**Agnes's Cottage, Scottish Highlands**
**January 1st, 1982 - 2:17 PM**
Wanda sat in the garden despite the January cold, her eyes closed, her consciousness expanded far beyond her physical body. Harry was napping inside, watched over by Agnes. Sirius had gone to post the letter to Dumbledore and pick up supplies from the village.
She was alone, and she needed to be alone for this.
Because something was nagging at her. Something about last night's working that didn't quite add up.
When she'd destroyed the Horcrux in Harry's scar, she'd spoken words of power: *No more Horcruxes.*
At the time, she'd meant it narrowly—no more Horcrux in Harry, no more piece of Voldemort corrupting her son. But chaos magic didn't always interpret instructions narrowly. Chaos magic took intention and made it *reality*.
And her intention, in that moment of fierce protective love, had been absolute. She hadn't just wanted Harry's Horcrux gone. She'd wanted *all* the Horcruxes gone. Wanted Voldemort's soul so thoroughly destroyed that he could never come back, never threaten Harry, never hurt anyone else.
*What if the magic took me literally?*
The thought had been growing in her mind all morning. Chaos magic was powerful but also dangerously literal. In Westview, she'd thought *I want this to stop* and the Hex had expanded to trap the entire town. She'd thought *I want my children* and reality had bent itself to create Billy and Tommy.
If she'd thought *no more Horcruxes* with the full force of her power behind it...
There was only one way to find out.
Wanda let her consciousness drift, expanding outward in ripples of scarlet energy. She wasn't looking for anything specific yet—just *feeling* for the particular magical signature Horcruxes carried. Dark magic, ancient magic, soul magic. The specific frequency of Voldemort's fractured consciousness.
Nothing nearby. The Highlands were clean, empty of that particular corruption.
She pushed further. South toward England, her awareness spreading like fingers of mist across the countryside. Cities and towns flickered past—Edinburgh, Newcastle, Leeds—each one full of human life and magical signatures, but nothing that matched what she was seeking.
London next. The capital blazed in her magical senses—layers upon layers of spells, wards, ancient magic built up over centuries. It would be easy to miss a Horcrux in all that noise.
But Wanda remembered the books. Remembered where the Horcruxes were supposed to be.
The diary—that one was with Lucius Malfoy, hidden in his collection of Dark artifacts, waiting to be slipped into Ginny Weasley's cauldron in about a year.
The locket—at 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius's family home, stolen by Regulus Black and hidden away, protected by a letter and a house-elf's devotion.
The cup—buried deep in Bellatrix Lestrange's Gringotts vault, surrounded by curses and protections.
The ring—at the Gaunt shack, the old Peverell ring that would eventually cost Dumbledore his hand and ultimately his life.
Wanda's awareness dove toward Wiltshire first, toward Malfoy Manor. She'd never been there physically, but magic didn't need physical presence. She could *feel* her way there, following the threads of darkness that always clung to places where Dark magic was practiced.
There. A mansion, elegant and cold, surrounded by elaborate wards. Peacocks in the garden—she could sense their life forces, bright spots of color against the grey winter landscape. And inside the manor, in a study lined with cursed objects and illegal Dark artifacts—
Nothing.
Wanda frowned. She pushed deeper, examining every inch of Lucius Malfoy's collection. Dark detectors, cursed jewelry, books bound in human skin, objects that pulsed with malevolent energy.
But no diary. No Horcrux.
Where there should have been Voldemort's soul fragment—where the diary had been stored for over a decade, waiting—there was just... empty space. A gap in the collection. Lucius probably hadn't even noticed yet, but the Horcrux that should have been there was simply *gone*.
*Oh,* Wanda thought. *Oh no. It worked.*
She shifted her awareness rapidly to Grimmauld Place. Sirius's ancestral home stood in a row of Georgian townhouses in London, hidden from Muggle eyes, currently abandoned since the family's decline. The wards were old but powerful, keyed to Black family blood.
Wanda slipped through them like water—her chaos magic didn't need permission, didn't obey conventional rules. Inside, the house was a monument to pureblood arrogance and Dark magic. Portraits of long-dead Blacks sneered from the walls. Cursed objects filled every room. And in a drawing room cabinet, behind a glass door, there should have been—
Nothing.
The cabinet was empty. No locket, no heavy golden chain, no Slytherin serpent engraved on precious metal. Just bare velvet lining and a faint scorch mark in the shape of the locket that had been there.
Not removed. Not stolen. *Unmade*.
Wanda's consciousness raced toward Gringotts next. The goblin bank was harder to penetrate—their wards were ancient, paranoid, designed to keep out even the most determined thieves. But Wanda wasn't trying to rob them. She was just looking.
Deep underground, past level after level of security, in a vault that required blood verification and goblin escort, surrounded by curses that would duplicate any treasure touched—
Nothing.
The Lestrange vault was full of gold and artifacts and cursed objects. But the cup—Helga Hufflepuff's cup, one of Voldemort's most prized Horcruxes—was gone. There was a space on a shelf where it should have been, a clean circle in the dust, and absolutely no trace of the dark soul magic it had contained.
*Three down,* Wanda thought, her awareness already racing toward Little Hangleton.
The Gaunt shack was a ruin. A hovel on the outskirts of a small village, rotting and abandoned, avoided by locals who sensed something wrong about it even if they couldn't articulate what. The air around it was heavy with old magic and older curses.
In the books, the ring had been hidden under the floorboards. Marvolo Gaunt's ring, the Peverell family ring, containing the Resurrection Stone—one of the Deathly Hallows, though Voldemort hadn't known that when he made it into a Horcrux.
Wanda's consciousness dove through the rotting floor, searching.
Empty. The hiding place was empty. No ring, no curse, no Horcrux. Just dirt and decay and the faint residual magic of something that had been there for decades but was there no longer.
Four Horcruxes. Gone. All of them.
Wanda pulled her consciousness back to her body with a gasp, her eyes flying open. She was shaking, her hands clenched in the frozen grass, her breath coming in short bursts.
*I destroyed them all. Every single one. I said 'no more Horcruxes' and my magic took me literally and unmade all of them at once.*
The implications were staggering.
Voldemort wasn't just mostly destroyed anymore. He was *permanently* destroyed. All his anchors to immortality, all the soul fragments he'd created through murder and dark ritual—gone. Erased. The backup plans he'd so carefully constructed over years of paranoid preparation—*meaningless*.
When his spirit had fled that Halloween night, torn from his body by Lily's sacrifice and Harry's reflected curse, he'd probably assumed he would regenerate eventually. That one of his Horcruxes would call him back, give him form again, let him return to power.
But now he couldn't. Even if someone tried to resurrect him—used his bones and blood and a servant's sacrifice like in the books—it wouldn't work. You couldn't restore someone to life when their soul was this fractured, this incomplete.
Voldemort wasn't in hiding anymore. Voldemort was *done*.
"Oh my god," Wanda whispered. "I actually killed him. Completely. Permanently. He's never coming back."
She should feel triumphant. Relieved. This was what she'd wanted—Harry safe from the prophecy, safe from Voldemort's eventual return, safe from having to face a Dark Lord in a graveyard or a forest or a final battle.
But instead she felt... terrified.
Because this level of power—the ability to destroy multiple objects across hundreds of miles with a single declaration—this was exactly the kind of thing that had made her dangerous in her own world. The kind of thing that had led to Westview, to her corruption by the Darkhold, to her becoming a threat that even other heroes had feared.
*I told myself I'd be more careful this time. That I'd control my power, use it responsibly, not let it run wild.*
*But I just rewrote reality on a massive scale without even meaning to. Without even realizing I was doing it.*
What else might she have changed? What other unintended consequences might her careless declaration have caused?
"Wanda?"
She jerked around to find Sirius standing at the garden gate, his arms full of parcels, his expression concerned. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I..." Wanda struggled to find words. "I need to tell you something. About last night. About what I did."
---
They sat in the kitchen—their usual spot for serious conversations—while Agnes kept Harry occupied in the living room. Wanda had conjured tea but wasn't drinking it, just clutching the warm cup like a lifeline.
"When I destroyed the Horcrux in Harry's scar," she said carefully, "I spoke words of power. *No more Horcruxes.* I meant it about Harry specifically, but chaos magic..." She took a breath. "Chaos magic doesn't always interpret things the way you mean them. It interprets them the way you *feel* them."
"Okay," Sirius said slowly. "And you felt...?"
"That I wanted all of Voldemort's Horcruxes destroyed. Every single one. I wanted him gone completely, permanently, unable to ever threaten Harry again." Wanda met his eyes. "So my magic did exactly that."
Sirius stared at her. "You destroyed... all of them? There were more?"
"Six total, originally. The one in Harry made seven." Wanda listed them: "A diary owned by Lucius Malfoy. A locket hidden in your family home. A cup in Bellatrix Lestrange's Gringotts vault. A ring buried at the Gaunt shack. And two we don't need to worry about—a snake that won't be created for another decade and a piece of Voldemort himself that died when Lily's sacrifice destroyed his body."
"How do you know they're gone?"
"I checked. Just now. I sent my consciousness out, searching for them." Wanda's hands tightened on her cup. "They're all gone, Sirius. Not hidden, not moved—*gone*. Unmade. There are scorch marks where they used to be, empty spaces, but the objects themselves don't exist anymore."
Sirius was very quiet for a long moment. "So Voldemort is...?"
"Permanently dead. He can't come back. Even if someone had a resurrection ritual, even if they used the darkest magic imaginable—you can't restore someone when their soul has been this thoroughly destroyed." Wanda's voice shook. "I killed him, Sirius. Really, completely killed him. And I didn't even mean to."
"But that's good," Sirius said. "Isn't it? The war's over, Harry's safe, Voldemort can never hurt anyone again—"
"I rewrote reality without meaning to!" Wanda stood abruptly, pacing. "I made a declaration in a moment of emotional intensity and my power took it as an absolute command and executed it across hundreds of miles. Do you understand how dangerous that is? How out of control?"
"It doesn't sound out of control," Sirius said carefully. "It sounds like your magic did exactly what you wanted it to do."
"That's the problem! What I *wanted* isn't always what I *should do*." Wanda rounded on him. "In Westview, I wanted my children and my perfect life so badly that I enslaved an entire town. I trapped hundreds of people in a fantasy because I couldn't let go. This is the same thing—power responding to emotional desire without conscious control."
"No." Sirius stood too, moving to intercept her pacing. "No, Wanda, it's not the same thing at all. In Westview, you were drowning in grief, making decisions from a place of pain and desperation. Last night, you were protecting Harry. Destroying Horcruxes wasn't about your wants—it was about his *safety*."
"But I didn't think about consequences! What if—" Wanda gestured wildly. "What if destroying the Horcruxes caused something else to happen? What if there were protections tied to them, or people who knew about them, or—"
"Then we'll deal with it," Sirius said firmly. He caught her hands, stilling them. "Wanda, listen to me. You made the Dark Lord permanently dead. You eliminated the single biggest threat to magical Britain in a century. Yes, you did it accidentally. Yes, it was more power than you meant to use. But the result is that countless lives are saved. People who would have died in a second war, children who would have grown up orphaned, families that won't be torn apart—all because you loved Harry enough to want him completely safe."
"That doesn't make it less terrifying."
"No," Sirius agreed. "But it makes it *right*. Intent matters, Wanda. You weren't trying to control or manipulate. You were trying to protect. That's not the same as what you did before."
Wanda wanted to argue, wanted to insist she was still the monster from Westview wearing a more heroic mask. But looking at Sirius—at his grey eyes full of absolute certainty, at his hands steady and warm around hers—she couldn't quite make herself believe it.
"What do we do now?" she asked quietly. "About the destroyed Horcruxes? About Voldemort being permanently dead? Do we tell people?"
"Eventually," Sirius said. "But not yet. Let's wait until we're sure there are no side effects, no complications. Then we can..." He paused. "Actually, how do we explain this? 'Hey everyone, Voldemort's gone for good because Wanda accidentally destroyed all his Horcruxes with reality-warping magic' doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."
"We don't explain it," Wanda decided. "We just let them discover it naturally. Eventually someone will check on the Horcruxes—Dumbledore knows about some of them, I think. When they find them gone, they'll draw their own conclusions."
"Which will be?"
"That Voldemort's destruction was more complete than anyone realized. That his Horcruxes somehow failed or self-destructed when the main soul fragment was destroyed." Wanda managed a weak smile. "Which is technically true, just not in the way they'll think."
"Sneaky," Sirius approved. "I like it."
A cry echoed from the living room—Harry, waking from his nap and demanding attention.
"Duty calls," Sirius said. "Come on. Let's go be normal parents for a while. Save the existential crisis about accidentally killing Dark Lords for after bedtime."
"You say the sweetest things," Wanda said dryly.
But she followed him to the living room, where Harry was standing in his playpen with his arms outstretched, his face lighting up when he saw them. "Mama! Paddy!"
"Paddy?" Sirius repeated, scooping him up. "I'm Paddy now? What happened to the dignified 'Sirius'?"
"He's sixteen months old," Wanda pointed out. "Dignified wasn't really an option."
Harry grabbed Sirius's hair with both hands and yanked, giggling maniacally. Sirius yelped but didn't pull away, just let the baby torture him while making exaggerated pained faces that made Harry laugh harder.
Watching them, Wanda felt some of her panic ease. This was what mattered. Not the cosmic implications of accidentally destroying a Dark Lord's immortality anchors. Not the philosophical questions about power and control. Just... this. Her family. Her son. The life they were building together.
*I'll tell Dumbledore eventually,* she decided. *When Harry's older, when things are more settled. I'll explain what happened and let the magical world figure out what to do with the information.*
*But for now, we keep it quiet. We protect Harry. We live our lives.*
*And we let Voldemort stay dead.*
---
**12 Grimmauld Place, London**
**January 3rd, 1982**
Kreacher the house-elf stood in front of the cabinet in the drawing room, staring at the space where Master Regulus's locket should have been.
It was gone.
Not stolen—Kreacher would have known if someone had broken the protections. Not moved—he checked every room, every hiding place, every corner of the house where it might have been relocated.
Simply *gone*. As if it had never existed.
But Kreacher remembered. Remembered Master Regulus placing it there himself, his young face drawn with fear and determination. Remembered the letter tucked beside it: *To the Dark Lord. I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret...*
Remembered his master's final order: *Take me to the cave. Help me destroy the locket. Then get out and don't come back.*
Kreacher had failed. Had gotten his master to the cave but couldn't destroy the locket, couldn't save Master Regulus from the Inferius-infested lake. Had returned to Grimmauld Place with the Horcrux and his master's letter and the weight of failure crushing him.
He'd kept the locket safe for years. Protected it as Master Regulus had wanted. Waited for someone worthy to finish what his master had started.
And now it was *gone*.
Kreacher made a sound between a wail and a moan. He'd failed Master Regulus again. Failed to protect the locket, failed to see it destroyed properly, failed to—
Wait.
Destroyed.
Kreacher's long fingers touched the scorch mark on the velvet lining. Not burn marks from fire. Not damage from a curse. This was... something else. Something that had unmade the locket rather than merely breaking it.
Could it be...?
Could Master Regulus's plan have somehow worked? Could the locket have been destroyed the way it was meant to be?
"Master Regulus," Kreacher whispered to the empty room. "Kreacher thinks... Kreacher thinks your task is complete. The locket is gone. The Dark Lord's anchor is destroyed."
He didn't know how. Didn't know who had done it or why now, years after Master Regulus's death. But the locket was unmade, and that's what mattered.
"Kreacher will tell Master Sirius," he decided. "When Master Sirius returns home. He should know that Master Regulus succeeded."
The old house-elf shuffled away, leaving the empty cabinet behind. In its velvet-lined interior, the scorch mark in the shape of Salazar Slytherin's locket continued to fade, reality slowly forgetting the object had ever existed.
---
**Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire**
**January 5th, 1982**
Lucius Malfoy stood in his study, staring at the empty space in his Dark artifacts collection with growing unease.
The diary was gone.
He'd checked three times now, increasingly frantic. Opened every drawer, examined every shelf, even lowered himself to searching under furniture like a common Muggle. But the small black book—the Dark Lord's diary, entrusted to him for safekeeping—was simply not there.
"Dobby!" he snapped.
The house-elf appeared with a crack, his enormous eyes frightened. "Master called?"
"The diary. The black one I kept in the locked drawer. Where is it?"
"Dobby has not touched Master's things, sir! Dobby would never!" The elf was trembling. "Master's artifacts are dangerous, sir, Dobby stays away like Master ordered—"
"I'm not accusing you, you useless creature." Lucius forced himself to think calmly. "Could someone have broken in? Stolen it?"
"The wards would have alerted Master, sir. No one has entered the manor except family and authorized guests."
"Then where—" Lucius cut himself off. His hand went to his wand, and he cast every detection charm he knew. Theft detection, illusion-breaking, dimensional pocket reveals, even spells for vanished objects.
Nothing. The diary wasn't hidden or glamoured or stored elsewhere. It was simply *gone*, as thoroughly as if it had never existed.
Cold dread settled in Lucius's stomach. The Dark Lord had given him that diary for safekeeping. Had told him it was important, precious, not to be damaged or destroyed under any circumstances. If it was lost—if somehow it had been destroyed—
The Dark Lord would be furious. When he returned to power, when his devoted followers restored him (and they would, Lucius had to believe they would), he would demand an accounting. And Lucius would have to explain that he'd lost one of the Dark Lord's most prized possessions.
"Find it," he ordered Dobby. "Search every inch of this manor. I don't care how long it takes. Find that diary."
"Yes, Master," Dobby squeaked, disappearing with a crack.
But Lucius knew, with a certainty that made his hands shake, that the diary wouldn't be found. It was gone. Destroyed, most likely, though he couldn't imagine what could have destroyed it without triggering the wards or leaving any trace.
Unless...
Unless something had happened to the Dark Lord himself. Something that had cascaded back through his possessions, unmade the things he'd created.
*No,* Lucius told himself firmly. *The Dark Lord isn't dead. He can't be. He's immortal, untouchable. This is just... a setback. A complication.*
But for the first time since that terrible Halloween night, Lucius Malfoy allowed himself to consider the possibility that the war might actually be over.
And that his side might have lost.
---
**Gringotts Bank, London**
**January 7th, 1982**
Griphook the goblin was conducting his monthly inspection of the Lestrange vault when he noticed something wrong.
The vault was in order, generally speaking. Gold stacked properly, artifacts catalogued, protective curses all functioning. But there was a space on one shelf—a clean circle in years of accumulated dust—where something had been removed.
Goblins noticed these things. It was their job to notice. They remembered every coin, every artifact, every piece of treasure entrusted to their care.
Something was missing from the Lestrange vault.
Griphook consulted his records. The last time anyone had accessed this vault was... he checked twice to be sure... 1979. Bellatrix Lestrange herself, depositing something. A cup, according to the entry log. Gold, enchanted, possibly cursed. High value.
And now the cup was gone.
"Ragnok!" Griphook called. "We have a problem."
The senior vault keeper appeared moments later. Together they examined the space, cast detection spells, reviewed the wards.
"No one has entered," Ragnok confirmed. "The wards are intact. Blood verification hasn't been triggered since 1979."
"Then how—"
"Look at this." Ragnok pointed to the shelf. "The dust pattern. Whatever was here didn't leave a weight impression when it was removed. It simply... ceased to be."
"Objects don't simply cease to be."
"This one did." Ragnok's expression was grim. "I've seen this before. Once, many years ago, when a cursed object was destroyed by counter-curse. The object didn't break or burn—it was unmade. Retroactively removed from existence."
"Should we notify the Lestranges?"
"Bellatrix Lestrange is in Azkaban. Rodolphus and Rabastan as well." Ragnok considered. "This is irregular, but not necessarily theft. The wards weren't breached, no goblin protocol was violated. Whatever happened to this cup, it happened through magic beyond our security measures."
"What do we do?"
"We note it in the records. We inform the Lestranges when they're released—if they're released. And we add additional wards to prevent similar occurrences." Ragnok turned away. "Whatever that cup was, it's not our concern anymore. Gringotts fulfilled its obligation to keep it safe. We cannot be held responsible for objects that unmake themselves."
"Convenient definition of responsibility," Griphook muttered, but not loud enough for Ragnok to hear.
They left the vault, the empty space on the shelf forgotten. In the years to come, even that space would fade—the dust settling, the gap disappearing, the memory of Helga Hufflepuff's cup erased from all but the most secure records.
As if it had never existed at all.
---
**Little Hangleton, Gaunt Shack**
**January 10th, 1982**
The shack was empty when the scavenger arrived.
He was a small-time thief with dreams of bigger scores, drawn by rumors of a dark magical artifact hidden in an abandoned hovel. Worth a fortune on the black market, if the stories were true. Enough to retire on, live comfortably, never have to steal again.
He'd spent weeks researching the location, studying protection spells, preparing counter-curses. Now he stood in the rotting ruin, his wand lit, searching.
Under the floorboards, just like the legend said. That's where the ring should be.
He pulled up boards with magic, careful not to trigger any traps. The cavity beneath was filled with dirt and dead insects and—
Nothing.
No ring. No artifact. No fortune.
Just empty space and the faint smell of something burnt.
"Damn it!" The thief kicked at the floorboards in frustration. "Someone got here first. Of course someone got here first. Story of my bloody life."
He never noticed the faint residue of chaos magic that clung to the empty space. Never understood that what he sought hadn't been stolen—it had been unmade by power so far beyond his comprehension it might as well have been divine intervention.
He left the shack cursing his luck, never knowing how fortunate he'd been.
If the ring had still been there, if he'd tried to take it, the curses Voldemort had placed on it would have killed him within hours. Slow, agonizing death, rot spreading from the hand that wore it, consuming flesh and bone and eventually organ tissue.
Instead, he went home disappointed but alive.
Sometimes, the thief would think later, the best fortune is the curse you never encounter.
---
**Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office**
**January 12th, 1982**
Albus Dumbledore stood at his desk, a small silver bowl before him, his expression more troubled than it had been in years.
The bowl contained the remains of a detection spell—one designed to locate specific magical signatures across great distances. He'd been using it to track Voldemort's Horcruxes, the soul fragments he'd discovered through careful research and dangerous investigation.
He'd known about three of them with certainty: the diary, the ring, and one other he'd yet to identify. Suspected several more, based on Tom Riddle's obsession with numerology and magical significance.
The spell should have shown him glowing points of dark magic, locations where Horcruxes still existed. Should have guided him toward the objects that needed to be destroyed before Voldemort could truly be defeated.
Instead, the bowl showed nothing.
No dark magic signatures. No soul fragments. Nothing but smooth, empty silver reflecting his own worried face.
"Curious," Dumbledore murmured. "Most curious."
He tried the spell again. Then a third time, using a different variation. Each result was the same: no Horcruxes detected.
Either his spell was faulty—unlikely, he'd perfected this detection method over years of study—or the Horcruxes were shielded by magic beyond his ability to penetrate.
Or they were simply gone.
Dumbledore moved to his window, looking out over the snow-covered grounds of Hogwarts. The castle was quiet in the winter holiday, most students gone home, only a handful of staff remaining.
That magical surge on New Year's Eve. The enormous release of crimson power centered on the Scottish Highlands.
Wanda Maximoff's power.
Could she have...?
But no. Destroying Horcruxes required specific knowledge, specific magic. You needed to know where they were, what they were made from, what curses protected them. You needed basilisk venom or Fiendfyre or other destructive forces capable of damaging objects beyond normal magical repair.
You couldn't simply *will* them gone.
Unless you had power that rewrote reality itself.
"What did you do, Ms. Maximoff?" Dumbledore asked the empty office. "What exactly did you do to young Harry that night?"
The portraits of former headmasters stirred, but none of them had answers. They'd all felt the surge of power, all sensed something fundamental changing in the magical world. But none of them understood what it meant.
Dumbledore returned to his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment. He needed to accelerate his meeting with Wanda and Sirius. Needed to see Harry, assess what had been done to him, understand the implications of that enormous magical working.
*But carefully,* he reminded himself. *Wanda Maximoff broke into Azkaban without triggering a single ward. She's powerful beyond anything I've encountered. If I push too hard, make demands rather than requests, she might simply vanish with Harry. Take him somewhere I'll never find them.*
*No. I need to be diplomatic. Understanding. Show her I only want what's best for Harry.*
Even though he wasn't entirely sure that was true. Because what he wanted for Harry and what Wanda Maximoff seemed to be creating might be two very different things.
And he had no idea which outcome would ultimately serve the greater good.
---
**Agnes's Cottage**
**January 12th, 1982 - Evening**
The letter from Dumbledore arrived just after dinner, delivered by a magnificent phoenix that appeared in a burst of flame and song.
"Show-off," Sirius muttered, taking the letter from the bird's outstretched leg.
The phoenix sang one more note—something that sounded almost amused—and vanished in another burst of flame.
Wanda put down her tea and moved to read over Sirius's shoulder:
*Dear Sirius and Ms. Maximoff,*
*I hope this letter finds you and young Harry in good health. I was pleased to receive your response to my previous correspondence and your willingness to meet.*
*However, recent events have made me believe that perhaps we should accelerate our meeting. I felt a significant magical disturbance on New Year's Eve—as did, I suspect, most of magical Britain—and I'm concerned about the implications for Harry's wellbeing.*
*Please understand that I don't doubt your care for the boy or your intentions. But I would be remiss in my duties as his late parents' friend and advisor if I didn't ensure that Harry is safe, healthy, and not being affected by magics beyond his ability to handle.*
*Might we meet this coming Saturday at the Leaky Cauldron? Say, 2 PM? I promise to be brief and non-intrusive. I simply wish to see that Harry is thriving.*
*I remain, as always, dedicated to ensuring Harry receives the life James and Lily would have wanted for him.*
*Yours sincerely,*
*Albus Dumbledore*
"Subtle as a brick," Sirius observed. "He definitely knows something happened. Probably has theories about what."
"Saturday is fine," Wanda said. She'd been expecting this, had actually been surprised it took Dumbledore this long to push for an accelerated meeting. "We'll go, we'll show him Harry is happy and healthy, and we'll deflect any questions about the magical working."
"And if he pushes?"
"Then we push back." Wanda's eyes flashed red for just a moment. "Harry is our son. Dumbledore doesn't get to dictate terms or demand explanations. He can either accept that or..." She paused. "Or he can try something, and discover exactly how protective I am of my family."
"That's my girl," Sirius said proudly. "Terrifying and maternal. It's a great look."
From the living room, Harry called out: "Mama! Paddy! Play!"
"Duty calls," Wanda said. "Come on. Let's go be normal parents one more time before we have to be guardians of the Boy Who Lived."
They headed toward the living room, where Harry was building an increasingly precarious tower out of wooden blocks. Agnes was sitting nearby with her knitting, keeping a watchful eye in case the tower collapsed.
Saturday would bring questions, confrontations, possibly conflict. Dumbledore would want answers they weren't prepared to give. The magical world would want Harry to be something he wasn't—a symbol, a weapon, a tool.
But tonight, they could just be a family. Building block towers, drinking tea, living the quiet life that two broken people and one very special child had built together.
And if Wanda's power had accidentally destroyed a Dark Lord's immortality while protecting her son?
Well. That was just another Tuesday in the Maximoff-Black household.
Some powers, Wanda was learning, couldn't be controlled. Only directed. Only given purpose through love and protection rather than grief and rage.
She was still learning. Still trying. Still hoping that this time—this timeline, this family—she could get it right.
But watching Harry's tower collapse and immediately start building again, his face full of determination and joy, she thought maybe she already had.
---
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