**Black Manor - The Gardens**
**October 16th, 1985 - 2:47 PM**
Harry Potter stood in the gardens of Black Manor, staring at flowers whose names he didn't know, and tried to understand that this was real.
He'd woken that morning expecting the cupboard. Expecting darkness and hunger and the sound of Aunt Petunia's shrill voice demanding he start breakfast.
Instead, he'd woken to sunlight streaming through actual windows. To Kreth appearing with a breakfast tray laden with eggs and toast and bacon and fresh orange juice. To his grandmother knocking gently on his door—*knocking*, asking permission to enter his room—and sitting on his bed while he ate, telling him about the day's plans.
"We have to go to the Ministry for a little while," Dorea had said gently. "Just to make some papers official. Papers that say you live with us now. That you're our family. Is that alright?"
Harry had nodded, not quite believing it, but not wanting to argue in case they changed their minds.
They'd left him with Melania and Arcturus—his great-uncle, who was tall and stern but had spent an hour showing Harry the library and telling him stories about his father at Hogwarts. About pranks and adventures and a young James Potter who'd been brave and funny and loved.
Now Dorea and Charlus were back, and they'd brought papers that made everything official.
Harry had his own room. His own bed. His own *family*.
"It's a lot to take in," Charlus said, settling onto the garden bench beside Harry. "All of this. Yesterday you were in Surrey, and now you're here. It's alright to be confused. Or scared. Or whatever you're feeling."
"I'm not scared," Harry said quietly. Then, more honestly: "Well, maybe a little. What if... what if you wake up tomorrow and decide you don't want me anymore? What if I do something freaky and you send me back?"
Charlus's expression went very soft. "Harry, look at me."
Harry turned, meeting his grandfather's hazel eyes.
"We will never send you back," Charlus said, speaking each word clearly. "Never. No matter what. You're our grandson. Our family. And family doesn't abandon each other because of magic or mistakes or anything else. Do you understand?"
"But what if I'm bad? What if I break things or make messes or—"
"Then we'll clean them up together," Charlus interrupted gently. "Harry, you're five years old. You're supposed to make messes. You're supposed to break things occasionally. That's what children do. It's how you learn."
"The Dursleys said I was expensive to fix things after I broke them," Harry said quietly. "That I cost too much money. That I should be grateful they fed me at all."
Charlus was quiet for a long moment, and Harry worried he'd said something wrong. Then his grandfather spoke, and his voice was rough with emotion.
"The Dursleys were wrong about everything," he said. "You don't cost too much. You're not a burden. You're—" His voice cracked. "You're precious, Harry. You're our grandson. Our James's son. You're family, and family is the most important thing in the world."
"But I'm just me," Harry said, confused. "I'm not special. I'm just... Harry."
"You're *everything*," Dorea's voice came from behind them. She'd approached silently, settling on Harry's other side. "You're brave and kind and strong. You survived five years in that house, and you're still able to trust us. Still able to hope. That's extraordinary, Harry."
"I made Aunt Petunia's hair turn blue once," Harry admitted, as if confessing a terrible crime. "I didn't mean to. She was yelling at me and I got scared and it just... happened. She was so angry. Uncle Vernon locked me in the cupboard for a week."
"A week?" Dorea's voice went very cold. "He locked you in there for a *week*?"
Harry nodded miserably. "No food except water and some bread crusts. It was because I was bad. Because I did freaky things."
"Harry, listen to me," Dorea said, taking his small hands in hers. "You weren't bad. You were magical. There's a difference. All young wizards and witches do accidental magic when they're emotional. It's completely normal. Your father once made his teacher's wig fly off when she was scolding him in primary school."
"Really?" Harry looked up, eyes wide.
"Really," Charlus confirmed with a smile. "He was seven. The teacher—Mrs. Pemberton, I think—had been particularly nasty to him about his handwriting. James got angry, and suddenly her wig went flying across the room. Landed in the fishbowl, actually. The goldfish was very confused."
"What happened to him?" Harry asked. "Was he in trouble?"
"We had to have a conversation with the school," Dorea said. "And we explained to James that he needed to be more careful with his magic around Muggles. But we weren't angry at him, Harry. We were proud that he was coming into his power. That's how it should be. Magic is a gift, not a curse. It's wonderful."
"But the Dursleys said—"
"The Dursleys are Muggles who fear what they don't understand," Arcturus said, appearing from the house with a tea tray floating behind him. "Their fear made them cruel. But their cruelty doesn't define you, Harry. Your magic is beautiful. Natural. Something to be celebrated."
He set the tea tray on the garden table, and Harry watched in fascination as cups and saucers arranged themselves without being touched.
"Is that magic?" Harry breathed.
"Simple levitation charm," Arcturus said. "You'll learn it in your first or second year at Hogwarts. Along with hundreds of other spells. Useful ones. Fun ones. Dangerous ones, eventually, when you're older and more responsible."
"I get to learn magic?" Harry's voice was small, hopeful. "Really? They'll teach me how to make it happen on purpose instead of by accident?"
"They will," Dorea promised. "When you're eleven, you'll get a letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The same school your father attended. The same school we attended. You'll learn everything—charms, transfiguration, potions, defense against dark magic. You'll make friends. You'll have adventures. You'll be brilliant at it."
"How do you know I'll be brilliant?" Harry asked.
"Because you're a Potter," Charlus said simply. "And Potters are always brilliant at magic. It's practically genetic."
"And because you're part Black," Dorea added. "And Blacks are even more brilliant. So really, you're doomed to excellence."
Harry absorbed this, turning the idea over in his mind like a shiny stone. "What if I'm not good at it? What if I'm rubbish?"
"Then we'll help you practice until you're better," Arcturus said practically. "Magic is like any skill—it requires practice. Some people have more natural talent than others, but everyone can learn. Everyone can improve."
"And if you're bad at some things, that's fine too," Melania added, emerging from the house with what looked like medical supplies. "I'm terrible at Divination. Absolutely rubbish. Can't read tea leaves to save my life. But I'm brilliant at Healing. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses."
"What was my dad good at?" Harry asked suddenly.
The adults exchanged warm, sad smiles.
"Flying," Charlus said immediately. "Your father could fly like he'd been born with wings. Best Seeker Gryffindor had seen in decades. He could spot the Golden Snitch from halfway across the pitch and catch it before anyone else even saw it was there."
"What's a Seeker? What's a Golden Snitch?"
"Quidditch positions," Dorea explained. "Quidditch is the wizarding sport—played on flying broomsticks. The Seeker's job is to catch the Golden Snitch, a tiny golden ball that flies around trying to avoid capture. Catching it ends the game and earns your team 150 points."
"That sounds amazing," Harry breathed.
"It is," Charlus promised. "And when you're old enough, we'll teach you to fly. Your father's old broomstick is in storage—a Nimbus 500. Bit outdated now, but still flies beautifully. It's yours if you want it."
"Really?" Harry's eyes went wide. "My dad's actual broomstick?"
"Really," Dorea confirmed. "Everything your father owned—his school trunk, his books, his cloak, his broomstick—it's all yours, Harry. We've kept it safe all these years. We'll show you when you're ready."
Harry was quiet for a moment, processing this. "What else was he good at?"
"Transfiguration," Melania said, settling beside Arcturus. "Your father could turn a matchstick into a needle by second year. Professor McGonagall said he had real talent for it."
"And pranks," Arcturus added with a slight smile. "Your father was legendarily good at pranks. He and his friends—Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew—called themselves the Marauders. They created a magical map of Hogwarts that showed every person's location in real-time. Absolute genius work, really, even if they used it primarily for mischief."
"Sirius Black," Harry repeated slowly. "Is he... is he related to you?"
The adults went very quiet.
"He's my grandson," Arcturus said carefully. "Your father's best friend. Closer than brothers, they were. Sirius was supposed to be your godfather—the person who would take care of you if something happened to your parents."
"But he's in prison," Harry said. It wasn't a question—he'd overheard enough of their conversations last night to know.
"He is," Arcturus confirmed. "He's accused of betraying your parents. Of telling the bad wizard—Voldemort—where they were hiding. But..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But we're not certain he actually did it. We think there might have been a mistake. So we're trying to get him a trial. To find out the truth."
"What if he did do it?" Harry asked quietly. "What if he's bad?"
"Then he stays in prison," Charlus said firmly. "But if he didn't—if he's innocent, if he was your father's best friend and godfather and he's been locked away for something he didn't do—then we get him out. We bring him home. And you get another person who loved your parents. Another person who will love you."
Harry considered this. "I hope he didn't do it," he said finally. "I hope he's good. I'd like to have a godfather."
"We hope that too," Dorea said softly. "We really do."
"Now then," Melania said briskly, opening her medical bag. "I need to do a proper examination. Yesterday was emergency treatment. Today I want to do a full work-up, make sure we're not missing anything. Is that alright, Harry?"
Harry tensed immediately. "Will it hurt?"
"Not at all," Melania promised. "Just spells that tell me how you're healing. How your bones are. Whether your nutrition is improving. Nothing invasive. You can sit right here in the garden with your grandparents. They'll hold your hand if you'd like."
"I'd like that," Harry said quietly.
Dorea took one of his hands, Charlus the other, and Melania began her examination.
Her wand moved in practiced patterns, casting diagnostic charms that manifested as ribbons of silver light. They wrapped around Harry, sank into him, emerged carrying information that only Melania could fully interpret.
"Good news," she said after several minutes. "You're already putting on weight—probably half a pound since yesterday. The calorie-rich potions are working. Your fractures are healing nicely. No signs of infection or complications. Your vitamin levels are still low, but improving."
"That's all good?" Harry asked.
"That's excellent," Melania confirmed. "Your body is responding beautifully to proper nutrition and care. Keep eating regularly, taking your potions, and resting, and you'll be healthy in no time."
"How long is no time?" Harry asked.
"A few weeks for the malnutrition to fully resolve," Melania said. "A few months for your bones to be completely healed and strengthened. Probably a year before you're physically where you should be for your age. But you'll get there, Harry. Your body is resilient. It's already working hard to repair itself."
"What about the psychological trauma?" Arcturus asked quietly.
Melania's expression grew more serious. "That will take longer," she admitted. "Years, probably. Harry's experienced systematic abuse for most of his life. That doesn't heal quickly or easily. He'll need time. Patience. Consistency. Professional help, potentially—there are Mind Healers who specialize in childhood trauma."
"I don't want to see another healer," Harry said immediately, pulling his hands back. "I don't want to talk to strangers about—about the Dursleys. About the cupboard. I just want to forget."
"You don't have to do anything you're not ready for," Dorea said gently. "If you don't want to see a Mind Healer, you don't have to. We can wait until you're comfortable. Or never, if that's what you choose."
"Really?" Harry looked between them. "You won't make me?"
"We won't make you," Charlus promised. "Your healing is your choice, Harry. We'll give you every option, every resource, but ultimately, you decide what you need."
Harry relaxed slightly. "Thank you."
"However," Melania said carefully, "it might help to talk to someone eventually. Not necessarily a professional—just someone you trust. Your grandparents, maybe. Or Kreth. Or me. Keeping everything locked inside can make it harder to heal."
"I'll think about it," Harry said, which was probably the best they were going to get.
"That's all I ask," Melania said. She began packing up her supplies. "Now, I believe Kreth mentioned something about chocolate cake for tea? I strongly recommend you eat some. Doctor's orders."
Harry's face lit up. "Really? I can have cake?"
"As much as you want," Dorea said. "Though maybe not so much you make yourself sick. There's a balance."
"I've never had cake before," Harry admitted. "Except once, at Dudley's birthday party. I took a small piece that fell on the floor and Aunt Petunia saw and she—" He stopped, his face closing off.
"She what?" Charlus asked gently.
"She hit my hands with a wooden spoon," Harry said quietly. "Said I was stealing. That I didn't deserve cake. That freaks didn't get treats."
The silence that fell was profound.
"Harry," Dorea said, her voice shaking with barely controlled fury, "I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to say. You are not a freak. You never were. The Dursleys were wrong about everything—about magic, about you, about what you deserve. You deserve cake. You deserve treats. You deserve every good thing in the world. Do you understand?"
"I'm trying to," Harry whispered. "But it's hard. They said it for so long. Sometimes I think... what if they're right? What if I am bad and you just don't know it yet?"
"Then we'll love you anyway," Charlus said simply. "That's what family means, Harry. We don't love you because you're perfect. We love you because you're ours. Because you're James's son. Because you're Harry. Nothing you could do would change that."
"Nothing?" Harry asked skeptically.
"Nothing," Dorea confirmed. "You could turn the whole manor pink. You could accidentally summon a dragon into the library. You could hex Arcturus's beard blue—"
"I'd deserve that," Arcturus muttered. "Been meaning to try a different style anyway."
"—and we'd still love you," Dorea continued. "We'd be mildly exasperated, certainly. We'd probably have words about using magic more carefully. But we wouldn't stop loving you. Love doesn't work that way."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this radical concept: *unconditional love*.
"Can I really have cake?" he asked finally, his voice small and hopeful.
"You can have an entire cake if you want," Charlus said. "Though again, probably not advisable from a digestive standpoint."
"Just some cake then," Harry decided. "And maybe... maybe you could tell me more stories about my dad? While we eat?"
"We can tell you stories all evening," Dorea promised. "Stories about your father and mother. About their time at Hogwarts. About how they fell in love. About how happy they were when you were born. All of it, Harry. You deserve to know."
"I'd like that," Harry said.
And as they walked back toward the manor—Harry between his grandparents, their hands gentle on his shoulders—he thought that maybe, just maybe, this was real.
Maybe he really did have a family who wanted him.
Maybe he really could stay.
Maybe, for the first time in his life, he was actually home.
Behind them, Arcturus and Melania followed at a discrete distance.
"He's going to be alright," Melania said quietly. "It'll take time, but he's resilient. And with proper care and love..." She trailed off, smiling slightly. "He's going to be more than alright. He's going to be extraordinary."
"Like his father," Arcturus agreed. "Like his whole bloody family. The Potters and Blacks breed extraordinary children." He paused. "Though I could do without the drama. Nine years of comas and secret abuse and custody battles. Can't we have one generation that's just... normal?"
"Where would be the fun in that?" Melania asked dryly.
"I'm eighty-seven years old," Arcturus said. "I've earned normal. I've earned boring. I've earned sitting in my study drinking expensive whiskey and complaining about politics."
"And yet here you are," Melania observed, "reforming the Black Dragon Legion, planning to take down Dumbledore, and searching for a potentially dead traitor who might be hiding as a rat."
"Someone has to do it," Arcturus grumbled.
"And you wouldn't have it any other way," Melania said knowingly.
Arcturus didn't deny it.
Because she was right.
The Black Dragon Legion was awake.
Harry was home.
And there was work to be done.
The war wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
---
**Azkaban Prison - Cell Block Seven**
**October 16th, 1985 - 4:23 PM**
Sirius Black had long ago stopped counting the days.
Time in Azkaban didn't work like time in the outside world. The Dementors sucked away happy memories, leaving only the worst moments to replay endlessly in your mind. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, months into an eternity of cold stone and colder despair.
He'd learned to cope by retreating into his Animagus form when the Dementors came too close. Padfoot's simple dog-brain didn't hold memories the same way—didn't understand betrayal or loss or the image of James's body lying in the entrance hall of Godric's Hollow. Didn't comprehend that Peter had sold them out, that Lily was dead, that Harry was alone.
Padfoot just existed. Just *was*. And sometimes, that was all Sirius could manage.
He was human now, though. Sitting in his cell—six feet by eight feet of rough stone, a thin mattress on a metal frame, a bucket in the corner—and staring at the wall where he'd been scratching marks. Not counting days. Just... marks. Proof he still existed. Proof he was still Sirius Black and not just another screaming madman lost to Azkaban's horrors.
The cell door opened with a screech of rusted metal.
Sirius didn't look up. Probably just a guard. They came sometimes to check he hadn't died. The Ministry preferred their prisoners alive—dead prisoners couldn't suffer, and suffering was the point.
"Black." The voice was gruff, unfamiliar. "On your feet."
"Bugger off," Sirius mumbled. His voice was hoarse from disuse. "Not dead yet. Come back later."
"Now, Black. Or we drag you. Your choice."
That got Sirius's attention. He looked up, squinting against the light from the guard's wand. Two of them—Aurors, judging by their robes. Not regular guards. Aurors only came for transfers or executions.
"Finally going to kiss me?" Sirius asked, his lips cracking into something that might have been a smile once but was now just a grimace. "Should've brought flowers. I'm a romantic."
"Ministry Holding," one of the Aurors said, ignoring the comment. "You're being transferred. Trial's been scheduled."
The words didn't make sense. Sirius stared at him, certain he'd misheard. Certain the Dementors had finally driven him completely mad and he was hallucinating.
"Trial?" he repeated slowly. "I don't... I haven't had a trial."
"We noticed," the second Auror said dryly. "Bit of a cock-up, that. Emergency wartime powers and all. Crouch just tossed you in here and forgot about you. But someone's making noise about it now. Formal petition. Legal challenges. The works."
"Someone," Sirius repeated. His brain felt like it was moving through mud. Five years without proper food or light or human contact had made thinking difficult. "Who?"
"Arcturus Black," the first Auror said. "Your grandfather, I think? And the Potters—Charlus and Dorea. They woke up."
The world tilted.
"They're alive?" Sirius's voice cracked. "They're actually alive? I thought—everyone said they were dead. That Voldemort killed them—"
"Magical coma," the Auror corrected. "Nine years. But they woke up yesterday. And apparently the first thing they did was start demanding you get a trial. Something about the Black family not abandoning their own."
"Even the ones in Azkaban for murder," Sirius said bitterly. "How progressive of them."
"Look, mate," the second Auror said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle, "I don't know if you're guilty or not. That's not my job. My job is to transfer you to Ministry Holding where you'll get actual food, actual light, and a trial. So you can either walk out of here on your own feet, or we can stun you and levitate you. But either way, you're leaving."
Sirius tried to stand. His legs, weakened from years of poor nutrition and limited movement, nearly buckled. He caught himself against the wall, breathing hard.
"Easy," the first Auror said, moving to support him. "When's the last time you walked more than five feet?"
"Dunno," Sirius admitted. "Year? Two years? I usually just... stay in one spot. Easier that way."
"Right. Well, we're going to walk you out slowly. Take your time. We've got a Portkey waiting."
They moved through the prison corridors at a crawl, Sirius supported between the two Aurors. Other prisoners screamed as they passed—mad laughter, agonized wails, broken pleas for mercy or death. Sirius had learned to tune it out years ago. Background noise. The soundtrack of Azkaban.
"How's Harry?" he asked suddenly. "James and Lily's son. Is he... is he alright?"
The Aurors exchanged glances.
"He's alive," the first one said carefully. "That's all I know. The Potters have custody now. Took him from his Muggle relatives."
"He was with Muggles?" Sirius's voice rose. "Which Muggles? Lily's sister? Petunia? Merlin, they must hate that. They hated magic. Hated Lily. Why would anyone—"
"Dumbledore placed him there," the second Auror said. "Blood wards, apparently. Said it was the safest option."
"Blood wards," Sirius repeated. Then he laughed—that mad laugh that had gotten him labeled insane, that had convinced everyone he was guilty. "Blood wards. Of course. Can't argue with blood wards. Never mind that Petunia's a right cow who called her own sister a freak. Never mind that there were other options. Blood wards solve everything."
"Black—"
"Is Harry happy?" Sirius interrupted. "Is he safe? Is he being treated well?"
Another exchange of glances.
"The Potters pulled him out of an abusive situation," the first Auror said finally. "That's all I'm authorized to say. But he's with family now. Family who love him. He's going to be fine."
Abusive situation.
The words hit like a curse.
"How bad?" Sirius asked, his voice deadly quiet.
"Not my place to—"
"HOW BAD?" Sirius roared, and suddenly there was something of the old Sirius Black there—the one who'd fought Death Eaters, who'd been James Potter's right hand, who'd been dangerous and powerful and not at all broken.
"Bad enough that the DMLE is pressing criminal charges against the Dursleys," the Auror said quietly. "Bad enough that Amelia Bones is personally overseeing the investigation. That's all I'm saying."
Sirius sagged between them, the brief flash of strength deserting him.
"I should have been there," he whispered. "I was supposed to protect him. I was his godfather. And instead I..." He laughed again, bitter and broken. "Instead I chased Peter. Instead I let grief turn me into an idiot. And Harry paid for it."
"If you're innocent," the second Auror said, "you'll get a chance to prove it. That's what trials are for."
"And if I'm not innocent?" Sirius asked. "What then?"
"Then you come back here," the Auror said bluntly. "And rot. But at least you'll have had your say."
They reached the transport point—a small room with a battered boot sitting on a table. Standard Portkey. Nothing fancy.
"Here," the first Auror said, helping Sirius touch the boot. "On three. One, two—"
The world dissolved into a whirl of color and sound and nausea. Portkey travel had always made Sirius sick, but after five years of barely moving, it was worse. His stomach heaved as they landed in what appeared to be a Ministry holding cell.
Not like Azkaban. This cell was clean. Well-lit. There was a proper bed with actual blankets. A desk and chair. Even a window—barred, but showing actual sky. Actual sunlight.
"Welcome to Ministry Holding," the first Auror said. "It's not the Ritz, but it's not Azkaban either. You'll get three meals a day. Access to washing facilities. Parchment and quill if you want to write. And your trial is scheduled for..." He consulted a parchment. "October 25th. Nine days from now."
"Nine days," Sirius repeated numbly.
"Nine days," the Auror confirmed. "Your legal representation is being arranged. Arcturus Black has retained a solicitor on your behalf. And apparently Amelia Bones herself wants to interview you. Under Veritaserum. You willing to testify under truth serum?"
"Yes," Sirius said immediately. "Merlin, yes. I've been begging for that for five years. Let me take Veritaserum. Let me prove I didn't betray James. Let me—" His voice cracked. "Let me finally tell the truth."
"Good," the second Auror said. "Because that's the only way this works. You tell the truth, the whole truth, and we see where the evidence leads. Fair?"
"Fair," Sirius agreed.
The Aurors left, the door clanging shut behind them. But this time, when Sirius looked around his cell, he didn't see a tomb.
He saw a chance.
A chance to prove his innocence. A chance to clear his name. A chance to maybe—just maybe—get back to Harry. To fulfill the promise he'd made to James and Lily. To be the godfather he should have been from the start.
He walked to the window—legs shaking but holding—and looked out at the London sky. Sunset was painting it orange and gold, colors he hadn't seen in five years.
"I'm coming, Harry," he whispered to the glass. "I don't know how long it'll take, but I'm coming. I promise. I won't let you down again."
The sky didn't answer.
But somewhere, in the growing darkness, stars began to appear.
And Sirius Black—for the first time in five years—allowed himself to hope.
---
**Black Manor - Harry's Room**
**October 16th, 1985 - 7:34 PM**
Harry was having a nightmare.
This wasn't unusual—he'd had nightmares most nights at the Dursleys, though he'd learned to cry silently so Uncle Vernon wouldn't hear and punish him for disturbing the peace. But this nightmare was different.
In the dream, he was back in the cupboard. But the walls were closing in, getting smaller and smaller, until he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't—
"Harry. Harry, sweetheart, wake up."
Dorea's voice cut through the nightmare like a lifeline. Harry's eyes snapped open, and for a moment he panicked—the room was dark, unfamiliar, wrong—
Then he remembered. Black Manor. His own room. His grandmother.
"It's alright," Dorea said softly. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand gentle on his shoulder. "You're safe. You were having a nightmare."
"I'm sorry," Harry gasped immediately. "I'm sorry I woke you. I didn't mean to. I'll be quiet—"
"Harry, no." Dorea's voice was firm but gentle. "You don't apologize for nightmares. They're not something you can control. And you didn't wake me—I was checking on you. We do that sometimes, just to make sure you're alright."
"You check on me while I sleep?" Harry asked, confused.
"Sometimes," Dorea admitted. "Is that alright? We can stop if it makes you uncomfortable."
Harry thought about this. At the Dursleys, no one had ever checked on him. He could have died in his cupboard and they probably wouldn't have noticed until the smell got bad.
"I don't mind," he said quietly. "It's... nice. Knowing someone cares."
"We care very much," Dorea said. "More than we can possibly express. Do you want to talk about the nightmare?"
"It was about the cupboard," Harry admitted. "The walls were closing in. I couldn't breathe."
"That sounds frightening."
"It was." Harry was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do they go away? The nightmares? If I'm not there anymore, will I stop dreaming about it?"
"Eventually," Dorea said honestly. "But it might take time. Your mind is processing what happened to you. Dreams are part of that process. But they will get better, Harry. I promise."
"Did you have nightmares?" Harry asked suddenly. "After the bad wizard hurt you? After you were asleep for so long?"
Dorea considered this. "I did," she said finally. "I still do sometimes. I dream about the attack. About being unable to move while the manor collapsed around us. About..." She paused. "About failing to protect the people I loved."
"But you didn't fail," Harry said, his voice small. "You fought him. Grandfather said you fought him and you were amazing."
"We fought him," Dorea agreed. "But we still lost. We still ended up unconscious for nine years while you were suffering. That feels like failure, Harry, even if logically I know we did everything we could."
"So the nightmares don't mean I'm weak?" Harry asked.
"The nightmares mean you're human," Dorea said firmly. "They mean you've been through something difficult and your mind is trying to make sense of it. That's not weakness. That's how healing works."
Harry absorbed this. "Can I... would it be alright if I didn't sleep alone tonight? I know I'm too old for that. I know I should be brave. But—"
"You're five years old," Dorea interrupted gently. "You're absolutely not too old for comfort. Would you like to sleep in our room tonight? We have a very large bed. Plenty of space."
"Really?" Harry's voice was hopeful. "You wouldn't mind?"
"We'd be honored," Dorea said. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
She helped him out of bed, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and led him down the hall to the master bedroom where Charlus was already sleeping—or pretending to sleep, more likely. The old warrior's breathing was too controlled for genuine rest.
"Charlus," Dorea said softly. "Harry had a nightmare. He's going to sleep with us tonight."
Charlus opened his eyes immediately, sitting up. "Of course. Come here, Harry. There's plenty of room."
Harry climbed into the enormous bed—it was bigger than his entire cupboard had been—and settled between his grandparents. Dorea pulled the covers up to his chin while Charlus shifted to give him more space.
"Comfortable?" Charlus asked.
"Yeah," Harry whispered. "This is... this is really nice."
"Good," Dorea said. "Now try to sleep. And if you have another nightmare, we're right here. We won't let anything hurt you."
"Promise?" Harry asked, his voice very small.
"Promise," both grandparents said in unison.
Harry closed his eyes, feeling safer than he could ever remember feeling. The bed was warm. His grandparents' presence was solid and real on either side of him. And for the first time, the darkness didn't feel threatening.
It just felt peaceful.
"Grandmother?" he whispered after a moment.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Thank you for finding me."
Dorea's arm tightened around him. "Thank you for being brave enough to wait for us. Thank you for surviving. Thank you for being you."
"Love you," Harry mumbled, already drifting back to sleep.
"We love you too," Dorea whispered. "So very much."
She met Charlus's eyes over Harry's head. In the dim light, she could see the same emotions she was feeling reflected in his face—love, protectiveness, fierce determination to make up for lost time.
And underneath it all, rage at the people who'd hurt this child. At the system that had allowed it. At Dumbledore for his choices. At themselves for not being there.
But that was for tomorrow. For the trial. For the fight ahead.
Tonight was for this—for Harry sleeping peacefully between them, safe and loved and home.
Tomorrow, they would continue the war.
But tonight, they had won.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!