost always fretting about one thing or another.

She slipped in, as she always did, without a word.

Her father sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, a stack of letters and ledgers before him, a quill scratching rhythmically. He didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a small smile.

"Getting cold, is it?" he murmured.

"Yes, Father," Daphne said quietly.

She went to her favourite spot, as always, a small, recessed window seat with velvet cushions, and pulled out the book she had left there that morning: A History of Magic. She opened it and began to read, the only sounds in the room the rustle of her page, the scratch of his quill, and the steady tick of the grand, ancestral clock.

It was, in its own way, perfect.

An hour passed by in a moment. The light outside the window began to fail, turning the gardens a deep, twilight blue.

"He's made a mistake."

Daphne looked up, startled by her father's voice breaking the comfortable silence. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at a fresh piece of parchment he had just unrolled, his expression one of deep, analytical thought.

"Who has, Father?"

He looked over at her, his grey eyes, so like her own, assessing her. She loved that he did this. Her mother would shoo her away, telling her it was "adult business." Her father, on the other hand, seemed to believe she was capable of understanding.

"Dumbledore," he said, steepling his fingers. "He's made a mistake. A rather large one, it seems."

He tapped the letter. "You know how I have… contacts. People who listen and inform, from places our Ministry tends to ignore?"

"Yes, Father."

"One of them sent a very interesting owl this morning. From Athens."

"Athens?" she repeated, her brow furrowing. "What's in Athens?"

"A rumour set alight," he said, a strange, calculating glint in his eye. "A whisper. A credible one, though. It seems someone matching the description of our long-lost, mythical hero was spotted. A boy with dark hair and startling green eyes, in the company of a very dangerous, very familiar-looking man."

Daphne's mind worked, connecting the pieces. "A dangerous man?"

"Sirius Black," her father said, his voice flat.

Daphne's eyes widened slightly. Every child knew that name. The Grim. The traitor. The man who had murdered a street full of Muggles. "But... they're talking about Harry Potter?"

"Indeed," he said. "The sighting was a few weeks ago. Geneva, not Athens. The rumor has traveled. It seems Dumbledore himself went to Geneva, in a blind panic, and found the nest empty. He's now asking the Department of Justice of the ICW to quietly look for a fugitive and a child."

Daphne's mind reeled. This was not a story. This was... intelligence. "But I don't understand. I thought Harry Potter was in Britain. Safe and tucked away in a cottage somewhere?"

Her father let out a short, dry laugh. "Ah. That is the story we are all told, my dear. The official, Ministry-approved, Dumbledore-sanctioned fairy tale."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "The truth? No one has seen the boy since that night in 1981. No one. Not the Ministry. Not the Wizengamot. Not Amelia Bones. No one… except Albus Dumbledore. He took the boy, hid him, and told the entire world, 'Trust me, he is safe.' And now, it seems, his boogeyman, Sirius Black, has had the boy for years. The man has made a fool of the entire wizarding world, and most of all, of its supposed leader."

Daphne stared at her father, her logical, ten-year-old mind struggling to process the sheer scale of the deception.

The Boy-Who-Lived wasn't a national hero. He was a secret. A missing piece. Perhaps a pawn that Dumbledore had lost in the grand political arena of the world.

Her father watched her, a small, teasing smile returning to his face. "This will certainly put all those stories you and your sister love in a new light, hmm? The adventures of the 'Noble Boy-Saviour of the Wizarding World'."

She felt her face flush with indignation. "That's Tori, Father. She's the one who reads that… that fantasy nonsense. I think it's drivel."

"Of course, of course," Cyrus said, his smile widening, clearly not believing her. "Which is why I suspect you won't be interested in these."

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small stack of books, their covers bright and garishly coloured. He slid them across the desk and she couldn't help but be curious and stood up to look.

And then immediately, she was sorry she did, because all of the titles were just plain stupid.

She grimaced. Harry Potter and the Gryffindor's Gallant Sword.

The Boy-Who-Lived and the Secret of the Singing Griffin.

"They were delivered this morning," her father said, his voice laced with amusement. "For Tori, of course. Girls your age are said to absolutely adore them. Full of romance and silly adventure."

"I am not just any girl, Father," Daphne said stiffly, her cheeks burning. "And I don't like romance."

"No," Cyrus Greengrass said, his expression softening, the teasing fading and replaced by a look of genuine, profound pride. "No, you are certainly not."

Daphne stood and picked up the stack of books, holding them at arm's length as if they might bite her. "I'll take these to her, then. She'll be pleased."

"I'm sure she will," he said.

She turned and left the study, her mind no longer on her history book or the chilly weather.

She was thinking about a boy.

Not the boy from the cringey books, but a real boy. A boy who had been a secret forever. A boy raised by a murderer, if rumours were to be true.

A boy who Dumbleddore had lost, and who someone would surely want to find and cause all sorts of chaos, as her father would likely tell her in the coming weeks.

For the first time in her life, the mythical Harry Potter had just become interesting.

She liked it this way.

At least it wasn't garish and pink and filled with outlandish stories that no sane person would ever believe. It was real. And that counted the most.

~~ .

Somewhere in Greece

Harry breathed deeply as he settled himself into the comfortable seat of the waiting chamber of the Greek magical bank.

This one was, to his knowledge, run by Gnomes, and they'd specifically chosen this for two reasons: one, because him going into the previous bank with Remus would be completely foolish and they had to choose a different location for the plan.

And second, most of their meetings with high-end account holders were held in private meetings, unlike with Dwarves who chose to do them in public chamber, full of a few hundred prying eyes and ears all around.

He liked the plan, and could not find any flaws in it, except of course, for the recklessness. But Remus had done his best to act as the most rational and realistic mind between them to keep it all to a minimum and as 'safe' as possible.

His heart was beating fast as their turn approached.

Padfoot lay quietly at his feet, and just like a kid was supposed to behave, he quietly ruffled his fur and spoke to the oversized dog, playing with it to not raise any suspicion from anyone at all.

People took one look at a sandy-haired man leaning back and looking bored with his newspaper, a boy sitting beside him playing with his dog and looked past them.

Nobody paid attention to them. Which was excellent.

Since all the excitement came later. And hopefully, in controlled environment of their own making.

Which was excellent.

Since all the excitement came later. And hopefully, in a controlled environment of their own making.

A small, chiming bell, a sound like falling crystals, echoed in the waiting chamber. Harry's attention snapped away to find a sleek, tall Gnome in a perfectly tailored charcoal-grey robe appearing at an inner doorway.

"Mr. Lupin," the Gnome said, his voice a precise, dry monotone. "Manager Scylax will see you now."

Remus stood, folding his newspaper and tucking it under his arm. He looked bored, like a man going to a tedious but necessary appointment. "Come along, Harrison."

Harry gave Padfoot one last, reassuring pat on the head. "Stay," he whispered. Padfoot let out a soft, almost inaudible whuff and settled his chin on his paws. Harry stood and followed Remus, the oversized dog trotting obediently at his heels.

The Gnome led them down a corridor that was not stone, but a rich, dark sheen of wood polished to a mirror shine. Astrological charts and complex, moving diagrams of magical ley lines hummed softly on the walls.

It felt less like a vault and more like the private study of a powerful, ancient scholar.

The office was cornered, with a vast, enchanted window overlooking a bustling, impossible view of the magical port of Piraeus.

And seated behind a desk carved from a single, enormous piece of dark-red wood was Manager Scylax. He looked ancient, his skin like fine, tanned leather, and his long, snow-white beard was meticulously braided with silver and gold wires.

Harry also noted that his dark, intelligent eyes probably missed nothing.

They would have to be very, very careful.

"Mr. Lupin," Scylax said, his voice like gravel rolling in silk. "A pleasure. Please, be seated."

"Thank you for seeing us, Manager Scylax," Remus said, taking the seat opposite the desk. Harry sat beside him. Padfoot, in a move of pure, canine obedience, padded silently past the desk and tucked himself into the dark, shadowed space beneath it, completely hidden from the Gnome's view.

"Your request was very specific," Scylax said, his long, six-fingered hands steepling. "You wish to inquire about a legacy account. A sensitive matter, I see."

"It is," Remus agreed. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "The time has come for my ward to be made aware of his inheritance. It is a delicate situation. What I am about to show you is done under the strictest articles of client confidentiality."

Scylax nodded, his expression unreadable. "The Hellenic Bank of Gnomes is not Gringotts, Mr. Lupin. We do not gossip. We simply do business. Show me what you have come to show."

Remus drew his wand. He didn't point it at the Gnome, but at Harry. "Finite Incantatem."

The glamour dissolved.

The mousy brown hair shortened, darkening to an untameable, jet-black mop. The plain, forgettable features sharpened, the cheekbones becoming more defined. The eyes, once a dull hazel, flared to a brilliant, shocking emerald green, the shade of one of the worst curses known to wizardkind.

And on his forehead, stark and white against his skin, was the scar.

Harry sat there, his face completely blank, staring at the manager.

To his credit, Manager Scylax did not gasp. He did not show any vulgar surprise. But his dark eyes widened, just slightly, and a faint, acquisitive gleam, a look of pure, financial hunger, lit them from within.

He wasn't seeing The Boy-Who-Lived. He was seeing the Potter Ancestral Vault. A legendary, lost account of unimaginable value.

"I see," Scylax said, his voice suddenly much smoother. "This is unexpected. The lost heir of the Potter line."

"We are here to confirm the status of his ancestral accounts," Remus said, his tone all business.

"Of course, of course," Scylax said, his professionalism returning. "But first. Verification. You claim this boy is Harry Potter. And you, Mr. Lupin, claim magical guardianship."

"I am his appointed guardian," Remus said. It was a lie, but it was a necessary one.

"The Potter accounts," Scylax said, "are a matter of great historical significance. And, as you may know, great complexity. Verification is mandatory." He opened a drawer and retrieved a small, obsidian plaque, no larger than his hand. In its centre was a single, sharp silver needle.

"A blood-marker, Mr. Lupin," the Gnome explained. "It will verify your magical and biological-proxy link to the boy as his guardian. A simple prick and two drops of blood. Just a formality but a necessary one, I'm afraid."

Harry felt his heart hammer once, hard, against his ribs. This is it. His Occlumency walls were almost stone, but his pulse was racing.

This was the test. Remus was not his guardian. His blood would prove nothing. The entire plan hinged on thismoment.

"Of course," Remus said, his voice impossibly calm. "No problem."

He took the obsidian plaque from the Gnome's outstretched hand and placed it in his lap, below the line of the desk.

"While we wait for the verification," Manager Scylax said, turning to a stack of parchments on his credenza, "I will retrieve the relevant account folios. Our records on this matter are quite extensive."

His attention was now on the stacks of parchments.

There.

This was their window.

Harry, watching Remus, saw him fumble with the needle, as if trying to find the right spot on his finger. "Curse these calluses," Remus muttered, keeping up the act.

Then, Harry felt it. A tiny, almost imperceptible pulse of magic from under the desk, right where Padfoot was hidden. It was a pin-prick of pain, instantly smothered. Sirius.

He heard a soft, wet hiss as a single drop of blood hit the obsidian. And then another.

Remus let out a small, satisfied sigh just as Manager Scylax placed a heavy, dust-covered ledger in his arms.

"All done?" the Gnome asked.

"All done," Remus replied, lifting the plaque and placing it on the desk.

The two drops of blood on the black surface were sizzling. They glowed, turning from a dark crimson to a bright, molten gold. The plaque chimed, a clear, high-pitched note that hung in the air.

Scylax's eyebrows rose. "Ah. Excellent. The magic is verystrong. And the good news is that it accepts your claim."

Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It worked.

The marker hadn't asked for Remus Lupin's blood. It had asked for the guardian's blood. And the truest, most magically-bound guardian in the room had been Sirius Black. The lie had been bypassed by the truth, all in plain sight.

"Now," Scylax said, his tone shifting. The faint, greedy gleam was gone, replaced by a cold, formal regret. "To the account itself."

He opened the massive ledger. "As I am sure you are aware by now, the Potter Ancestral Vault, Registry 007, was formally and legally liquidated in 1981."

Remus played his part to perfection. "We recognize that."

"The liquidation was performed legally," Scylax said, his voice devoid of sympathy, "By Gringotts of Britain, acting as executor in absentia for a defunct line."

"A defunct line?" Remus repeated, his voice rising a little in outrage. "He is sitting right here!"

"He was, at the time, presumed lost. The motion was ratified by your government, and the ICW as well."

Harry did not move. He did not speak.

But beneath the desk, his hands clenched into fists so tight his nails bit crescent moons into his palms. His fury was cold, a controlled, icy burn.

He filed the information away for later.

Later when the time was right.

Remus slumped in his chair, a perfect picture of a defeated man. He was silent for a full minute, as if absorbing the shock. Then, he looked up, his eyes filled with a new, desperate fire.

"Manager Scylax," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is an outrage. A travesty. A crime against a child."

"It is, as you say, a legal matter," Scylax said, his face impassive. "Our hands are tied. The assets are gone."

"Then the world must know," Remus declared. "The Goblins, in their greed, the British Ministry, and Albus Dumbledore, in their arrogance, have conspired to steal the inheritance of The Boy-Who-Lived. They have left him destitute."

The greedy gleam in Scylax's eyes flared back, brighter than before.

But this was not greed for gold. This was the unmistakable glint of opportunity. A rival bank, Gringotts, exposed? The British financial system destabilized? A chance for the Gnomes to claim the moral high ground and pick up the pieces?

This was better than gold.

"Mr. Lupin," ScScyllax said, his voice a purr, "that is a very, very serious allegation."

"It is the truth," Remus said, leaning forward. "And you have the proof. You have the record of the transfer. You have the ICW ratification. You have the name of the witness. And you have the heir, in absentia no longer, sitting right in your office. As a high-profile client of this esteemed establishment, I have a special request."

He pointed a finger at the Gnome. "I want the Athenian Oracle to publish this story. Tomorrow. An exclusive. 'HARRY POTTER, DESTITUTE. BRITISH MINISTRY OF MAGIC AND GOBLINS CONSPIRED TO STEAL LEGACY'."

Scylax's smile was not friendly. It was absolutely predatory.

"Sir," he said, his voice filled with a newfound, chilling warmth. "The Hellenic Bank of Gnomes prides itself on its discretion. But it also prides itself on truth and justice in financial matters. An injustice against a child, and a rather, shall we say, unfortunate situation for our Goblin rivals? Yes. I believe this is a story that simply must be told."

He closed the ledger with a soft, final thud.

"It shall be done, Mr. Lupin."

"Thank you for your time," Remus said. He stood, his hand on Harry's shoulder.

They walked out of the office, Padfoot slipping out from under the desk and falling into step beside Harry. As the mahogany door clicked shut behind them, Harry looked up at Remus.

Part One of the plan was complete.

Chapter 25 - Nefarious ambitions

Dolores Umbridge was huffing by the time her feet took her to the topmost stair and upon resting her feet upon it, she finally closed her eyes in relief.

Her heart was still beating a mile a minute, the newspaper clutched firmly in her hand, but right now, for only a brief moment, she could finally breathe.

"Oi! What—"

Dolores felt herself pushed forward as an angry voice broke the tiny bit of peace she'd earned.

She turned, her short feet taking a little maneuvering around the stairs, to face the buffoon who had tried to shove her like a common muggle.

It was a young, terrified-looking wizard from the Department of Magical Transport, clutching a stack of memos in his hand, or rather, half a stack as the rest was on the floor.

"Watch where you are going, you clumsy oaf!" she screeched, her voice high and girlish and laced with venom. "Do you have any idea who I am? I am the Senior Undersecretary to the Head of the Department of International Cooperation! I do not tolerate being manhandled by people like you who cannot control their own limbs! Why are you even here?"

"I—I'm so sorry, Madam Umbridge!" the wizard stammered, his face pale. "I didn't see—I was just rushing to—"

"Rushing is no excuse for incompetence!" she snapped, enjoying the way he flinched. "Perhaps a week in the Centaur Liaison Office will teach you some manners. Get out of my sight!"

The wizard scrambled away, dropping down to collect his memos in haste. Dolores smoothed her pink cardigan, a smug, satisfied smile coming to play upon on her lips.

She turned back to the corridor, ignoring the oaf, her destination clear. She marched down the hall, not bothering to knock on the heavy oak door marked 'Minister for Magic.'

She simply barged in.

"Cornelius!" she wailed, brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet in her hand like a weapon.

The object of her tears was sitting behind his desk, nursing a cup of tea and looking over some seating charts.

He jumped as she entered, splashing hot tea onto his pinstriped trousers.

"Dolores! Good heavens, must you—"

"Have you seen it?" she shrieked, slamming the foreign paper onto his desk. The headline screamed in bold, Greek letters, translated below by a magical charm for the international release: THEFT OF A LEGACY: HOW THE BRITISH MINISTRY ROBBED THE BOY-WHO-LIVED.

"It's going to be everywhere, Cornelius!" she cried, her eyes wide with panic. "The ICW—my contacts in Germany say—it's going to be an uproar! They'll all be coming for our heads, calling us thieves! I don't—Cornelius, they'll be saying that the administration knew about all of it!"

Fudge stared at the paper, his hands trembling as he set down his teacup. His wet trousers now seemed like a distant concern.

He then began to read the article, his face draining of colour with every line.

It detailed quite a lot of things, things he had never known or even participated in! Like the Gringotts seizure of Potter fortune and the Ministry's approval for the international liquidation order. It painted them, the British Ministry not just as negligent, but as actively malicious thieves.

"I… I didn't know!" Fudge sputtered, loosening his collar as sweat beaded on his forehead. "I was just a junior member of the—but it doesn't matter! It was Bagnold! It was all her! And Crouch too, oh he would know this, surely! Why would they blame the entire Ministry? And the future administration? Our administra—"

"Because you're the face of the Committee now, Cornelius!" Umbridge pointed out unhelpfully, wringing her hands. "And Dumbledore… oh, Cornelius, they're tearing him apart too! They say he signed the order! The Supreme Mugwump, aiding in the theft of a child's fortune. If the public associates you with this regime, your approval ratings for the Minister elections next year will be in the gutter!"

Fudge sank back into his chair, wiping sweat from his brow with a lime-green handkerchief. "This is a disaster. T-the g-goblins will riot," he whispered with horrifying realization, "The public will want blood. My blood! They will want me to either—oh, oh Merlin!"

He looked around the office frantically, as if the answer might be hiding behind a filing cabinet. His eyes landed on the fireplace.

"Lucius," he gasped, his brain coming to a halt with a sudden clarity. "I need Lucius."

He scrambled to the hearth, threw in a pinch of Floo powder, and shouted, "Malfoy Manor!"

"Cornelius!" Dolores screeched, "You can't call upon him at this hour! It'll be rude!"

"He will understand!" Cornelius retorted, his brain spinning. "He's the only one who can help us!"

And then, only a moment later, the cool, pale face of Lucius Malfoy appeared in the green flames.

He looked calm, collected, and utterly unbothered, and as Cornelius looked around, he was sitting in his study with a glass of the famous Doredawd wine.

"Cornelius," Lucius drawled smoothly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Lucius! Oh Lucius, we're going to be ruined!" he said, pushing the newspaper through the floo.

Lucius picked it up.

"This is…tomorrow's paper?"

"Tomorrow?" Cornelius said with a frown, turning to his secretary, "but—"

"It's a draft Cuffe gave to me." she whispered to him.

"Cornelius, this is not going to be published. If you're concerned after seeing it—"

"Seeing it? I'm living it!" Fudge wailed into the fire. "Lucius, you have to help me! The Prophet says—or will say—that the Potter boy is coming for our heads! He's claiming his inheritance! If he comes back… if he demands—the goblins will revolt! The Ministry will be ruined! I'm going to be ruined! I backed Bagnold's reforms just last week!"

Lucius listened, a slow, thoughtful frown spreading across his face. He saw the panic, the chaos, and the utter vacuum of leadership.

It was beautiful, in a strange manner.

"Calm yourself, Cornelius," Lucius said soothingly. "This is not a disaster. It is an opportunity."

"Opportunity?" Fudge squeaked. "How?"

"Think, Cornelius," Lucius purred. "The public is angry because a hero was mistreated. Who mistreated him? Bagnold. And Dumbledore, wasn't he involved too?. Him and his secret 'old guard.' You can be the one to fix it. You can be the man who stands up for the Boy-Who-Lived."

"But… but the money! The goblins!"

"Let me handle the goblins," Lucius said dismissively. His mind was already racing three steps ahead. "As for the boy… if he returns, he is a minor. He will need guidance. He will need a guardian. Someone to manage his vast, recovered estate until he comes of age."

Lucius's eyes glittered.

Sirius Black was a wanted criminal, likely dead or hiding in a hole. If Potter returned from wherever he was, he would be a ward of the Ministry. Or… a ward of a suitable, upstanding pureblood family with familial ties.

"And who better," Lucius continued, his voice silky, "than a family with a connection to his godfather's line? My wife is Sirius Black's cousin. If Black is truly gone or incapacitated, and with the Potter fortune liquidated… the Black fortune is the only thing left. Draco is the rightful heir to the Black line through Narcissa. If we take custody of the boy, we control the narrative, Cornelius."

Fudge blinked. The terror in his eyes slowly getting replaced by a dawn of greedy hope.

"We… we take the boy?"

"We save the boy, Cornelius," Lucius corrected smoothly. "And in doing so, you expose Bagnold's incompetence. It is high time for a vote of no confidence against the incompetent Minister. And I believe I have just the coalition to secure the Minister's seat for you."

"What about the Prophet?"

"Oh, this won't be published, don't worry." Lucius dismissed it.

Two birds with one stone indeed.

He would seize the Potter boy to find the Dark Lord, claim the Black fortune for Draco, and install his own puppet as Minister, all without lifting a wand.

This was the true Slytherin way.

"Good, that sounds feasible," Cornelius breathed, "But how? Dolores, are you listening? Do you have any ideas?"

Lucius hid his distaste at the name of the witch.

But, it was still a small discomfort for a much outsized reward.

~~ .

"No, Sirius, that is unacceptable!" Remus argued, "Not only that, but it is completely impossible too."

"Impossible, he says," the object of his protest shook his head, "What a quaint word, eh Harry?"

The ten year old boy only smiled, as if he was in the know of the plan they'd been concocting. Which he wasn't.

Only, he was a little more familiar with Sirius' tendencies now.

"What about kidnapping someone high-profile?" he asked, "Will that work?"

Remus gave him a deadpan stare.

"Oh, marvellous," the werewolf muttered, rubbing his temples, "You've corrupted him. He's suggesting kidnapping before breakfast now."

"Moony, I—"

"What kind of eight year old thinks of kidnapping as a solution?" Remus said looking heavenward, as if not knowing what he had gotten himself into.

"I'm ten!" Harry protested.

"It's nearly lunch, Moony," Sirius pointed out, grinning, "And it's a valid strategy. We grab a high-ranking pureblood, maybe someone from the Wizengamot Administration who isn't very likely to be missed anytime soon, and we make them to be our patsy. Simple."

"And do that how exactly?" Remus interrupted, his voice rising slightly, "Use the Imperius Curse on them? Force them to sign documents they'll claim were forged the moment they're free? Cause tension with the Goblins? Honestly, Sirius, if you're—"

"Yeah", Sirius shrugged, cutting him off smoothly, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalant air that made Remus want to hex him. "So what? Once the gold is moved, it's moved. The Dwarves or the Gnomes won't give it back just because the British Ministry throws a tantrum."

"Padfoot, think," Remus pleaded, looking around the bustling magical café to ensure no one was listening. The patrons of Le Chat Noir were too absorbed in their croissants and gossip to pay attention to three English wizards in the corner. "Kidnapping a Ministry official is an act of war. It would make us international criminals. We wouldn't just be fighting a legal battle, we'd be hunted by Aurors from every country in the ICW!"

Harry maintained a neutral face, turning a page of Magical Theory for the Advanced Mind, but his ears were perked. He enjoyed watching Remus dismantle Sirius's wilder ideas. It was like watching a master duelist parry clumsy strikes.

But again, he still liked Sirius' idea too much. So he spoke up, controlling his grin.

"If we get caught."

"How is that any better? There has to be another way," Remus said, frustration evident in his voice. "We need leverage, you two. Legal leverage. Not brute force."

"Legal leverage takes time, Moony," Sirius countered, his grey eyes hardening, "Time we don't have. Gringotts is already making themselves a fortune from Harry's fortune by deciding to 'reinvest' his legacy into their own pockets. Or worse, the Ministry might also be onto the plot," He sook his head, "I always knew James was wasting too much of his funds for the war anyway, corrupt as they are—"

"And kidnapping Malfoy or Nott is going to speed things up?" Remus shot back, "Finding a pureblood with enough clearance, convincing them—"

Sirius snorted. "Convincing."

"Or controlling them," Remus corrected with a scowl, "is very, very dangerous. One slip up, one witness, and we lose everything. We lose Harry."

At the mention of his name, Harry looked up. Sirius's face softened instantly. He looked from Harry to Remus, the reckless fire in his eyes dimming slightly.

"Fine," Sirius sighed, standing up abruptly. "You're right. As always, the voice of boring reason prevails. I need some air."

He strode out of the café, the bell above the door chiming cheerfully as he exited into the sunny and calm streets of magical Toulouse.

Remus slumped in his chair, exhaling a long breath. He looked at Harry, a weary smile touching his lips.

"He means well, cub. He just… he feels the injustice of it all very deeply."

"I know," Harry said simply. He looked around the café, his mind still trying to ingest all of their plans and conversation for finding a better way around this new hurdle.

This was a beautiful place. The walls were lined with enchanted tapestries depicting scenes of French magical history, wizards duelling on rooftops, and witches brewing potions in cauldrons the size of houses.

The air smelled of lavender, freshly roasted coffee beans, and delicious pastry. Outside the large bay window, the magical district of the city, Rue des Rêves, was alive with colour. Witches in elegant silk robes floated by, and a couple of street performers conjured illusions of dancing flames for awestruck children.

It just was a beautiful world away from the dreary grey Britain that he didn't even remember so much now. Not that he'd spent too much time in it.

"Reckless mutt," Remus muttered under his breath, picking up his tea, "Always thinking with his wand instead of his head."

Harry laughed, turning back to his book. "He just wants to win, Remus. Doesn't he?"

"We all do, Harry. But there's winning, and then there's surviving to enjoy the victory."

Twenty minutes passed in comfortable silence. Harry read about the differences between wandless magic and regular magic, and practised wand movements under the table, while Remus reviewed a stack of financial documents they had acquired from the Gnomes.

Suddenly, the café door banged open.

Sirius marched in, and his mood seemed to be different this time.

In one particular way at least.

He wasn't brooding anymore.

He was grinning. It was a wide, almost predatory grin that stretched from ear to ear, the kind that usually preceded an explosion or a very expensive prank.

Remus looked up, his eyes narrowing instantly.

"What did you do?"

"Me?" Sirius asked innocently, sliding back into his seat, "I didn't do anything. I just went for a walk. Did a bit of window shopping."

"Sirius," Remus warned, "You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look that says we're about to be arrested or go on a run or be filthy rich. Which is it?"

"Hopefully the latter, Moony," Sirius chuckled. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Come with me. I found something. Or rather, someone."

Harry closed his book with a snap. This sounded interesting.

They paid the bill — meaning Sirius threw a handful of galleons, too many really, at the table, making Remus roll his eyes — and followed Sirius out of the café. He led them down the winding cobbled street, past a shop selling self-tuning harps and an apothecary displaying dragon livers in the window. He stopped in front of an elegant, high-end watchmaker's shop called Le Temps Magique.

The display window was filled with exquisite timepieces; pocket watches that told the phases of the moon, clocks that tracked the movement of planets, and wristwatches that shone with expensive jewels.

But Sirius wasn't looking at the watches.

He pointed discreetly through the glass.

Inside, leaning over a glass counter, was a tall, severe-looking man with sharp features and expensive robes. Standing beside him, looking bored and examining her fingernails, was a young girl. She looked to be about twelve or thirteen. She had sleek, dark hair cut in a sharp bob, pale skin, and an air of haughty arrogance that radiated even through the window.

"Who are they?" Harry asked, studying the girl. She looked tough.

"That," Sirius whispered, his voice dripping with satisfaction, "is Cyril Rosier. And his daughter, Cerise."

Remus stiffened. "Rosier? As in, the French pureblood family?"

"The very same," Sirius confirmed. "One of the most influential families in France. And, more importantly, they have a very… complicated and dark history with the British Ministry."

"Why?" Harry asked, looking up at his godfather.

"Well, for one," Sirius said, his grin widening, "Cyril's mother was Veronique Rosier. Gellert Grindelwald's right hand."

Remus's eyes widened. "Sirius… you can't be suggesting we approach them. They're—"

"Powerful," Sirius finished. "Rich. And they hate Dumbledore and the British Ministry more than we do. They lost everything after Grindelwald fell. Their influence in Britain was shattered, their assets seized. They've been looking for a way to claw back some respect, and some revenge, for decades."

He looked at Harry, his expression serious now.

"And no, I'm not proposing to 'talk to them' or try to 'convince them'. That will be stupid." Sirius said with a snort, "And time consuming."

There was a moment of silence as Harry, his eyes widening, looked at both Remus and Sirius in turn.

Remus looked incredulous.

"May I present the solution to our issues," Sirius whispered, ignoring his old friend's expression, gesturing to the girl in the window who had just hexed a fly buzzing near her head with a flick of her wand. "What do you think?"

Harry looked at the girl, Cerise. She looked up at that moment, her dark eyes locking onto his through the glass. She didn't smile. She just stared, cold and calculating, before turning back to her father.

Harry smirked.

"She looks fun," he observed.

"Oh, she will be," Sirius promised. "Come on. It's time to make some new friends."