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Chapter Text

The air crackled with raw magic, thick as a thunderhead and suffused with centuries of sorrow, blood, and power. The final duel between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort had reached its devastating crescendo. Curses collided mid-air like dying stars, the backlash of their fury tearing open marble columns and shattering enchanted windows. The very foundations of Hogwarts groaned in protest, ancient stones bearing witness to the end of an era.

Harry’s hands bled from exertion. His lungs ached, each breath a rasp drawn between fury and fatigue. His glasses were gone, lost in the chaos, but his eyes blazed, green fire fixed on the man who had stolen so much, who had become so little.

Across from him, Voldemort sneered, the Elder Wand raised like a blade. His magic was fraying, wild and untethered. There was no discipline in him now, only rage and desperation, the hollow echo of borrowed power trying to defy its own end.

And then it happened.

With a guttural roar, Harry surged forward. No spell left his lips. Magic poured from him as if the very air answered his grief. The sorrow of countless deaths, the weight of prophecy, and the relentless ache of survival, all of it coalesced into one final burst. Not spellwork. Not control. Something older. Something sacred.

The flash was blinding. The roar deafening.

The green curse Voldemort cast, again, always again, met a force it could not conquer. The magic he had wielded turned on him, not because of twin cores, not because of luck. Because the Elder Wand had chosen, and its true master had embraced death and returned.

Voldemort did not fall. He shattered. His body, undone by the backlash of defiance, turned to dust before it could even hit the floor. The ashes scattered across the stone tiles, carried on a wind that whispered of finality.

And with it, silence fell. Not peace. Not yet. But silence, heavy and waiting.

The Elder Wand landed with a hollow clatter at Harry’s feet. He bent slowly, knees protesting, muscles shaking, and picked it up. The moment his fingers closed around the ancient wood, it sang through his bones. Cold. Reverent. Eternal.

A whisper escaped him. "Your kingdom is conquered."

But fate had not finished speaking.

Across the hall, bodies stirred. Not the fallen. The marked.

A low tremor ran through the air, and then through the veins of every Death Eater who had once sworn themselves to Voldemort. Their left arms convulsed, sleeves tearing as the skin beneath began to shimmer and warp. The skull twisted, the serpent uncoiled. And then it faded. Not into blankness, but into something older, etched in silvery flame: a triangle, a circle, and a line.

The symbol of the Hallows. The mark of the Master of Death.

They gasped. Some collapsed. Some knelt without thought. Others tried to flee and found their legs trembling, unwilling. Their hearts raced, but not with terror. Something deeper. Recognition.

The bond reformed.

Where once it had been chains, now it was something else. A presence vast and watching. Not cruel. Not kind. Simply absolute.

Draco Malfoy was the first to break. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his arm. The mark pulsed in time with a heartbeat not his own. His voice caught in his throat. There was no more Voldemort. But the bond endured. Stronger. Older. Not servitude, but sovereignty.

He knelt. Not because he chose to. Because magic had made its choice.

Elsewhere, in the ruin of the Shrieking Shack, Severus Snape lay dying. His blood pooled beneath him, thick and dark, but something gripped him. A magic that dragged him back from the brink.

Not to heal.

To command.

It was not a summons. It was inevitability.

He Apparated without volition. Reappeared at the edge of the Great Hall. Collapsed. Crawled. And when he saw Harry, 

No.

When he saw the force standing where Harry had been, wand in hand, haloed in ash and firelight, he understood.

There was no hesitation. He lowered his head and knelt.

Harry felt them.

Not just Snape. Not just Draco. But all of them. The marked. The ones who had drawn blood for a tyrant. Their magic bent toward him, and he felt them as if their names had been etched into his soul.

He saw their histories. Their rage. Their shame. Their hope.

And he did not reject them.

He did not forgive.

But he accepted.

A lord of magic had emerged. Not named. Not proclaimed. Recognized.

By magic. By death. By fate.

The Hall waited.

And Harry spoke.

"Stop fighting."

It was not shouted. The words slid through the air like a knife through silk. The Elder Wand pulsed. The walls themselves seemed to pause.

Wands lowered. Spells flickered out. A few still raised their hands in reflex, and then stopped, as if something pressed on their shoulders.

"Help the wounded. Carry the dead."

The survivors moved. Slowly, numbly. Even the unmarked. Some drawn by awe. Others by duty. A few by the weight of magic that clung to his command.

Harry stood in the center of it all, robes tattered, grime streaking his face, a shadow in his eyes that had not been there before.

The Hallows pulsed against his skin.

He turned to Draco. "Look over Snape."

The command burrowed into Draco’s bones. He did not resist. Could not. His legs moved before he gave them leave. Not slavery. Not obedience. Something older. An oath rewritten in blood and magic.

He reached Snape’s side. The man was barely breathing, eyes glazed with pain.

Still, he lived.

And behind them, behind the broken stone and burning tapestries, others watched. Professors. Students. Aurors. Survivors.

Professor McGonagall stood like a statue carved from war. Her eyes rimmed red, her robes torn, but her wand still in hand.

Hermione Granger, hand clasped tightly in Ron's, stared as if the world had shifted beneath her feet.

Harry turned toward them. "Professor. Hermione."

His voice was quieter now. But not less resolute.

"With me."

They moved. Slowly. Like entering a new reality.

None of them looked at the bodies. Fred Weasley. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. The fallen lay among rubble and blood, and the war had not waited for mourning.

Above, the enchanted ceiling flickered between storm clouds and blankness.

And in the hall, something deeper stirred.

It wasn’t just the marked. Others felt it. A pulse beneath their ribs. A knowing in their magic. A shift in the balance.

Those who had once owed Harry Potter life debts felt the weight of them settle into shape. A connection not forced, but honored.

Neville Longbottom’s knees buckled before he could catch himself. Luna Lovegood placed a hand over her chest, eyes wide and glimmering. Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, even Ron, they felt it. The quiet invitation. The acknowledgment.

Their magic stirred, touched by something older than loyalty. Not control. Not a command.

Recognition.

A lord of magic stood before them. Not of conquest. Not of heritage.

Anointed by death. Crowned by grief. Chosen by magic itself.

The boy who had died.

The one who had returned.

The war had ended.

And in the silence that followed, Mother Magic exhaled.

The world would never be the same again.

But something greater, and far more dangerous, had taken its place.

The reign of the Master had begun.

The Headmaster’s office, once a place of comfort, firelight, and lemon drops, now felt colder, older. As if even the walls sensed that the man who entered them now was not just a boy who had survived war, but something far more powerful, and far more dangerous.

Harry led the way, the Elder Wand gripped tightly in his hand. The wand pulsed faintly, its magic not merely channeled but exuded, like heat from a living forge. He didn’t look back to see if they followed, he didn’t need to.

Professor McGonagall trailed behind, her robes scorched and her eyes lined with grief, yet her spine was straight, her jaw set. She was a woman who had seen too much, and yet suspected this was only the beginning.

Hermione stepped in last, pale but unshaken, her gaze darting over the familiar space as though trying to reconcile memory with the moment. Fawkes, silent on his perch, gave no song of mourning nor triumph, only an ageless, watchful stillness.

Harry didn’t sit.

He paced, the heavy silence between them broken only by the soft thump of his footsteps on the ancient rug. His breath was even, his movements sharp with purpose. The weight of his crown, unseen, but undeniable, pressed down with every step.

Finally, he stopped. His voice, when it came, was low. Confessional.

“Hermione... they are all mine.”

She blinked. “What?”

He turned to face her fully, his expression unreadable, eyes sharp like emerald glass. “Every single one of them with a Mark. They belong to me now. Not symbolically. Not metaphorically. Magically. Irrevocably.”

McGonagall inhaled sharply. Hermione opened her mouth, but the words died in her throat.

“I could tell them to jump to their deaths,” Harry said, each syllable crystalline with calm certainty. “And they would. No questions. No hesitation.”

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Professor McGonagall made a strangled sound. “Harry… that’s, ”

“, Not what I wanted?” he interrupted gently. “I know. But it’s what is.”

He turned away, staring out the window that overlooked the blackened courtyards of the castle. “Voldemort didn’t leave behind soldiers. He left behind property, and the Mark was a brand of ownership. Only now, it responds to someone else. To me.”

The words settled heavily in the room.

He looked over his shoulder. “I won’t leave them unsupervised. I won’t hand them over to a Ministry that’s still riddled with corruption. Malfoy Manor is secure. Heavily warded. Symbolic, too.” His mouth twitched into something like a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let the former throne of darkness become a prison for its remnants.”

McGonagall made a sound of protest, but he held up a hand.

“I will sort through them,” Harry said. “Case by case. No mass forgiveness. No Imperius Defence, not unless I feel it myself in their minds. I’ll conduct closed trials first. Quiet. Thorough. Just the truth.”

He turned to Hermione now. And for a moment, just a moment, he was the boy she knew again. The boy who had snuck through libraries with her and Ron. The one who had begged her to teach him, again and again, to understand the world that had once threatened to crush him.

“I need your help,” he said. “I need someone the world will listen to. Someone the Ministry can’t silence.”

Hermione swallowed, her voice a whisper. “You want me to… defend what you’re doing?”

“No,” Harry said gently. “I want you to explain what I’m doing. Make it clear that these trials are real. Just. Unbiased. And make it clearer still: they’re mine.”

He paused. “The Ministry will try to seize control, to sweep everything into their bureaucratic mess. I won’t allow it. I can’t. Not again.”

He stepped closer now, the shadows from the phoenix’s perch flickering behind him like wings of firelight. “And to give you the power to do what needs to be done... I name you my proxy.”

Hermione blinked. “Your… what?”

“My proxy,” he repeated. “For all my seats. Potter. Black. And whatever else I’ve inherited that the goblins haven’t seen fit to tell me about.”

She stared at him, stunned. “That’s, Harry, that’s an enormous amount of power. You’re talking about at least three full bloodlines. Dozens of votes in the Wizengamot. Ancestral magic. Control over, ”

“, The future,” Harry said, cutting her off gently. “And I trust you with it.”

He turned away again, the motion final, his shoulders set like marble.

“Ensure my will is done.”

No one spoke.

Not McGonagall, whose lips trembled but did not move.
Not Hermione, whose hands shook even as her chin lifted in resolve.
And not Fawkes, who, at last, let out a single note, clear, sharp, and strange. Neither a lament nor a celebration.

A herald.

The King had spoken.

Harry lingered at the shattered window, the jagged glass catching the last hints of twilight. Below, the castle grounds lay ruined, charred earth, bloodstained stone, and the flickering shadows of what once was. The battle had ended, but the war was not truly over. Not for him. Not for Hogwarts. Not for the children who had survived.

Behind him, McGonagall and Hermione waited in silence. The air between them crackled with uncertainty, heavy with the weight of decisions not yet made.

Harry spoke, voice low but unwavering.

"There will be reforms. Not later. Now."

McGonagall straightened slightly. Hermione stepped forward, her expression already calculating.

"Begin with the healing," Harry said. "This castle was a battlefield. Students, children, were tortured, cursed, made to suffer in silence. That ends now. I want a permanent team of mind-healers assigned to Hogwarts. Not just one. Not someone part-time. A full unit. Trained professionals. Trauma experts. Curse-breakers. Legilimens who can heal, not interrogate."

McGonagall's lips parted, stunned. He continued.

"Every student is to be given the opportunity for a full psychological and physical evaluation, with absolute privacy. No stigma. No records forwarded to the Ministry unless explicitly consented. I want scholarships for long-term treatment. If a child can't go home safely, we find them an alternative. Hogwarts will become a sanctuary, not a scar."

Hermione nodded, fervently.

"Reconstruction," Harry said next. "No superficial repairs. Rebuild it right. That means integrating protections that actually work. No more relying on the castle's good graces or ancient enchantments alone. Update the wards. Reinforce the boundaries. Add international protections. Create anti-apparition barriers that can’t be bypassed by Dark artifacts."

His hand tightened around the Elder Wand.

"And I want the Room of Requirement sealed until further notice. That much power, untethered, is a threat."

McGonagall was already taking mental notes. Her quill hovered above parchment.

"Safety protocols must change," Harry continued. "No more detentions in the Forbidden Forest. No more secrecy about staff backgrounds. Every professor will submit to vetting, not by the Ministry, but by a neutral panel we appoint. Legilimency testing. History reviews. A new Code of Conduct."

Hermione looked surprised. Then impressed.

"Housing," Harry said next. "The House system stays, but there will be no more dormitories in the dungeons. Slytherins will have rooms in the upper levels, near the Astronomy tower. I want all houses rotated through mixed classes, mixed clubs, and shared lounges. We break the cycle of division early. No more isolation. No more breeding resentment."

McGonagall blinked. "That’s going to cause political backlash."

"Good," Harry said. "Let them resist. Let the purebloods complain. They’ve had centuries of privilege. They can survive a little fairness."

His eyes were burning now, not with anger, but purpose.

"Resources. I want more funding for Muggleborn integration. Bridging courses. Magical theory. Cultural history. Students should understand where they came from, and where their peers came from too. I want every child, regardless of background, to have access to the same materials. If someone needs a wand, books, tutoring, they get it. No shame."

He turned fully now, facing McGonagall.

"And protection," he said. "Real protection. Not just suits of armor and guardian beasts. I want a dedicated guard, Auror-trained witches and wizards, sworn to the castle. Vetted by you. Rotating watch shifts. Enchanted panic tokens for every student and staff member. If someone is in danger, they press it, and help comes."

McGonagall breathed in, steadying herself. "You want Hogwarts turned into a fortress."

Harry shook his head. "I want Hogwarts turned into a home. One that can’t be breached. Not by monsters, not by politics, not by cowardice."

Hermione stepped forward, quietly fierce. "I’ll help you write the charter. We’ll present it to the Board. If they resist, "

"They won’t resist," Harry said. "Because I’ll remind them what it cost last time they ignored the signs."

He stepped closer to McGonagall, voice low.

"All of you failed them, Professor. All of us. This is how atonement starts."

McGonagall met his gaze. And slowly, she nodded. Not out of duty. But agreement.

Hogwarts would rise again, not just from the ashes of stone and fire, but from the buried pain of its children.

And this time, it would be unbreakable.

The Great Hall was a scene of organized ruin. Rubble littered the floor. Tables were overturned. Charmed torches flickered unevenly in the sconce-lined walls. Aurors moved among the debris, trying to sort the injured from the dead, the civilians from the enemies.

And then there were the marked.

Sixty-seven of them, former Death Eaters, stood in clusters of paralyzed silence, wide-eyed and trembling. Their forearms bore not the Dark Mark, but the new sigil: the Hallows. Burned deep. Binding.

Draco and Snape stood among them, pale and swaying on their feet, still caught in the aftershock of magical submission.

Harry crossed the chaos without hesitation. He moved like the eye of a storm, silent, swift, and absolute.

He found Kingsley Shacklebolt issuing orders with a quiet urgency, voice hoarse from smoke and spellfire. The moment he saw Harry approaching, he straightened. His wand lowered slightly, though his eyes sharpened.

"Kingsley."

The single word was enough to still nearby Aurors.

"Secure the Ministry," Harry said without preamble. "Every floor. Every corridor. Root out the compromised, the sympathizers, the cowards. Hermione will be representing me. Ron and Neville will assist her."

Kingsley’s eyebrows lifted slightly, Neville and Ron? But he didn’t challenge it. He simply nodded once, understanding the political statement Harry was making. Trust. Power. Accountability.

Harry moved on.

He found Luna standing amidst the wreckage like a statue carved from moonlight, oddly serene as she gazed up at the drifting remnants of spell-dust in the rafters.

"Luna."

She turned her head toward him, blinking slowly.

"I need the public to know Voldemort is gone. That there will be justice. Tell them what they need to hear, calm them, ground them. Keep them watching."

Luna tilted her head, thoughtful. "And if they don’t believe it?"

Harry’s voice cooled. "They’ll feel it soon enough."

Then he added, softer, "Watch the marked ones. Anyone who resists, anyone who plots, I want to know."

Luna’s dreamy gaze sharpened slightly. "Of course, Harry."

He turned and walked toward Snape and Draco.

Severus was nearly unconscious, swaying, his skin gray beneath the blood loss. Draco supported him weakly, his own magic barely holding.

Harry stepped between them, bracing Snape with one arm and meeting Draco’s eyes.

"Hold on," he commanded.

The world twisted.

The drawing room of Malfoy Manor had once hosted aristocratic banquets, clandestine Death Eater meetings, and whispers of legacy. Now, it was a holding pen, and a throne room.

Sixty-seven Death Eaters stood within its high ceilings and silver-embossed walls, staring like frightened livestock. Their Marks throbbed on their forearms, symbols not of power, but of servitude.

Harry stood at the center, Severus now resting against a conjured chair behind him. Draco remained at his side, pale and visibly trembling.

Harry let the silence stretch.

Then, with a flicker of magic sent through the bond, he spoke, not with voice, but with will.

“You will heal.”

The command pulsed through every marked individual. They did not nod. They simply began to move, staggering, limping, dragging injured comrades toward an unseen location.

Draco, dazed but responsive, managed, “The yellow living room, my lord?”

Harry met his eyes. “Yes.”

He pushed the location through the bond.

“Those in need of care will go there,” he said aloud for Snape’s benefit. “The rest of you, summon food, drink, whatever is required. Do not leave. You are not prisoners. But you are bound.”

No one spoke.

And still, none disobeyed.

Harry turned to Draco, who flinched at the direct attention.

“Draco,” Harry said, voice eerily gentle. “Is your father alive?”

The silence was telling.

“I… I don’t know,” Draco whispered.

Harry stepped closer. His hand gripped Draco’s arm, not cruel, but firm. The Mark pulsed between them.

“Go to the wardstone,” Harry ordered. “Once every marked individual is inside, seal it. Allow no entry. No exit."

Draco’s lips parted in fear. “He’ll know,” he breathed.

“Yes,” Harry murmured. “Lucius will feel the change. He’ll come.”

There was no malice in Harry’s tone. Only certainty. And the trap was laid.

The wards of Malfoy Manor shimmered to life with a low, pulsing hum, a barrier of old magic reasserting itself, suffused now with Harry’s will. Draco stood near the wardstone, his hand still raised from the final sigil etched in blood and magic, his face pale, drawn, and tight with the exhaustion of both spellwork and compulsion.

The manor was sealed.

Sixty-seven Death Eaters stood inside, some disoriented, others subdued, but all marked. All bound.

Harry watched the glow fade, then turned his attention to the injured, weaving through the once-grand drawing room with calm precision. Twenty-one of the marked lay on the floor, slumped against walls, curled beneath furniture, crumpled in corners, moaning or silent, all gravely wounded.

Among them lay Lucius Malfoy, unconscious, a bleeding gash across his temple, and his once-pristine robes torn and soot-streaked. A cracked silver serpent brooch clung limply to his cloak.

Harry did not kneel. He did not offer words of comfort.

Instead, he extended the Elder Wand in silence and channeled his power through the Mark, not to heal, but to stabilize. The spellwork was precise, efficient. Just enough to prevent death, no more. Bleeding ceased. Breath steadied. Bones settled.

The Mark pulsed faintly across each arm as his magic touched them, cool, consuming, indifferent. They stirred only to acknowledge that their suffering had been paused, not ended.

From the far end of the room, Narcissa Malfoy stood tall. Her robes were immaculate. Her expression was unreadable. But her hands were clenched, and her eyes, though rimmed with calm, were heavy with something dangerously close to fear.

“Mrs. Malfoy.”

Harry’s voice was quiet, but it carried.

“I assume you know enough magic to place them in stasis?”

Narcissa blinked. Her mask held, but only barely. “Yes,” she said, her voice smooth, clipped, aristocratic. “I do.”

Before she could begin, a rough voice from the side interrupted.

“They might die if they’re too weak, Potter!” barked Walden Macnair, stepping forward from the shadows. His hulking frame still held the posture of a man used to commanding through fear.

Harry turned. His eyes, green as serpentine glass, locked on Macnair with terrifying calm.

“Then they are weak.”

His voice dropped, deadly quiet.

“And that is their problem, not mine.”

The words hung like smoke in the air, wrapping around every throat. Silence fell. Not the silence of strategy or respect, this was fear.

Macnair’s mouth opened, then closed. He stepped back without another sound.

Harry didn’t glance at Narcissa again. She knew what to do.

“Draco. With me.”

Draco moved faster than he needed to, relief momentarily outweighing his dread. He led Harry out of the main room and into the ancient corridors of the manor, torch sconces flaring to life as they passed. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the sound of their boots on polished floors.

Eventually, they stopped before a heavy wooden door.

“That’s the… Lord’s study,” Draco said, voice catching slightly. “It was used by… him.”

Harry raised a brow. “Voldemort?”

Draco visibly winced, then frowned in confusion. There was no pain. No searing agony through his Mark. The name passed his lips like any other.

“Y-Yes, my lord,” he confirmed, the title foreign on his tongue.

Harry’s expression shifted, dry amusement curling his lips. “I’ll use yours, then. I imagine it doesn’t reek of grave dust.”

He turned and opened the next door instead, Draco’s personal study.

It was, as expected, a reflection of him: modern furnishings, dark green velvet, a crystal decanter on a low table, a massive desk with minimal clutter, and walls lined with rare books and magical artefacts arranged with obsessive care.

Harry moved to the window, looked out over the fog-shrouded grounds, then turned back.

He gestured vaguely toward the manor.

“Among the ones who can walk and think… I want five.”

Draco blinked. “Five… what?”

“Five who are sane, literate, and useful.” Harry’s tone was clipped, efficient. “I don’t care how loyal they were to Voldemort. I care about whether they’ll follow orders now.”

Draco wet his lips. “Your… inner circle?”

Harry gave a mirthless smile. “Let’s call it a welcome committee. I need eyes in the room. You know them better than I do.”

Draco nodded slowly, mentally sorting through names, those who might not break under the weight of Harry’s presence, those who might even survive it.

“I am,” Harry continued, “responsible for all of them now.”

He stepped closer, gaze burning into Draco’s. “But let’s be clear. Those I judge beyond forgiveness, will face sentencing. Quietly or publicly, as needed.”

The implication was clear.

The trials were coming. Closed. Efficient. Unappealable.

Draco swallowed, throat dry. “Understood, my lord.”

Harry turned back to the desk, fingers brushing the wood as he surveyed the space.

“Good. Start thinking. You have an hour.”

The Mark pulsed faintly again. And somewhere in the manor, the wards whispered as they reshaped themselves, sealing in not just bodies, but futures.

Draco hesitated only briefly before he began to speak, each name falling from his lips like a quiet gamble.

“Rodolphus Lestrange,” he said first, then rushed ahead before Harry could object, “Theodore Nott, Augustus Rookwood, Marcus Flint, and Terence Higgs.”

The pause that followed was sharp, and heavy with suspicion.

“Lestrange?” Harry’s voice cut like frost.

The name alone was a curse. It echoed with Bellatrix's laughter, with blood on stone, with screams in the dark. It conjured the stench of the Longbottoms’ tragedy. Madness. Devotion to evil.

Draco didn’t flinch, but only just.

“Any crime my uncle committed,” he said, voice low, “was under her influence. My aunt made a puppet out of him. He’s not…” Draco hesitated, then forced the truth. “He’s not like her. He’s more scholar than soldier. Always with a book in his lap. Runes, mostly. He never enjoyed the war.”

Harry held Draco’s gaze for a long, unbroken moment. He didn’t need Legilimency. The Mark hummed with truth, uneasy, but real.

At last, Harry nodded, slow and cold. “Alright. Bring them.”

Draco turned and sent the summons, not with his wand, but through the bond, a wordless pull that tugged at the marked minds with a sense of unshakable urgency. 

Chapter Text

The fire in Draco’s study crackled low, casting long shadows on the dark wood and velvet walls. The space was rich with old money and quiet desperation, green velvet drapes, black mahogany shelves heavy with tomes on blood rituals and wardcraft, a thick Slytherin rug beneath a dark oak desk. The air was perfumed faintly with ink, leather, and smoke.

At the center of it all, Harry sat behind the grand desk, once Lucius’s, now unmistakably his. He didn't recline. He reigned. His presence consumed the room, a pressure that throbbed beneath the skin. Draco perched stiffly in a high-backed chair before him, upright and wary, his eyes flicking now and then to the fire, avoiding the full weight of Harry's gaze.

Across from them, arranged like penitents before judgment, the five summoned men entered one by one and stodd infront of his desk, against a velvet upholstered crescent sofa set.
Rodolphus Lestrange entered first. He looked nothing like the wife whose name still brought nightmares. His robes were tailored, his hair tied back, his face pale but lucid. There was exhaustion there, but also clarity, a man long submerged now clawing toward surface air.

Theo Nott followed, younger by nearly a decade, his frame slight, his robes too large. His hand hovered near his left sleeve, fingers twitching as though to hide the Mark but knowing there was no point.

Augustus Rookwood stepped in next, gliding more than walking. A former Unspeakable, his face was unreadable, his eyes detached. There was a chill to him, like secrets still clung to his bones.

Marcus Flint entered like a shadow of his former self, tall, broad, but hollowed by too many battles fought for causes he barely understood. He avoided everyone’s gaze.

Terence Higgs came last, eyes darting, skin pale. He looked like a boy pretending to be a man. Of all of them, he was the most afraid.

They stood in formation, some by habit, others by instinct, facing Harry like soldiers facing the edge of a sword.

Harry let the silence stretch.

Then he spoke, voice even, low, absolute.

"Sit."

The word was not loud. It didn’t need to be.

They sat immediately. Not one dared hesitate. A static charge filled the room like an oncoming storm. The walls seemed to vibrate with unspent magic. The chandelier above flickered as though aware of the shift. The air thickened, dense with something primal.

The Mark on their arms stirred. Not pain. Not summoning. Just presence. Awareness.

The Master was in the room.

Harry stood slowly, pushing back the chair with a quiet scrape. The Elder Wand remained in his grip, though it pointed downward, its power thrumming like a tuning fork against the world’s spine.

“Of the marked, sixty-seven are alive,” Harry began. “They’re here. You’ve seen them.”

He stepped out from behind the desk, pacing in a single circle, like a predator mapping its terrain.

“And now you will divide them into four categories. These are not suggestions. These are the terms of judgment . They are final.”

He turned first to Rodolphus, gaze cutting through the man’s carefully blank expression.

“Juvenile.” His voice softened slightly. “The ones who were coerced. Manipulated. The cowards. The weak-willed. Those who never truly acted, or who followed out of fear rather than ideology. They may yet find something resembling freedom.”

His gaze swept to Higgs and lingered. Then to Nott.

“Absconding.” Harry's voice sharpened. “Those convicted by the previous Ministry, sentenced, and fled. Those who escaped justice once. Their fates may be reconsidered, but their guilt is recorded.”

Flint and Rookwood tensed.

“Sadistic. ” His jaw tightened. “Those who enjoyed it. Who murdered. Tortured. Led attacks. Ruined lives with impunity. Their crimes are documented. If they survive my judgment, they’ll live out the rest of their days in Azkaban.”

The flames flickered high in the grate. The air grew colder.

And then Harry stopped, directly in front of them.

“Despicable.”

The word carried something terrible in its simplicity.

“These are the ones who will not leave this Manor. Not alive.”

He said it like a prayer. Like a truth that had already unfolded.

“Some crimes cannot be undone. Some debts cannot be paid. I am not asking for redemption. I am delivering verdicts .”

The five stared at him in stunned silence. None moved. None spoke.

“You will work together,” Harry said. “You will give me every name. Every truth. And if you lie…”

He let the pause drag until the silence became unbearable.

“I will know.”

The Mark in their arms pulsed once. A single beat. Like a heartbeat held in someone else’s chest.

“No ceremony. No negotiation. No more hiding behind bloodlines or bribes. You will tell me who deserves mercy. Who deserves chains. And who deserves death.”

His voice dropped further.

“And if you dare to test me, ”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

The silence that followed was not reverent.

It was obedient .

And Harry Potter was no longer a boy playing hero.

He was the Master of Death.

And his justice would not be delayed.

Harry sat on the edge of Draco’s desk, fingers steepled, eyes like molten iron. The others, Draco on a single straight-backed chair facing him, and the five chosen seated along the nearby green velvet settee and two armchairs, waited in a silence so taut it hummed.

The magic in the room crackled faintly. Static danced on the air like summer lightning. The Elder Wand rested beside Harry on the polished desk surface, but it didn’t need to move. Everyone felt it. Him. The weight of power and judgment cloaked the room like smoke.

Draco had conjured a notebook, parchment folded across his knee. Theo Nott sat beside him, another quill at the ready. They were here to record names.

“Of those who were marked,” Harry said at last, his voice low and calm, “who were the first?”

Draco responded, steady but subdued. “My grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy. Alongside Lord Corvus Lestrange and Lord Thoros Nott, Theo’s father. They were the first, formed the founding base of what the Dark Lord called his Knights of Walpurgis.”

“They’re dead?”

“Yes. Abraxas died of blood-curse rot. Lord Corvus was weakened by magical backlash from a failed ritual, passed before the war ended. Thoros Nott succumbed last year to curse fatigue and heart failure. None survived long enough to stand judgment.”

Harry nodded once. “And the oldest living?”

Rookwood, seated nearest the fire, adjusted his cuffs and spoke. “Antonin Dolohov. He was a few years younger than the Dark Lord.”

Harry didn’t blink. “His crimes.”

“Many. Countless in the First War, he led the massacre in Edinburgh, orchestrated the spine curse experiments on werewolves. In this war? He killed Remus Lupin. He cast the Dolorem Curse on your friend Miss Granger, nearly split her spine. He’s… slippery. Intelligent. Cruel.”

“Irredeemable,” Harry said flatly. “He will not be leaving the manor alive. Next.”

Rodolphus leaned forward. “Walden Macnair. Former Executioner for the Beast Division. Joined the Knights in the First War, tortured Muggle-borns and werewolves alike. He hanged an eleven-year-old girl. Claimed she’d bonded illegally with a unicorn.”

“Bind his magic core. He’ll stand for Ministry sentencing. In public,” Harry ordered.

“Avery Senior and Junior,” Rodolphus continued. “Senior was an informant and logistics supplier. He got off after the First War claiming Imperius. Junior took his place, arrogant, reckless, but effective.”

“Crimes?” Harry asked.

“Betrayal of Ministry operatives. Kidnapping. Oversaw conversion camps in Surrey. Both attended the battle at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s lips thinned. “Junior, stand sentencing. If he’s not vicious, we’ll consider full list of crimes and plea. Senior, house arrest, magic bound. Advanced age. Enough time served.”

“Travers,” Rookwood said. “Mass murders. He burned down a temple in Alexandria with children inside. Led the attack. Violated international magical treaties.”

“Remove his magic. Public sentencing,” Harry stated.

“Goyle Senior,” Draco added. “Bruiser. Auxiliary enforcer. Interrogations, rough work.”

“Ten years imprisonment. Fine the estate.”

“Gregory Goyle,” Draco continued. “Set off Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement.”

“Probation, parole, reeducation. No wand until certified.”

“Crabbe Senior?” Theo asked.

“Ten-year magical binding. No sentencing before that,” Harry replied.

“Parkinson,” Rookwood supplied next. “Financier. Bribes, cursed artefacts.”

“Fines. Title passed to next of kin.”

“Mulciber Senior?”

“Dead.”

“Mulciber Junior,” Rookwood said. “Stupid, violent. Taught Unforgivables to students.”

“Five years, magical binding. Then sentencing,” Harry decreed.

“Alecto and Amycus Carrow,” Draco whispered. “Thirteen children died under their regime at Hogwarts.”

“Permanent magical binding. No release. They will die under sentence.”

“Thorfinn Rowle,” Rookwood noted. “Duelist. Killed on Voldemort’s order only.”

“I remember him,” Harry murmured. “He tried to take Luna. Nearly killed Mr. Ollivander.”

“Magical oathbound. Heavy monitoring. Sentence pending public reaction.”

“Rabastan Lestrange?”

“My brother,” Rodolphus said. “He died. Crucio overdose. Bellatrix and the Dark Lord.”

“Posthumous trial. Same for Barty Crouch Jr. And you,” Harry looked at Rodolphus. “You may take Veritaserum. If you’ve served more than your crimes, you’ll walk.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange, ”

“I know her crimes,” Harry cut in. “She’s dead. Killed by Molly Weasley.”

“Pius Thicknesse,” Rookwood said. “Pretended to be Imperiused. Was marked. Asked for Minister’s post.”

“Killed by Percy Weasley. Treason confirmed,” Harry said flatly.

“Fenrir Greyback?” Draco offered.

“Will be put down like the rabid dog he is.”

Harry straightened. “That’s one list.

Draco had barely lifted his quill before Harry spoke again, tone clipped, measured.

“Of those who were marked, who was under twenty-one?”

A beat of silence. Then Rodolphus answered, his voice hollow.

“More than you think.”

Harry’s eyes didn’t waver. “List them. From oldest to youngest, if possible. I want details. No euphemisms.”

Rookwood picked up the thread.

“Severus Snape,” he began. “Marked at seventeen. Just out of Hogwarts. Brilliant, bitter. Believed the Dark Lord offered power and protection.”

Harry’s jaw flexed, but he only nodded.

“Regulus Black,” Rodolphus said next. “Sixteen. Marked in his sixth year. He regretted it within months. Died trying to make amends.”

“Noted,” Harry said. “Who else?”

“Barty Crouch Junior,” Rookwood said. “Nineteen. Took the Mark to spite his father. Arrogant. Gifted in Dark Arts. Mad by the end.”

“Next.”

“My brother,” Rodolphus murmured. “Rabastan. Seventeen. Bella dragged him after our wedding”.
Harry did not respond. He only looked colder.

“Bellatrix,” Rookwood said, low. “She was already mad when she was marked, but yes. She was young. Nineteen. Obsessed.”

Draco took a breath, then continued the list.

“Thorfinn Rowle. Twenty, just after Hogwarts. Good duelist. Too obedient.”

Rodolphus’s voice took on a note of quiet guilt.

“Mulciber Junior. Nineteen. Follower, not a thinker. Used as a weapon.”

“Goyle Junior,” Draco offered. “Seventeen. Took the Mark during the last year at Hogwarts. Didn't understand what it meant.”

“Vincent Crabbe,” Rodolphus said, tone regretful. “Eighteen. Marked and dead within a year.”

“Travers’s nephew,” Rookwood added. “Can’t remember his name, maybe Edward? Young. Barely twenty. Slaughtered Muggles in the Midlands.”

Harry’s hand closed around the edge of the desk. “We'll find his name.”

Draco nodded.

“Who else?”

“Terrence Higgs,” Rodolphus said after a pause. “Twenty. Took the Mark in a panic, after his family threatened to disown him.”

“Anyone still in school when marked?” Harry asked.

There was silence.

Then Theo answered, barely audible. “Me. I was sixteen. It was my birthday. My father said it was tradition.”

Harry looked at him, unreadable.

“You’ll serve that sentence with your eyes open,” he said.

Then Draco raised his hand. Me, marked at the end of fifth year, when father was arrested. I was still 15. The youngest death eater.”

Harry gave him a commiserating look, no words. Then he looked around.

“All of them, all under twenty-one, fall under the terms I stated. No Azkaban. No soft release either. They are to be worked until the poison sweats out of their skin.”

He raised his wand and let it pulse.

“Their re-education begins the moment this meeting ends.”

Draco inked the last name, lips tight.

Harry exhaled, low and final.

“We clean this legacy one child at a time.”

Harry stepped back and studied their faces.

“I’ll need names. Lists. Ages. Circumstances. I want a complete accounting of every young recruit, every possible case of coercion.”

Rodolphus Lestrange, for the first time, looked up, really looked. His voice was barely audible.

“You’d… spare some of them?”

Harry turned, his gaze flat.

“No.”

He lifted the Elder Wand slightly, its glow flickering like silver fire.

“I’ll use them.”

Harry stood before the five Death Eaters, his Welcome Committee, whose postures were rigid, expressions taut. The velvet and mahogany of Draco’s study did little to soften the truth. These were not allies. They were instruments. Temporarily useful. Permanently watched.

He studied each of them in turn, not thinking of their deeds but of those whose lives bore the weight of them.

Molly Weasley. Neville Longbottom. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Tonks. Remus. Arthur. Dead or broken, standing quietly among the ruins.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He exhaled through his nose, then paced once across the study.

“Let’s be honest,” he said. “Of the five of you, maybe one could walk into Diagon Alley and return unharmed. Maybe. I’m not testing that theory.”

He turned to Rodolphus Lestrange.

“Your face is fire to a fuse. If anyone from the Order saw you, there’d be no words. Just wands. You are not to leave this manor. Not unless I send for you. Personally.”

Lestrange bowed his head. “Understood.”

To Rookwood, Harry’s eyes were cooler.

“You know the Ministry’s internal workings better than anyone alive. That makes you dangerous. But it also makes you irreplaceable. You stay. For now.”

Rookwood gave the barest of nods, silent.

His gaze landed on Theo next.

“Theo,” Harry said, voice even, “You didn’t ask for this role. But here you are. You’ve yet to stain your hands in the public eye. That affords you a place here. Use it wisely.”

Theo inclined his head. No gratitude. Only understanding.

He turned to Flint and Higgs.

“Marcus. Terence. Your names don’t scream war criminal, but don’t confuse forgettability with forgiveness. People want answers. Stability. If I say you’re needed, it better mean something.”

He paused, letting the weight of his next words land gently.

“You’re not prisoners. You’re not free. You are tools. Sharp ones, if I’m lucky. Make yourselves worth wielding.”

He drew a breath.

“This Manor is your world for now. Your assignment is internal. Sort the records. Finalize the classifications. Identify every Marked individual, living, dead, missing. Provide full documentation. Crimes, patterns, alliances. No omissions. No politics.”

Then, softer:

“What you give me now, will form the spine of what justice becomes next.”

Draco stirred beside the desk.

Harry turned to him, not as a commander but as a partner.

“Draco. Find Yaxley. Bring him here. Awake and intact. He held sway over the Ministry during Voldemort’s rise. I want to understand how. Who he turned. Who resisted. And who made survival into complicity.”

Draco nodded once. “Understood.”

Harry turned his gaze to Higgs.

“Terence. You’ll record everything they uncover. Then relay it to Hermione and the transitional Ministry. Accurately. You don’t interpret. You transmit.”

Higgs sat straighter. “Yes.”

“Be thorough. Be quiet. And do not embellish.”

Then to Flint:

“Marcus. You knew the young ones. The ones who barely understood what they were pledging. I want a list of all those marked before twenty. And with it, a summary of their actions during the war. No excuses. Only facts.”

Flint looked down but nodded. “I’ll start now.”

Harry stepped back, letting the silence draw itself tight again. There were no more orders. No more threats.

Just the quiet certainty of his control.

He did not need to warn them. He was already the law.

He turned.

"Nott."

Theo looked up sharply.

"You’re clever," Harry said simply. "And well-read."

A beat of silence passed between them. Not praise. A recognition.

"I want a comprehensive breakdown of every law and edict that enabled Voldemort. Not just during his rule, before it. I want to know what loopholes were used. What protections failed."

He took a step closer.

"And I want the same done for the light side. Any law, no matter how well-intended, that compromised civil liberty or stripped anyone’s magical or Muggle rights out of fear or bigotry, I want it identified. We’re not rebuilding the same system."

Theo hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “That will take time. Years of buried archives. Half of it isn’t even in the Ministry proper.”

Harry nodded. “Then begin with the laws surrounding blood status and marriage rights. Trace how they were used to disenfranchise. How quickly they spread. I want to see the bones of the monster, not just the teeth.”

Theo’s eyes widened. “You want to, reform the entire magical legal code?”

Harry gave a cold smile. “No, Nott. I want to burn it down and rebuild it properly. You’re going to help me find the kindling."

Draco, seated by the hearth, said nothing. But his eyes flicked to Theo with something almost like respect. The boy who was always listening, always calculating, now had a task that could change the bones of the world.

Harry turned from them both, gaze already shifting to the next piece on his board.

Then came Rookwood.

The ex-Unspeakable met Harry’s gaze without flinching. This, at least, was familiar work to him: secrets, lists, death.

“Every Muggle attack,” Harry said. “Every child killed, every family slaughtered. I want the reason. Were they intimidation tactics? Population control? Auror bait? Or was it just sadism?”

Rookwood’s expression didn’t change. “You’ll have it.”

“I don’t want sanitized reports,” Harry added. “I want blood and motive. Make it so horrific that even your fellow Death Eaters can’t stomach it. I want the truth, in its filthiest form.”

And finally, Rodolphus Lestrange.

The man who bore one of the most cursed names in magical history looked up, weary and cornered.

“Lestrange.”

The name alone made the others tense.

“I want every unmarked supporter listed. The ones who funded it. Protected it. Looked the other way while their peers bled innocents dry. Every corrupt official. Every banker. Every shopkeeper who whispered passwords behind counters.”

Lestrange swallowed.

“But more than that,” Harry continued, voice low, “I want the cowards. The ones who will sell their friends out the moment I tighten my grip. The opportunists. The liars. The survivors.”

Rodolphus bowed his head. “It will be done.”

Harry stepped back, surveying the five of them, once wolves, now leashed and chained to the destruction of their former world.

“This is not redemption,” he said quietly. “This is reparation. You will tear apart the very structure you once helped uphold. And you will do it thoroughly. If you fail, if you stall, deceive, or deflect, your names will be added to the Despicable.”

He didn’t raise the wand. He didn’t need to.

The Mark on each of their arms flared once, painless, but commanding. A pulse of obedience and urgency.

They stood, silent, grim, and left to begin their work.

And Harry was alone again, in a house built for the worst of their kind.

Not a general. Not a hero. A weapon of justice, sharpened, aimed, and now, wielding history itself.

The room still echoed with the weight of assignment, of grim orders delivered and darker truths unearthed.

The five Death Eaters stood, uncertain, before dispersing to their respective tasks. But Harry’s mind had already shifted focus.

Power meant little if it could not be communicated. Perception was the battlefield now.

He leaned forward, hands clasped loosely atop the polished surface of Draco’s desk, the Elder Wand laid beside him like a sleeping serpent.

“Wait.”

The five men froze mid-motion.

Harry’s gaze flicked from face to face.

“We have the bones of the structure,” he said, voice measured. “The records. The laws. The trials to come. But bones alone are not enough. We need narrative. Control of the story. ”

They didn’t respond, but Harry pressed on.

“Voldemort wielded fear. Dumbledore wielded hope. I will wield truth, but refined truth . Truth that does not scatter, but shapes. I need a voice , one that the public can hear, read, trust, or at least remember. ”

He let the weight of that settle.

“Who among you can write? Persuasively. Elegantly. Who can craft a message, spin perception, influence how history is recorded in real time?”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, unexpectedly, Marcus Flint stepped forward.

“Adrian Pucey. Cassius Warrington.”

Harry raised a brow.

“Quidditch stars?”

Flint straightened. “Slytherins. Prefects. Both marked, yes, but only because Voldemort pushed it. Neither was loyal. They were thinkers. Readers. Pucey edited the Slytherin House newsletter, made the drier parts of Magical Theory sound like war poetry.”

He hesitated.

“They’re not warriors. They’re survivors. If you want voices that can sound genuine while feeding a narrative, it’s them.”

Harry didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly in the leather chair, his eyes distant as he sifted through memory. Pucey, sharp, quick-tongued, well-dressed. Warrington, quiet, steady, but analytical behind the eyes.

Neither had made headlines during the war.

“Marked willingly?” Harry asked, voice low.

Flint flinched. “No. Voldemort wanted symbolic names on the roll. Prominent pure-blood sons. They resisted. I was there when Warrington’s arm was forced onto the branding stone.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

That aligned with his juvenile category. And more importantly, it offered opportunity: faces not yet publicly reviled, voices that could bridge old privilege with new obligation.

He stood slowly, walking to the nearest window, letting the cool light of the overcast morning play across his face.

“I remember,” he said, softly, “how the Ministry used the Prophet. How they turned headlines into weapons. Every day, a new slander. A new fabrication.”

His voice hardened, not with anger, but with memory forged into purpose.

“They painted me mad. Lied about Dumbledore. Denied the war even as the dead piled up at their doorsteps. The press became their shield, and their sword. And when the truth came, it was already too late for so many.”

He turned back to the room.

“I will not let them control the story this time. I will not let fear wear the mask of fact.”

He paused.

“Bring Pucey and Warrington. We’ll see if their words are sharp enough to carve out a future worth surviving.”

The five Death Eaters, now subordinates under his rule, offered no protest. They bowed their heads and scattered, parchment already unfurling, quills dipping into ink, quiet orders passed among them in nervous tones.

The room emptied slowly of command and filled with a quieter tension: the scratching of quills, the rustle of parchment, the low drone of magical murmurs. A bureaucratic hum replacing the chaos of war.

Harry leaned back in Draco’s grand chair, deep green leather, serpent-carved arms, high-backed and oppressive. It threatened to swallow him whole, yet instead settled around him like a throne accepting its ruler. He did not move for a long while.

His gaze was fixed, not on parchment, not on maps, not on any of the reports strewn across the desk, but on something distant. Beyond the Manor. Beyond the rubble of the old world. Beyond even the scorched threads of his own past.

Time passed. No one disturbed him.

Not out of fear, though fear lingered like smoke, but because his stillness commanded a different kind of reverence.

He sat not as a warlord, not as a boy hero, but as something in between, a figure made of choices and consequences, watching the ghosts of the old order drift through his thoughts like ash.

It was Theo Nott, always precise, always watching, who broke the silence.

"Potter... my lord," he said, uncertain. "Do you… need to rest?"

There was no performance in it. No false respect. Just quiet observation.

Harry's gaze flicked to him.

And then, softly, he chuckled. A dry, humorless sound that echoed off the bookshelves and portraits.

"Rest?" he echoed, as though testing the word’s meaning.

His hand, not tense, not trembling, brushed beside the Elder Wand, but he did not pick it up. It wasn’t a crutch, nor an emblem. Just a tool. One of many.

"I've forgotten how."

That honesty cut deeper than any declaration of strength.

Theo said nothing more. Neither did the others. The weight of understanding fell like a curtain.

They were ruled by someone who did not seek power, but who could no longer exist without purpose. Someone who had learned that justice, to be real, must be relentless.

The rhythm resumed. Quills scratched. Names were inked. Files grew.

And Harry watched.

Not as tyrant. Not as martyr. As the axis upon which this new reckoning turned.

When Draco returned, robes slightly disheveled, a faint streak of dust across his sleeve, he carried more than parchment. He carried proof.

"Yaxley is conscious," he said. "Injured, but coherent. I read his mind before he could speak. He knew the command. He allowed easy access."

Draco extended the list, fingers brushing Harry’s.

Harry read. Then folded the parchment with quiet precision.

"Higgs."

The young man straightened.

"You’re taking this to the Ministry."

Before protest could rise, Harry called, "Kreacher!"

The elf appeared with a soft pop, bowing deeply.

"Take Higgs to Hermione. Deliver this list to her only. Ensure he is safe. Return him after."

Kreacher nodded with solemn pride. "Kreacher understands."

Harry turned to Higgs, handing him the list.

"Tell her these are Yaxley’s confirmations. Imperiused, collaborators, facilitators. More will follow. Be respectful. Be truthful."

He paused.

“Ask if the Ministry needs anything to begin their cleanup. Be polite. Be professional. You are not there to intimidate. You are delivering truth. ”

Higgs swallowed, then nodded solemnly. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”

Harry gave him a final, assessing look.

Then, with a respectful glance toward the elf, Higgs stepped beside Kreacher.

The house-elf seized his hand.

And with a crack, they were gone.

The silence that followed was not empty. It was full, of choices, of consequences, of something beginning.

Harry looked around once more.

He did not speak loudly.

“I will not let them control the story this time. I will not let fear wear the mask of fact.”

The sudden absence left a ripple of silence. The remaining Death Eaters said nothing, but their eyes followed the space where Kreacher had stood.

“House wards don’t forbid Houseelves when they have been summoned previously and are related by blood to the wardholder.” Harry explained regarding the mode of travel. 

The rhythm of quill and parchment was interrupted by a soft, hesitant knock.

Draco opened the door before Harry could speak. "Pucey and Warrington are here, my lord," he announced, voice level, almost routine.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Harry replied without looking up. Calm. Casual. Normal. The use of Draco’s surname wasn’t cold, it was functional, familiar within this new structure.

“Will you sit with us?”

“Sure,” Draco murmured. He entered quietly, taking the seat just behind Harry’s left shoulder, close enough to be seen, far enough to remain the shadow he’d chosen to become.

Adrian Pucey and Cassius Warrington stepped into the study, their movements crisp but careful. Still lean from youth, but marked by war, literally. The faded Dark Mark on their arms made their age irrelevant. They inclined their heads. No kneeling. No groveling. Just measured acknowledgement.

Harry appreciated that. He had no time for dramatics.

“Pucey. Warrington,” Harry began, voice even. “You’ve likely heard the headlines. I’ve gone from Boy Who Lived , to Undesirable Number One , to Savior , and now, apparently, the next Dark Lord. ”

A ghost of a smile passed his face. Neither of them flinched. Smart.

“I’m not interested in titles. I care about truth. And control. I don’t want chaos. I need one clear message. One voice. Controlled. Directed.”

Warrington stepped forward. “Yes, my lord. I’ve worked with the Prophet before. I know how the press bends to fear… and power. I can shape the narrative. Handle releases. Speak for you if needed.”

Harry nodded. “Good. Be plain, not poetic. I tire quickly of flattery.”

He turned to Pucey.

“I was more academic, my lord,” Pucey said. “Interned under Amelia Bones. I applied to serve the Minister last year, before the fall.”

“They died,” Harry said quietly. “Percy killed the Minister. Right after Fred. In the Great Hall.”

No emotion. Just fact. Heavy and unadorned.

Pucey inclined his head, absorbing the weight.

“I need a chief scheduler,” Harry continued. “Someone who knows who I’m seeing, why I’m seeing them, and what they want from me before I walk into the room. Every word from me now is policy. Every silence, a statement.”

“I understand,” Pucey said. “I will keep your words sharp and your calendar sharper.”

Draco glanced toward Pucey, eyes unreadable.

Harry nodded slightly. “Then sit. Both of you.”

They did.

Harry leaned forward, fingertips against the desk.

“Your first task: a declaration. No symbols. No crests. Just truth. The war is over. Voldemort is dead. Not hiding. Not lingering. Dead. No Horcruxes. No spirit. Nothing left to return.”

Cassius began writing at once.

“We are conducting internal investigations here at the Manor. Sentencing will begin after Samhain . That gives us time to sort the coerced from the complicit. The guilty from the grey. There will be no mass executions. But there will be trials. Public ones.”

He let the silence hang before continuing.

“Make it clear: this is not vengeance. This is justice. Relentless. Lawful. Final.”

Harry’s voice tightened. “Warn the public. The war is over, but some will fight in shadows. Tell them to stay alert. Keep wards strong. Report threats. This peace is earned , not passive.”

He paused.

“Then speak of healing. Encourage the public to grieve. To reach out. We’ll fund expansions at St. Mungo’s if needed. I will fund them. Let the people know this ends with rebuilding, not silence.”

Draco’s gaze flicked up at that.

Harry met his eyes. “We have enough ghosts.”

His tone shifted again. “The Muggle-born Registry is abolished. Forever. The records will be destroyed. No backups. No copies.”

Cassius’s quill faltered for a second.

“Say also: the Ministry will be purged of all who enabled this war. Not just the killers. The silent ones. The cowards who stood by.”

And finally, 

“Publish the names. All the dead. No categories. No politics. Aurors. Healers. Students. Muggle-borns. Death Eaters. Children. Every single one.”

He exhaled.

“The world needs to mourn. Publicly. Truthfully. Without spin.”

Cassius’s expression was grim, respectful. “I’ll have a draft ready within the hour, my lord.”

“Good.” Harry stood. “No slogans. No crests. Just truth. That will be our voice. For now.”

And as they began writing the first decree of a new world, Harry Potter, the boy who had once hidden from attention, stood willingly in its center.

Not for glory.

But for consequence.

And, perhaps, for change.

Harry turned from Warrington, who was already scribbling down the bones of a revolution, and fixed his gaze on Adrian Pucey.

This next task, though quieter, carried just as much weight, if not more. It required the careful hand of a diplomat and the humility of a leader who understood the difference between justice and pride.

“Now, Pucey,” Harry said, voice smooth and deliberate, “you’re going to write a letter to the Goblin Empire.”

The room, previously filled with the ambient rustle of parchment and the whisper of strategic breath, stilled as though someone had cast a silencing charm.

Even Draco’s head snapped toward him, brows lifting in disbelief. Somewhere near the back, Theo Nott dropped his quill.

“You will apologize on my behalf,” Harry continued, unfazed, “for the break-in at Gringotts.”

The weight of the command struck like a hex. Wizards did not apologize to goblins. Not officially. Not voluntarily. And certainly not for acts of war. Yet Harry Potter, who had once stormed the bank on dragonback, now spoke of restitution.

“I’m not sorry for freeing the dragon,” he added, almost conversationally. A flicker of something mischievous tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That creature deserved its freedom.”

The glint of humour faded quickly, replaced by a businesslike focus. “But the damages incurred, that was real. That was destruction. That was theft. Goblins keep records. And grudges. So you will ask them for a detailed account of what they believe is owed.”

Pucey nodded slowly, ink forgotten mid-stroke.

“And,” Harry continued, almost as an afterthought, but it was anything but, “you’ll ask them how much they want for it. Not demand a number. Not challenge it. Ask. The difference will matter.”

From his place near the fireplace, Draco exhaled slowly. “It’s going to be astronomical,” he murmured. “You destroyed the high-security vaults, Potter. And the carts. And the tracks. And, incidentally, their credibility.”

Harry’s smirk returned, darker this time, gleaming with something too sharp to be amusement.

“That’s fine,” he said. “I have something to bargain with.”

Silence.

No one in the room dared to ask what that was.

Pucey cleared his throat cautiously. “Should I include a meeting request?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Offer a meeting, but on neutral ground. Say I’ll come myself. They won’t trust it, but they’ll respect the offer. And if they name terms, we will listen. I am not here to conquer Gringotts. I need it to survive.”

It wasn’t surrender. It was strategy.

Let the goblins see a wizard who did not treat them as lesser. Let them choose to be part of the new world he was building, rather than forcing their compliance like the last regime had. That was power.

That was legacy.

“And Pucey,” Harry added, just as Adrian began drafting, “remind them that I did not take the Sword of Gryffindor. It returned to me. They’ll know the difference.”

Pucey looked up, briefly startled, but then nodded once, understanding, at last, the symbolic weight of that statement.

Harry Potter might have stolen from the vaults, but the sword, the goblin-forged relic of legend, had chosen him freely.

“I don’t want statues,” Harry murmured, the words not directed at anyone in particular. “No portraits. No books about the Boy Who Won.”

There was a hush. Even the fire seemed to listen.

“If this is going to last, it cannot be about me. It has to be about what comes next .”

From his desk, Theo Nott looked up from the ever-growing web of parchment. “And what does come next, my lord?”

Before Harry could answer, there was a soft pop near the hearth.

Kreacher reappeared with a solemn expression and a slightly disheveled Higgs in tow. The boy looked windblown, eyes wide with too much newness, like he’d stepped out of history and into a world that hadn’t been prepared to receive him.

Harry straightened slightly as Higgs approached.

“I have met Miss Granger,” Higgs said, voice formal but not stiff. “She received the document and expressed her gratitude. She also asked that you, ”

He paused, clearly uncomfortable.

Harry arched a brow. “Go on.”

“She asked that you visit the Ministry in person, tomorrow if possible,” Higgs said, then added quickly, “and that you remember to eat. And sleep.”

A few quiet laughs stirred in the corners of the room, but Harry didn’t smile.

He just exhaled, a long, soundless breath that seemed to settle in his bones.

“She’s always been the clever one,” he murmured.

Higgs, unsure whether that was agreement or dismissal, gave a small bow and stepped back.

Harry turned toward the fire again, let the silence grow just long enough to be intentional.

Then, slowly, he stood.

“A reckoning,” he said at last. “Justice. For everyone. Publicly. Equally. With names.”

His gaze swept across them, steady and sharp.

“And then,” his voice softened, tinged with something almost fragile beneath the iron, “we rebuild Magical Britain.”

Chapter Text

After dinner, which Harry consumed like a soldier too long at war, the movements automatic, the taste barely registering, Draco took over with a quiet, assertive competence that surprised even the other Death Eaters. He moved with purpose, dispatching instructions, checking parchment inventories, and assigning each follower their respective corners of the manor to work through the night. It was not the aloof, aristocratic Malfoy of schooldays, nor the trembling Death Eater of months past. This Draco was something sharper, refined by loss, wielded like a blade by survival.

Once the others had scattered and the clatter of cutlery and whispers had faded, Draco turned his gaze on Harry.

"Potter."

The name, spoken without sarcasm or spite, still made Harry stir like a boy pulled from a dream. He had drifted back to the desk, hunched forward again, eyes fixed not on anything tangible, but on some grim vision only he could see.

"You’ve saved my life twice today," Draco said, tone clipped, not seeking gratitude. "I’m not letting you die from exhaustion now."

Harry didn’t argue. He leaned into Draco as he spoke, his body sagging slightly as if his spine had finally given up the pretense of being invincible. There was no performance left in him, no mask of command, just bone-deep fatigue.

Draco shifted slightly to support him, not alarmed, but focused. He understood power, how it shuddered behind Harry's stillness like a trapped storm, and how even storms, in the end, burned out.

"Do you want the guest wing?" Draco offered, almost gently. "It’s far, but the others are using most of those rooms. You’ll hear them. Working. Breathing. Existing."

The idea of sleeping near his new, reluctant followers, some of whom had tortured, killed, or turned blind eyes, made Harry grimace.

"Voldemort stayed in the guest wing," he mumbled, already half-asleep. "I can feel the remnants of his magic even now.."

Draco stilled.

Harry’s eyes were barely open now. "You said once... your mother had hippogriff feathers in your mattress. I want that. Your bed. Seal the family wing."

Draco’s expression flickered, not surprise, exactly, but something quieter, more vulnerable. A flicker of boyhood, then gone.

"As my lord commands," he said smoothly, and without further hesitation, he turned.

They climbed the grand staircase together. The chandelier above them glowed like a galaxy of trapped stars, and Harry’s shadow flickered beside Draco’s across ancient marble and ornate frames. The manor, so long a fortress of cold pride and secret pain, now held the quiet heartbeat of a new regime.

At the door to Draco’s private chambers, the blond paused only to murmur a warding charm, then pushed it open.

The room was surprisingly warm. Shades of silver and green, heavy drapes, a four-poster bed. Neat. Clean. Familiar.

Harry toed off his boots and collapsed onto the edge of the bed without ceremony. Draco moved about with quiet efficiency, removing Harry’s robe, adjusting the pillows, setting a small goblet of water nearby, dousing the torches with a whispered Nox.

"Draco?" Harry said sleepily, not quite a question.

Draco turned to him, the firelight soft on his cheekbones. "Yes?"

"Don’t go."

A pause. Then: "I won’t."

He didn’t.

And so, in the heart of Malfoy Manor, the same place where horror once reigned, Britain’s new ruler fell into his first sleep in days. No dreams. No cries.

Just silence.

And the faint breath of another soul, keeping watch.

Harry collapsed onto Draco’s bed without protest, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, his mind a scorched field after the day’s endless calculations. The Manor was quiet now, Death Eaters dispersed, parchment and ink left behind like the remains of a battlefield. In the silence, only the soft ticking of the enchanted grandfather clock and the occasional creak of settling stone kept them company.

Draco, ever precise, flicked his wand with a silent command, conjuring another bed across the room, luxurious, yes, but distant. He dimmed the lamps with a whispered Nox, adjusted the wards around the suite with a practiced ease, and shut the door to the world.

The chill of the Manor faded. The room, while no longer a sanctuary, at least no longer felt like a prison.

But peace, true peace, was a fleeting thing in Harry Potter’s world.

Hours later, the quiet shattered.

A scream, raw, guttural, almost inhuman, ripped through the stillness like a curse. It echoed through the stone corridors of Malfoy Manor, startling the portraits into silence and setting the wards humming faintly in warning.

Draco jolted upright, heart in his throat, wand half-drawn from habit. But it wasn’t danger outside the room that had roused him.

It was Harry.

Twisted in sweat-soaked sheets, Harry thrashed violently, his face contorted in agony. His mouth hung open in a soundless cry, eyes screwed shut against visions that did not belong to this world. Each shudder of his frame sent cold dread trickling through Draco’s spine.

And then, 

Draco felt it.

The nightmare wasn’t just a storm behind Harry’s closed eyes, it spilled outward, unguarded. Draco, a natural Legilimens, barely had to reach for it. The moment he touched Harry’s chaotic mind, it cracked open like a tomb.

Green light. Screams. Bones shattering. Laughter, his own, high and terrible. Friends lying still. Enemies crawling. Knees breaking on stone floors. The taste of blood. The weight of power that wasn’t his, but never left. The echo of a prophecy fulfilled too late.

Draco staggered under the onslaught, not physically, but inwardly, flinching from the searing honesty of it all. He had never seen anything so vile, so sacred, so Harry .

He crossed the room without thought, the pull of the Mark drowned out by something far more visceral. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, Draco reached out, hesitating only for a heartbeat before touching Harry’s arm.

“Potter,” he whispered, using the name of boyhood, not allegiance. "It’s me. You’re safe."

Harry didn’t hear him.

His lips moved with frantic, broken cadence, spellwork, orders, names. Each syllable soaked in despair, in rage, in the kind of guilt that ate through bone.

“Potter.” Draco’s voice sharpened, but didn’t rise. He gripped Harry’s shoulders, firm but not cruel. “You’re not there. You’re not him. Look at me.”

Still, nothing. Just shallow breaths, rapid and ragged, like a man drowning in ash.

Draco moved closer.

With care born of too much loss, he pulled Harry against him. His hand found its way into damp, unruly hair, stroking in slow, steady rhythm. His other arm circled Harry’s back, anchoring him.

“It’s over,” he murmured, like an old spell cast beneath his breath. “He’s gone. The Hall is empty. You’re not him. You’re not. You’re not. ”

The raw edges of Harry’s magic brushed against Draco’s skin, jagged and instinctive, fighting ghosts. But slowly, achingly, Harry’s muscles began to uncoil. The ghost of battle drained from his limbs. His fists unclenched. His face slackened into something fragile, something far too young to have worn that crown of horror.

He exhaled, broken and hoarse, a sound that cracked through Draco like lightning. And then he collapsed, burying his face in Draco’s chest, clutching at him with a desperation that felt centuries old.

Draco didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not for fear, not for duty, but because something in him had cracked open, an ache he didn’t have a name for, only the instinct to protect what remained.

When Harry finally slipped into restless sleep, it was still in Draco’s arms. The room, once steeped in ancestral cold, now held only the soft, uneven breaths of two boys too ancient for their years.

And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy kept watch.

He did not leave.

He would not.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

What he did remember was heat, suffocating, intimate, magic-rich heat.

Harry surfaced slowly, limbs heavy, mind slurred by fatigue and fractured dreams. But unlike the terror-ridden nights of war, this waking was different. No screams. No ash. Just warmth. Pressure. A rhythmic friction that stirred low in his spine and curled tighter with each breath.

He was grinding.

Not against a mattress or tangled sheets, but against a body. Draco’s body.

The realization came with a wave of sensation: the press of his cock, aching and hard, against Draco’s thigh; the quiet slide of his palm along Draco’s waist; the scent of parchment and alchemical potions tangled with sweat and something that could only be described as home .

Shame didn’t come. He should’ve flinched, rolled away, buried himself under blankets of guilt and apology. But instead, Harry pressed closer. His hips moved of their own accord, slow and unconscious, as if his body had spent too long in famine and had only just now found the feast.

Power buzzed low in his chest, under his skin, drawn to Draco like iron to a lodestone. Harry was soaked in magic, too much of it, more than any single person should contain, and the more it flooded him, the more it demanded release. Craved contact. Craved touch . Touch that wasn't violent or obligatory. Just given .

And Draco gave.

He didn’t move, not at first. He lay still, breath caught in his throat, eyes open to the soft dark of their room. He’d felt the shift the moment it started, felt the press of magic, wet and crackling in the air like a thunderstorm ready to break. It pulled at him. Into him. And with it, Harry.

Draco was a natural Legilimens, trained to hold back, to resist the easy slip of minds in sleep. But Harry's dreamspace had no walls. It poured into Draco like a secret whispered against his teeth: loneliness, grief, hunger. Not for food. Not even for sex. For closeness. For safety. For skin .

He understood instantly.

Harry wasn’t using him. Harry was reaching .

Draco’s chest tightened, the air between them thick with more than heat. He remembered fourth year, how desire had felt like shame. How watching Harry from across classrooms had been its own kind of punishment. And now, here they were. Harry curled into his bed, pressed against his body, moving with quiet desperation like his world might end without this.

Draco shifted, just slightly, a flicker of indulgence in the drag of his fingers across Harry’s spine. Not guiding, not stopping, just there . Present.

And that small act, that whisper of permission, broke something in Harry.

A low noise escaped him. Not a groan. Not a whimper. Something rawer. Needier.

Draco’s own breath stuttered.

It wasn’t about dominance. Not tonight. It wasn’t about who held the Mark or who led armies.

This was magic in its most primal form, desire woven with power, connection tinged with prophecy. More magic meant more fertility, every wizard knew that. The greater the storm between them, the greater the spell they cast. And tonight, their magic sang.

Draco arched slightly, seeking friction now, his earlier stillness dissolving into want. His fingers threaded through Harry’s hair. His lips, parted, trembled against Harry’s temple.

“You said you wanted my bed,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You can have me too, you know.”

Harry froze, then exhaled, the tension in him melting like wax. There was no demand in Draco’s voice. No command.

Just offer.

Just want .

Draco let the moment stretch. He didn’t push. But his own restraint was fading, a kind of ache building beneath his skin. He’d waited years, watched Harry grow into something terrifying and holy, and if tonight he got to be touched by that kind of need, he would let it consume him gladly.

And when Harry’s fingers slipped beneath his shirt, reverent and trembling, Draco shivered .

Not from fear.

From joy.

“Yes, my lord,” Draco whined .

Harry jerked back as if struck, scrambling upright, the intimacy of their position crashing down on him like a falling ward. His back hit the headboard with a dull thud, breath ragged, eyes wide in the dim light.

“Draco, what... what are you doing?” he rasped, voice raw with confusion and dawning horror.

His heart thundered. Not from the touch, not from Draco, but from what it meant . What it could mean. The fog of sleep burned away, and in its place came a sharper, colder dread.

“Did they all think this?” he asked, the words tumbling out. “Do all of you think I’ll, expect that? That I want that from you?” His voice cracked. “Did you, did you have to serve Voldemort like that?”

The image, Draco, proud and poisonous and elegant, forced into that kind of service, made Harry’s stomach twist. Not just Draco. Any of them. Reduced. Broken.

Draco didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.

Instead, he laughed.

It was low, warm, almost melodic, utterly unlike the sharp-edged scoffs Harry remembered from school. The sound rolled through the room like a candle flame flickering to life in a crypt.

“No, my lord ,” Draco said, still grinning faintly. “Never Voldemort. That man could barely stomach his own reflection, let alone human contact. Lust? Please. He reeked of rot and self-loathing.”

He sat up, hair tousled, face unexpectedly open. “That,” he said, voice rich with amusement and something softer, “is a Potter -only privilege.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Draco sighed, almost fond. “It’s not the Mark, though it does intensify things,” he admitted. “It binds me to your magic, yes. But this”, he gestured between them, “this is not compulsion.”

Color rose in his cheeks. He looked away, then made himself meet Harry’s gaze again with a lift of his chin that felt almost defiant.

“I’ve had a crush on you since fourth year,” he said bluntly. “Don’t act surprised. You were infuriating, righteous, reckless, stubborn, but you meant everything you did. And you never broke. Not when I expected you to. Not when I hoped you would.”

Harry stared.

“I didn’t... know,” he said lamely.

“No,” Draco agreed. “You wouldn’t. You never looked.”

A silence settled between them, charged, yes, but not brittle now. Something had shifted. Harry felt it in his spine, his skin.

“…Can you call me Potter again?” he asked suddenly, quietly. Almost pleading. “Just, call me Potter.”

Draco’s smile faded, not in cruelty, but gravity. He leaned in, closing the space between them with a quiet confidence that made Harry’s breath catch.

“I will call you Lord Potter ,” Draco said, voice velvet-soft and certain. “Because you are my lord. Mine.”

He reached up, fingertips brushing Harry’s collarbone, reverent. “And I will serve you. Willingly. Gladly.”

His mouth hovered just beside Harry’s ear. “And when you’re ready, when you allow it, I look forward to serving you fully .”

The promise curled like smoke around Harry’s senses, warm and intoxicating. Not threat. Not demand. Devotion .

He didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

But when Draco pulled back and stood, the world suddenly felt colder.

“Now then,” Draco said, lighter again, smoothing down his clothes with practiced grace, “time to get you ready. There’s a world to fix and not nearly enough hours.”

Harry let himself be guided, still reeling. When Draco led him to the steaming marble bath, he didn’t protest. When he returned with robes tailored in power and shadow, Harry took them.

And when Draco held out the forest green robe stitched with silver, no House crest, only elegance, Harry hesitated.

“I’m still me,” he said quietly.

Draco tilted his head. “Of course you are,” he said. “You’re my Lord Potter. That’s all.”

And somehow, that was enough.

Harry dressed slowly. The fabric was unfamiliar, heavy on his shoulders, rich against his skin, and far removed from anything he’d ever worn. Catching his reflection in the tall mirror, he paused.

He looked older than he remembered. The man in the glass wore green silk and silver trim, his posture straight but his eyes tired. War had carved something into his face that no tailor could smooth out. He didn’t recognize himself entirely. Not yet.

The war was over. But nothing was simple now.

And somehow, impossibly, his world had tilted even further off its axis.

Still, he stood taller.

The emerald robes, deep and formal, felt like armor. Not a disguise, not a costume. Just... necessary. He had not asked for this weight. But he would carry it.

When he entered the corridor, Malfoy Manor responded. House-elves flickered into motion. Wards shimmered at his presence. Even the silence seemed to bow.

Harry moved through the halls with a steadiness born of resolve, the hem of his robe whispering against ancient stone. He passed portraits that turned to watch him, shadows of past Lords and Ladies who now bore witness to a new era.

The door to Draco’s study opened at his touch.

Inside, the air buzzed with motion and purpose. What had once been a room of curated indulgence, lined with rare tomes, crystal decanters, and alchemical curios, had transformed. The ornate rugs were rolled up, chairs rearranged, books pushed aside. Now it was a war room in all but name.

Eight men worked within it.

Marcus Flint, Theodore Nott, Terence Higgs, Augustus Rookwood, Rodolphus Lestrange, Adrian Pucey, Cassius Warrington, and a bruised but alert Yaxley, each one bent over scrolls, maps, and hastily compiled reports. Parchment littered the desks like snowfall. Inkwells dripped. The scent of hot wax hung in the air.

Urgency pulsed through the room like static.

But not fear.

Not anymore.

They were working for him.

His presence caused a shift. Not loud. Not dramatic. But total. Backs straightened. Quills paused mid-stroke. Eyes lifted.

He didn’t speak immediately. He didn’t need to.

Instead, his gaze found Draco first.

Draco stood near the fireplace, spine straight, one hand tucked behind his back in unconscious grace. The faintest trace of color lingered on his cheeks, residual, perhaps, from their earlier closeness. His expression was composed, but Harry could sense the alertness beneath it. The careful watchfulness of a man whose loyalty was no longer in question, only waiting for purpose.

“Draco,” Harry said quietly, stepping deeper into the room. “Do you have a larger space we can use? We need somewhere more suited to this kind of operation. I don’t want to disrupt your study, it’s inefficient.”

The tone was calm. Decisive. He wasn’t being polite. He was leading.

Draco's lips quirked into something between a smirk and a bow.

“How gracious, Lord Potter.”

It wasn’t mockery. It was amusement, tempered with a strange warmth.

Then, with the ease of someone who had grown up orchestrating logistics for galas and political dinners, Draco offered, “The duelling chamber. It's warded. The floors are reinforced for combat spells. It hasn’t been used in years, but I can have it cleared within the hour. Eight desks and a central war table will fit comfortably. And there’s room for a wall-mounted map, if you want one.”

Harry considered it.

A space designed for confrontation, now to be repurposed for planning, rebuilding, deciding who lived and who stood trial.

Perfect.

He gave a short nod. “Make it happen.”

And just like that, the old world shifted again.

The boy who had once slept in a cupboard had claimed the battlefield as his court.

“Make it happen,” Harry repeated. “And have the house-elves prepare for long occupancy. I don’t want anyone falling asleep over parchment tonight.”

Draco’s smirk softened, the sharp edge of it blunted by something gentler, approval, certainly. Obedience, always. But also pride. Quiet, personal pride.

“Yes, my lord,” he murmured.

He turned briskly, snapping commands at the elves with the crisp authority of someone who had been born to wield it, but now did so in service to someone else.

Harry lingered for a breath longer, taking in the cluttered study one last time. This was where it had begun, his rule, or what passed for it. Not with spells or blood, but with strategy and silence. The war was over. But the real battle, order, justice, legacy, was only beginning.

And he would not fight it alone.

Draco stood just beyond the threshold of what had once been the duelling chamber, now repurposed into the East Wing of the Manor, Harry’s new seat of governance. It had taken the elves barely an hour to reconfigure the space, but the transformation was profound.

The grand chamber now opened into three distinct sections: a secure personal office for Harry at the far end, richly appointed and heavily warded; a shared workroom immediately adjacent, with desks for Draco and Pucey, and an attached meeting alcove; and a central hall, where Warrington and Higgs had begun setting up logistical boards, correspondence tables, and enchanted message mirrors.

The rest, Flint, Rookwood, Nott, Lestrange, were given the former antechamber nearby, with ample space and long tables for the flow of parchment, intelligence files, and field briefings. Their roles were vital, but access was controlled.

Harry stepped into his new wing with quiet purpose. He paused just inside the threshold of his office, taking in the high windows, the clean stone, the crisp scent of lemon oil and dragon parchment. The far wall bore no portrait, no family crest. Instead, a massive enchanted map of Britain flickered softly, tracking magical signatures in real time.

Behind him, Draco watched, arms folded, lips quirking into a faint smile.

“I’m glad that as a Dark Lord, your tyranny manifests through paperwork rather than curses,” he said, the old Malfoy sarcasm softened now by something warmer.

Harry snorted. “I’m more likely to curse the Ministry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “They’ve certainly earned it.”

The house-elves were still placing the final touches, inking pens, sealing wax, sorted scrolls, but Draco’s instructions had been clear and ruthlessly efficient.

Harry moved toward the oversized desk, his desk, and sat. Draco and Pucey took their places at either side, parchment already in hand.

Warrington and Higgs lingered in the shared chamber beyond, coordinating schedules and securing liaisons with the Prophet and key Ministry departments.

Further off, through a shielded archway, the former Death Eaters worked in ordered silence. Their chamber was one of accountability as much as necessity. They were here because they were useful. Nothing more.

Harry reached for the first scroll. The quill beside him levitated of its own accord. His magic no longer waited for commands, it anticipated.

He took a breath.

And the work began.

An hour later, amidst the growing rhythm of quills and whispered calculations, Adrian Pucey slipped past the curtain and into Harry’s section, his shoulders tight with unease.

“My lord,” he said, offering a tightly scrolled parchment sealed with goblin script. “They’ve responded. The Gringotts consortium… they’ve set the number.”

Harry arched a brow, gesturing for him to continue.

“ Four hundred twenty-four million, three hundred forty-six thousand, four hundred eighty-seven Galleons. ” Pucey winced. “We started at five hundred million, but I requested itemization and pressed on redundancies. This is… the best I could do.”

Harry unrolled the scroll with a calm that chilled Pucey more than any fury would have. He scanned the elegant, brutal math with clinical detachment. "Not unexpected."

Pucey hesitated. “Even combining your vaults with those of… your followers, we still fall short.”

Harry’s expression twisted into something colder, darker. “Liquidate my followers’ assets?” he asked mildly. “You think I plan to buy my victory?”

The smirk that followed was venomous.

“I told you I have a bargaining chip. Draft a message to a neutral creature-market contact. I want an urgent valuation on a corpse .”

Adrian blinked, once. Then again. “A corpse, my lord?”

“A creature corpse,” Harry clarified, his voice silken. “Intact. Valuable. Rare. Magical. The goblins will be interested, perhaps even eager.”

There was silence. Then Pucey, pale but composed, gave a short nod. “Shall I request a goblin representative to accompany us?”

“If they’re willing,” Harry said. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

The implications were left unspoken. What kind of creature, what kind of corpse, what kind of bargain , was Harry willing to make?

The though was followed by another knock. This time, it was Warrington, slightly breathless, a stack of still-warm newspapers clutched in one arm.

“My lord,” he said, voice taut with pride and nerves, “they’re out.”

He laid the papers on Harry’s desk like offerings.

The Daily Prophet. The Quibbler. Side by side.

Same headline. Same tone. Same author, C. Worton, of course. Warrington’s chosen nom de plume, crafted with subtlety and just enough aristocratic weight to imply credibility without arrogance.

Harry reached for The Quibbler first, flipping through its odd, whimsical pages with deliberate care. “Luna always had a nose for the truth buried in chaos,” he murmured.

“I thought it might soften the blow,” Warrington explained quickly, flushing under Harry’s gaze. “Her audience believes what the Prophet calls madness. They’re ready to trust someone unexpected. Someone who didn’t seize power, but accepted it anyway.”

Harry nodded once. “Well done, Cassius.”

Warrington froze.

It was the first time Harry Potter had ever spoken his name. It landed heavier than a spell, weighty, precise, impossible to ignore.

The first piece of the public narrative had locked into place. The world had seen the Death Eaters fall. They had seen the Ministry flounder. Now, they would see something else: a boy they had feared and worshipped in turns, stepping forward with parchment and power, not to dominate, but to restore.

With policies and quiet terror. With corpses and contracts. With headlines and myth.

And with servants, some loyal, some bound, who would ensure that vision came to pass.

The curtain rustled again.

This time, Marcus Flint stepped through, posture crisp. The brutish swagger of his youth had been stripped away. War had carved him lean, made him colder, more deliberate.

“Flint,” Harry greeted, not looking up from his notes. “You done?”

“Yes, my lord.” Flint offered a thick roll of parchment, the way one might offer a sword, carefully. “I’ve compiled the data on all Death Eaters marked under the age of twenty. There were sixty.”

A pause.

“Thirty-four survived the war.”

Harry’s fingers clenched slightly around his quill.

More than half. Children, practically. Flung into a war they didn’t understand and used like weapons. The same faces that had once glared at him across the Great Hall or sneered in Potions, now reduced to ink and memory.

Flint cleared his throat. “Of the thirty-four, twenty-one qualify under the Juvenile Category, based on the framework we drafted.”

The framework, informal in name, formal in impact, divided the marked survivors into three classifications:
Juvenile – the coerced, the manipulated, the too-young to understand.
Hostile – those who were cruel by choice, who joined with intent.
Irredeemable – those beyond rehabilitation, fractured by madness or monstrosity.

Harry closed his eyes for a breath, then opened them. Sharper now. Cutting.

“Make a full list of those under the Juvenile designation. Their actions, yes, but more importantly, the context. Who recruited them? What were they promised? How young were they? Were they threatened, blackmailed, orphaned, or cornered?”

His voice dropped lower. Firmer.

“They will not be tried like the others. Their penance will be different. Rehabilitation, if possible. Purpose, if not.”

A pause. Then, 

“Share the list with Higgs. He’ll coordinate with the Ministry. I don’t trust them to be just, but I’ll let them wear the mask of it.”

Flint nodded, the parchment still in his hands. He understood. This wasn’t mercy.

It was something colder. Something harder.

A new kind of reckoning.

Rookwood entered without ceremony, his robes crumpled, boots streaked with ash, and his eyes, shadowed in a way that unsettled even Flint. He said nothing at first, only crossed the chamber in three long strides and unfurled a parchment across Harry’s desk with a snap that cut through the rustle of quills and murmured plans.

“My lord,” he said, voice low. “The compiled list. Muggle casualties. Confirmed and suspected. Dates. Locations. Names.”

Harry’s hand stilled over his notes. He leaned forward, gaze sweeping the endless scroll of inked devastation. Entire towns. School addresses. Apartment blocks. Crossed-out names. Entire lines marked only as “unidentified child.”

The breath caught in his throat.

It was far worse than what the Prophet had ever dared print. The Ministry had buried it, buried them. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Casualties of a war they were never meant to know existed.

“Merlin,” Pucey murmured faintly, his usual composure gone as he leaned in to read. “They... they kept this quiet?”

“Of course they did,” Draco said from his place by the hearth, his voice tight. “They'd rather be seen as incompetent than monstrous.”

Harry straightened slowly, fingers curling against the edge of the desk.

“This,” he said softly, almost reverently, “is why there’s no going back. No truth, no reconciliation, no trials, not for this. Only erasure.”

Warrington stepped closer, cautious. “What do you mean?”

Harry turned to him, eyes steady. “Cassius, I want everything you can find on the Muggle term: Neo-Nazi. Ideology. Structure. Historical perception. Their PR image.”

Warrington blinked. “Neo-Nazi? You think this is the moment for a history project?”

“No,” Harry replied. “I think it’s the moment we rewrite one.”

The room quieted.

Flint, hunched over his copy of the juvenile list, looked up sharply. Pucey lowered his quill. Even Draco stopped fidgeting with his signet ring.

“We’re going to blame them,” Harry said simply. “Fringe extremists. Anti-government, xenophobic, heavily armed. That’s what they’ll believe. That’s what they’ll want to believe.”

“You want a vigilante myth,” Warrington said slowly, the idea taking shape in his mind. “A splinter group of extremists, violent, dangerous, and now... neutralized?”

Harry nodded. “Exactly. No need for details. Just a headline and a sense of resolution. People don’t need truth. They need a shape to fear, and a sense that it’s already been dealt with.”

Draco spoke up, his voice calm but cool. “They’ll swallow it if it comes from Muggle channels. Not from us.”

“And that,” Harry said, turning toward him, “is why Hermione needs to see the draft first. She’ll know how to present it. Have the Ministry announce a joint task force. Make it sound polished. Professional. Reassuring.”

Warrington was already pulling parchment from his satchel. “I’ll write the first draft tonight.”

“Good,” Harry said. Then he looked to Pucey. “Reach out to Justin Finch-Fletchley. See if he’d serve as liaison between our world and theirs.”

Pucey arched a brow. “You think he’ll accept?”

“I think he’ll understand. He’s Muggle-born, respected, level-headed, and he’s seen the worst of both sides. We don’t need a diplomat. We need a witness they’ll believe.”

No one argued. The tasks had shifted, not in weight, but in meaning. This wasn’t cleanup. It was authorship.

They were not just winning the peace. They were scripting the memory.

Voldemort had ruled with fire and blood.

Harry Potter was building something colder. More careful.

Something that would endure.

“Yes, my lord,” came the unified response from Pucey and Warrington as they bowed and turned away, already immersed in their respective missives, one reaching out to a Muggle-born ally, the other scripting a false memory to protect both worlds from the truth.

The room settled into silence again, the only sound the scratch of Draco’s quill in the far alcove and the faint rustle of scrolls being sorted. But the curtain stirred once more.

Rodolphus Lestrange stepped inside with the solemnity of a priest entering a sanctum. His robes were tidier now, his movements more measured. Whatever had cracked and uncoiled inside him since Voldemort’s fall had been recast, not as chaos, but as clarity. The madness that once haunted his gaze had hardened into something cleaner, colder. Purpose.

“My lord,” he said, bowing low before placing a tightly rolled parchment on the desk, reverent in gesture, but crisp in tone. “The report on the unmarked supporters is complete.”

Harry looked up, brow arching.

Lestrange had surprised him. Of all the former Death Eaters, he had expected snarls and fanatical resistance. Instead, he had found a man who had exchanged ideology for infrastructure. Devotion redirected, almost surgical now. It made him useful. Dangerous. Perfect.

“These,” Rodolphus continued, unrolling the parchment with practiced grace, “are the names of those who aided the Dark Lord without ever bearing his Mark. Politicians. Financiers. Custodians of influence. They offered sanctuary, votes, loopholes, and gold. They funded hate but kept their hands clean.”

His voice dropped, conspiratorial and sharp as a dagger. “They think themselves untouchable. They never killed, but they never stopped it either. They manipulated policies, buried investigations, delayed bills. And always, they stayed quiet.”

Harry’s gaze ran down the columns of ink. His stomach twisted. These weren’t just names. These were faces from newspaper society pages. Donors to Hogwarts. Patrons of the Wizengamot. Men and women who had smiled at him during trials. Who had shaken his hand and voted against reforms with the same fingers.

Lestrange tapped a section marked in deep red ink.

“These are your immediate enemies, my lord,” he said. “The ones with the money and nerve to challenge your authority. Their hands are clean enough to survive a trial but filthy enough to deserve ten. They’ll strike first, through proxies, policy, press. They believe they are the real aristocracy.”

Harry’s expression chilled.

“The branded are easy,” he said quietly. “They’re already marked, already visible. But these?” He pushed the parchment back toward Lestrange. “These require a scalpel.”

He leaned forward, voice cold as glass. “Mark the ones too powerful for prison and too cowardly for open defiance. The Ministry will devour its own if we hand them the right prey. Let justice masquerade as politics.”

Lestrange’s lips curled into a slow smile, less madman now, more executioner. “I’ll refine the list. Prioritise visibility. Corruption. Symbolism.”

Harry nodded. “Prepare it for Higgs. I want it on his desk by the next briefing.”

A bow, deep and sure. “As you command,” Lestrange murmured, then paused, and his voice, soft as a secret, added:
“My king.”

And then he was gone, parchment in hand, and the war room fell quiet again, echoing only with the soft scratch of pens, the whisper of planning, and the steady beat of Harry’s resolve.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, turning toward the polished desk near his own, where Draco sat observing like a feline war tactician, half-languid, half-lethal.

He looked up at once, sharp and alert beneath his composed exterior. “Yes?”

“While Warrington handles the Muggle side,” Harry said, “I want you to prepare a legal report. A formal document that declares all current legislation under review, especially those Nott is cataloging.”

He stood as he spoke, pacing slightly. The black and green robes he wore felt heavier now. Authority had a weight of its own.

“Any bill that restricts basic rights, promotes blood supremacy, silences half-bloods or Muggle-borns, or was passed by coercion under Voldemort’s influence, suspend them all. Effective immediately.”

Draco didn’t blink. “You want a blanket order?”

“I want a rupture,” Harry corrected. “This is not a request to the Ministry. It’s a warning. Until they audit every statute, no old law holds sway. We’ll not carry Voldemort’s ink into a new regime.”

Draco sat back slightly, lips pursed in thought. “If we send this to the right departments, Wizengamot Archives, Ministerial Review Council, it’ll force them into stasis until they comply.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “I’m not asking for justice. I’m enforcing it.”

There was a beat of silence, then Draco gave a short nod, the ghost of something unreadable in his gaze. Admiration. Respect. Fear?

“Understood,” he murmured. “I’ll have it ready by nightfall.”

Harry turned back toward his desk, but paused. His hand hovered over a stack of incoming reports.

“Draco,” he asked, voice quieter now, “why did Lestrange call me king?”

Draco met his gaze without flinching. “Because you are one,” he said simply. “Not in title. In function. In power. In outcome.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “I’m the Magical Lord of Paperwork.”

“And the best ruler we’ve had in decades,” Draco replied, cool and certain. “Don’t let the parchment fool you, Potter. Kings are made in war. But they rule in ink.”

A breath passed between them, one heavy with truths unspoken and a bond forged in the aftermath of fire.

Harry returned to his seat.

He was not crowned. Not anointed. Not yet named in law.

But in that chamber, surrounded by former enemies turned instruments of order, he was already reshaping the laws of their world.

Not with blood.

Not with terror.

But with a signature and a seal.

The Magical Lord of Paperwork, indeed. But his quill wrote revolutions.
The dueling chamber–turned–office thrummed with quiet intensity. Quills scratched, scrolls fluttered open, and house-elves bustled in and out bearing trays of ink, correspondence, and half-consumed cups of firewhiskey. The scent of parchment and scorched oak clung to the air like memory.

At its center stood Harry, not as a boy who had survived, but as the conductor of a symphony composed in policy, vengeance, and raw reconstruction.

“Check on the injured,” he said, voice clipped but steady. “All of them. The ones in the yellow drawing room are stable for now, but I want detailed assessments, who’s healing, who’s deteriorating, and who’s becoming… unstable.” His gaze sharpened, deliberate. “That includes Snape.”

Lestrange bowed slightly, the parchment in his arms curling from residual magic. “Of course, my lord.”

Harry turned next to Flint. “When you’re done sorting the juvenile recruits,” he said, “coordinate with Nott and Malfoy. I want a comprehensive breakdown: who from the old Wizengamot still holds seats, which families have voting blocs, and what alliances remain intact.”

He let the command settle like dust in the silence.

“I need a full map of the current power structure, titles, money, bloodlines, silent backers. If we’re rebuilding this world, I want to know exactly who still thinks they’re in charge.”

Flint nodded grimly and moved to join the others.

Harry remained at the center of it all, surrounded by quills and mandates, by men once branded and broken, now reconstructed into weapons of bureaucracy. What had once been a chamber of violence was now a war room, of ink instead of blood, of parchment instead of screams.

By the time the house-elves brought in lunch, simple fare, elegantly plated, the rhythm of the day had only sharpened. Reports circulated, diplomatic drafts were sealed with enchanted wax, and the war machine of Harry Potter’s new order rumbled ever forward.

Harry stood.

He was still in the black robes he’d worn that morning, trimmed with muted emerald, the Elder Wand tucked into his left sleeve. But there was nothing theatrical in the way he moved. It was the walk of a man who had already claimed power and now merely needed to protect it.

He turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping over the former dueling chamber, now an engine of revolution. Then, quietly, he raised his wand.

“Sanctum Aeternum,” he murmured.

A low pulse of magic surged outward, invisible to the untrained eye but felt by all. The air thickened for a breath, as though recognizing a new boundary, a new master.

“What was that?” Pucey asked, half-standing from his seat.

“A ward,” Harry replied without looking at him. “It binds this chamber to me. If I fall, it locks. If one of you is attacked, it shields. Anyone carrying my mark or my sanction will be protected.”

He flicked his wand again. A second spell, woven like smoke and steel, wound into the first.

“Draco,” Harry called, and the blonde looked up from his desk, pale and composed. “If anything happens, anything at all, send a house-elf. Immediately. Do not wait.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Understood.”

Then, quieter, Harry added, “And if it comes to it, you may use lethal force to protect yourselves from any one that’s not me, or with me.”
Draco nodded once. “Consider it already done.”

Harry’s gaze shifted. “Higgs. With me.”

Terence Higgs startled, hastily brushing tart crumbs from his robes and rising to follow.

“Kreacher!”

The ancient elf appeared with a soft crack, eyes gleaming silver beneath his wrinkled brow.

“Kreacher hears the Master,” he rasped, bowing low.

“You’re taking us to the Ministry,” Harry said. “Ensure our safety. No detainment, no interference. If anything looks wrong, you bring us back instantly.”

“Kreacher obeys,” came the answer, solemn and binding.

And then, with a hand resting lightly on Higgs’s arm and the chamber sealed behind him with layered protection and quiet faith, Harry vanished into the void with a crack.

Not announced with trumpets.
But with a silence that echoed through every corridor of power.

The Lord of Magic had come.

Chapter Text

The Ministry Atrium shimmered with unstable wards and whispered rumors. What was once a pristine hall of magical governance now smelled faintly of ash, ozone, and scorched parchment. Walls had been repaired hastily. Statues of unity still bore hairline fractures. The war had not spared this temple of bureaucracy, and it showed.

The fountain no longer featured the golden witches and wizards towering over house-elves and goblins. It had been dismantled. In its place stood a simple stone basin, unfinished, unenchanted, honest in its imperfection.

When Harry arrived , flanked by Terence Higgs and shielded by Kreacher , the air shifted.

His black and green robes rustled like torn banners in a rising wind. Conversations died mid-sentence. Paperwork fluttered from desks. Eyes followed him as if he were not a man but a storm in human shape.

Ministry workers whispered behind scrolls.

“That’s him, ”
“They say he’s the new Dark Lord, ”
“He’s not using the Ministry. He’s replacing it.”

Someone dropped a quill. Another bowed their head. A few looked Harry in the eye, only to flinch.

He didn’t care.

His gaze locked onto the only face in the room that mattered, Hermione Granger , standing at the fountain, mid-conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt . Her brows furrowed over a floating scroll, her quill scribbling defensive protocols even as her lips moved. She glanced up, and froze.

Harry was already walking toward her.

“Hermione.”

There was no fanfare. No preamble. Just her name, and then a crushing hug. She stiffened for half a second before clinging to him, her face pressed into the collar of his robes.

Too much time. Too many secrets. The scent of ink, fire, and something older than either of them.

“Harry,” she whispered against his shoulder. “What have you done? There are articles everywhere . Your agent, C. Warton. Do you know any C. WArton? They are calling you the next Dark Lord”.
“I know,” he murmured. “And I don’t care.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“I didn’t choose this, Hermione. I inherited it. The Mark didn’t vanish when he died. It changed. And it bound them, to me . I feel it, Hermione. I feel everything .  I feel the world, The magic beneath our feet. The life debts. The promises. The betrayals. Everything. I feel it dying. Magic is bleeding. The war’s not over. It’s just quieter.”

She went pale.

“I can’t let that happen,” Harry said, and this time his voice didn’t just carry urgency , it cracked with grief. “This war, the bloodshed, the hate... it’s not just killing people, Hermione. It’s killing us . What we are. What we could be .”

He stepped closer, and for a moment, the vast atrium around them vanished. It was just the two of them again, Harry and Hermione, war children with books in their arms and futures on their backs.

“The magic is fraying,” he whispered. “I can feel it. In the cracks of the wards, in the way spells fizzle now where they used to hum. In the way the Forest mourns, how the stones of Hogwarts ache . This war didn’t just cost lives, it wounded the very fabric of what holds our world together. And if we don’t act fast, it’ll unravel beyond repair.”

He reached out and took her hand, anchoring himself.

“Will you work with me?” he asked. “Not for the Ministry. Not for titles or headlines. For me . For magic itself. To build something that isn’t a monument to the dead, but a promise to the living.”

The question was raw and impossible.

A plea not from a boy who survived, nor a hero they’d buried in expectation, but from a king trying to save a dying kingdom before it sank beneath their feet.

Kingsley stepped forward, no longer silent. His shoulders were squared, his tone grave, but resolute.

“Is this what you’ve become, Potter?” he asked, low and firm. “A warlord? A sovereign without election? You walk in here, unannounced, and dictate the course of justice as if it belongs to you. Do you hear yourself?”

Harry didn’t flinch. “I hear you , Kingsley. And I hear every word as proof that you still don’t understand the world you’re trying to govern.”

The Minister’s eyes narrowed. “You think because you won the war, you get to rewrite its rules?”

“No,” Harry said coldly. “I think because I killed a dark lord, you got to wear the damn robes.”

That stopped the room.

“I think,” Harry went on, voice low and cutting, “that you’re only Minister because you lived . Because everyone better suited, Dumbledore, Amelia Bones, even Moody, died . You didn’t rise to the role, Kingsley. You outlasted it.”

Kingsley’s face darkened. “That’s a cruel accusation.”

“It’s a fact,” Harry snapped. “You inherited a broken system and you’re clinging to it like it still works. Like the Ministry that empowered Dolores Umbridge, that buried truth under paperwork, that let Fudge negotiate with death while people bled in the streets, that Ministry, deserves respect.”

He stepped closer, eyes blazing now.

“I will not build a future where the next Dolores Umbridge is given a title because she wears a pink cardigan and smiles through a torture order. I will not stand by while you try to whitewash a government that made Voldemort look organized .”

“The Ministry is a joke,” Harry spat, “and you’re not laughing because you know I’m right. You don't deserve to lead it, Kingsley. You just survived long enough that no one else was left.”

Kingsley looked like he might speak, might argue, but Harry barrelled on.

“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head, “do you really believe that this place still holds the moral right to rule? That your committees and hearing panels, your memory charms and centaur liaisons, your half-empty seats in the Wizengamot... mean anything at all?”

Silence.

Harry turned, gesturing to the vast, war-wounded atrium.

“This building is cracked. Its walls hum with silence because the truth was buried under it for decades. And now I’m here to exhume it.”

“I’m not Voldemort,” he said softly. “I won’t install myself as a god. But I will reshape this world so that no Ministry can ever protect evil again by calling it order.”

He exhaled slowly, like a storm settling into thunderclouds.

“You want to wear the robes? Fine. Wear them. Be the symbol they need while I do the work they fear . But don’t mistake your role for power, Kingsley.”

He met the older man’s gaze, steady and merciless.

“Because power didn’t elect you. It allowed you to live.”

Then Harry added, softly but implacably, “I need you to hold the line long enough for me to do the work that has to be done without constant panic in the streets.”

He took a measured step forward, each word cutting deeper. “But if anyone, any faction, any pure-blood family, any foreign ministry, thinks they can challenge me while I clean up this world, they will learn exactly why Voldemort failed.”

His voice dropped an octave. It was not a threat. It was a prophecy.
“I don’t make threats, Kingsley. I make examples.”

The words lingered in the charged air, too heavy to ignore, too sharp to dismiss.

Then Harry’s tone shifted again, almost conversational, if one could call lightning polite.
“Let Hermione work with your team. Let me keep the worst of them, the truly monstrous, the manipulators and architects of rot, out of the public eye. Let me clean the blood off the foundations.”
A pause. A tilt of the head. A wry, almost bitter smile.
“And when it’s done? Then maybe you’ll have a Ministry worth running.”

Kingsley didn’t respond at first.

The Atrium seemed to hold its breath, whispers stilled, footsteps froze, even the fountain behind them gurgled more quietly, as if magic itself had turned to listen.

The Acting Minister stood still as stone, gaze heavy with calculation. Then, slowly, Kingsley Shacklebolt gave a single nod.
Not of agreement.
Not of concession.
But of grim understanding.

He didn’t trust the fire that had taken root in Harry Potter. But he knew the old system had burned long before the Boy Who Lived picked up a torch. And someone, someone ruthless enough to wield the wand and the ledger, might be the only one left who could build something new from the ashes.

Hermione, still holding Harry’s hand, turned then to Kingsley. Her shoulders were set, her voice already sharpening into command.

“I’ll need access to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement archives,” she said crisply. “Full clearance. I want the sealed files too, every law, reform, and internal memo passed during the war. Education, too. Especially Hogwarts.”

She didn’t pause for permission.
“And I expect guarantees,” she added, voice like a blade. “Any smear campaign against me, any effort to frame my presence here as treasonous or subversive, will be dealt with. Politically. Legally. Or otherwise.”

Kingsley exhaled through his nose. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Hermione’s eyes glittered, righteous, unyielding.
“I hope you understand this isn’t about change,” she said. “It’s about correction .”

Kingsley stepped back, shoulders squaring beneath the mantle of power he now bore with finality. His voice rang out over the Atrium, firm and righteous.
“Then let’s rebuild the world we bled for,” he said. “No kings. No lords. Just guardians.”

Harry’s expression didn’t shift. But the temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree.

“That cannot be,” he said quietly. Not angry. Not loud. But final. “The title Dark Lord was claimed by a madman. Feared, but never sanctioned . Voldemort was no true lord of magic. He was a parasite on its back.”

Harry stepped closer, the Elder Wand glinting faintly in the ambient light, his presence eclipsing every protest Kingsley might have formed.

“But I?” His voice deepened, resonant. “I was chosen . By Death. By Magic. By every curse that refused to touch me. Every spell that bent rather than broke me. Magic itself bore witness when I took the Hallows and did not fall.”

He held Kingsley’s gaze.

“You do not get to bury that under bureaucracy. You do not get to paper it over with committees and titles and procedural oaths. I am what Voldemort pretended to be. And I will not allow you, or anyone else, to reduce this to politics.”

Kingsley stiffened. “So what? You want to rule? To be feared?”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “No. I want to end fear. But you will not pretend the world hasn’t changed. You will acknowledge what magic itself has acknowledged. And that means swearing the oath.”

He raised the Elder Wand slightly, and the runes on the floor stirred again, faint and waiting.

“I don’t want obedience,” Harry said lowly. “I want truth. I want vows that mean something. I want the leader of the Ministry to swear, before magic itself, that he will never again let people like Dolores Umbridge rise to power. That he will not be a Fudge, hiding behind confusion and denial while the world burns.”

Kingsley’s jaw clenched. But he nodded.

“What would you have me swear, Lord Potter?”

Harry’s voice was quiet, but ironclad.

“That you will serve the preservation of magic above politics. That you will lead without corruption, without allegiance to blood or gold. That you will never move against the chosen Lord of Magic, not in word, deed, thought, or influence, so long as that Lord remains in magical alignment.”

He stepped fully into the center of the circle, and the runes brightened with ancient light.

“And that you will ensure this oath is sworn by every Minister that follows you. From now until magic itself dies.”

A silence fell.

Then Kingsley, proud and grave, stepped into the circle and raised his wand.

“I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, swear upon my name, my wand, and my magic, to serve as Minister for Magic in protection and preservation of magical law, magical kind, and magic itself. To rule without prejudice. To act without corruption. To lead not by fear or favor, but by balance and justice.”

The runes flared.

“I swear that I shall never act, speak, plot, or remain silent in any effort to subvert the Lord of Magic, so long as he remains in service of magical preservation. I bind this oath to myself, to all who inherit this office, and to the will of magic.”

The air pulsed. Gold light burst around the ring, then sank into the stone.

The magic sealed.

Harry nodded once. “So Mote it be.”

Harry exhaled, tension momentarily draining from his shoulders.

“Thank you, if you need anything, write to Higgs.” he said to Kingsley, and meant it.

To Hermione, he whispered, “I’ll see you soon. Don’t let them wear you down.”

And then he turned to Kreacher. “Home.”

With a soft pop , Harry Potter vanished from the heart of the Ministry, leaving behind a stunned silence and the ghost of command in the air.

The world had asked what kind of leader Harry Potter would be.

It was beginning to learn the answer.

Kingsley remained still for a long, suspended moment. His face betrayed no fear, only the weight of choice.

He had heard enough to understand that this wasn’t just Harry Potter giving post-war orders. This was Harry Potter, now something else entirely, imbued with ancient power, wielding justice not from behind a desk, but from the throne of magical law itself. The boy who once defied authority was now the authority, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, war veteran, Order member, interim Minister, was being asked to kneel.

No, required to.

Magic brought Harry out into the familiar opulence of Malfoy Manor, and Kreacher followed with a sharp crack, holding fast to Terence Higgs’s elbow. The air was still and cool, scented faintly with old magic and polished stone.

They landed directly in the manor’s study, Harry’s study now, though the carved desk and silver-inlaid shelves still bore the haughty elegance of generations of Malfoy rule.

Draco was already there.

He stood behind the desk, hands clasped behind his back, his bearing composed, princely, immaculate. And yet, the moment Harry arrived, he stepped forward, not rushing, not overly formal, just present, a steadying force. His grey eyes searched Harry’s face with a quiet intensity.

Harry looked… drained.

The invocation at the Ministry had cost him. Not just the confrontation with Kingsley or the oath carved into the Atrium’s runes. It was Mother Magic , ancient and visceral, awakened and bound by will and blood. He had summoned it to enforce the oath, and it had answered, but it had taken its price.

“Pucey,” Harry said, his voice low and rough, “speak to him.”

Terence blinked. “Sir?”

“Tell him to owl McGonagall. I’ll be at Hogwarts tomorrow. Afternoon.” He leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, the Elder Wand still tucked in his sleeve like a blade forgotten after war.

Terence Higgs gave a stiff nod and slipped out quietly, leaving only Draco, Kreacher, and Harry in the study.

Harry let his eyes close for a moment, his head tipped back slightly. The weight of magic still thrummed along his spine, a hum just below exhaustion. He didn’t bother pretending to be fine.

Kreacher, silent and loyal, gave a low bow and disappeared with a soft crack, leaving them alone.

Draco crossed the room.

His footsteps were measured, the sort that made a man feel hunted without ever being touched. He stopped in front of Harry, just close enough for warmth to pass between them.

“Would you like a bath and a massage, my lord?” Draco asked smoothly, voice pitched just above a whisper. There was a curl to his lips, just the faintest ghost of a smirk.

Harry cracked one eye open.
A bath. A massage. Sanctuary from everything.

He nodded, just once.

Draco’s smirk curved into something softer. Not victory, never that. Just understanding. Quiet, amused knowing, sharpened by want.

“You’re opportunistic.”

“Like all Malfoys before me,” Draco replied, unapologetic. “We see power. We offer luxury. We survive.”

Harry let out a low, tired breath. “Fine.”

Draco’s smirk deepened, but his touch was gentle when he placed a hand on Harry’s wrist.

“Then come with me,” he said. “Before you collapse and let the portraits witness your downfall.”

Without another word, he turned and led Harry down the corridor. The hush of carpeted steps the only sound. The Manor closed around them like a spell, its cold grandeur warming in their wake.

And so the Master of Death followed, bone-tired and soul-heavy, into the waiting hands of his most attentive supplicant.

The bathroom was already warm with rising steam. Fog clung to the mirrors, softening the severity of stone and silver. The large claw-footed tub was filled nearly to the brim, water laced with crushed pine and bergamot. Golden light from enchanted sconces pooled across marble tile, casting shadows that flickered like memories.

Harry stripped in silence, folding his robes with practiced detachment. The Elder Wand he set carefully on a marble ledge, as though even now, it demanded reverence. He stepped into the bath and sank beneath the surface, letting the heat drag against the weight lodged in his ribs. It didn’t wash the heaviness away, but it moved it. Just a little.

When he opened his eyes again, Draco was there, kneeling beside the tub with his sleeves rolled up, his expression composed but reverent. Waiting, not demanding. Like he had all the time in the world to serve.

Harry leaned his head back against the porcelain, one arm slung along the rim. “Don’t speak,” he muttered. “Just… do it properly.”

“Of course, my lord,” Draco said smoothly, and began.

The sponge was warm, soaked in bergamot oil and something sharper, peppermint, maybe. It moved across Harry’s shoulders, down his arms, over his sternum and ribs, slow and steady. Not worshipful. Not loving. Devoted. Methodical. Draco pressed into the knots just beneath the shoulder blades, where tension had settled like stone. There was no haste. No false tenderness. Just slow, deliberate motion that edged toward care.

Harry let it happen.

His breathing shifted, deeper now, though not relaxed. Not yet.

The sponge was set aside, replaced by hands and oil. Draco poured it with care, between his palms, warming it with his own body first, before pressing it into Harry’s muscles. His fingers worked across Harry’s neck, down his spine, over his shoulders. Each stroke dragged out tension held for too long, too hard.

Harry had spent a year sleeping in dirt and running through blood. Every inch of him bore evidence of it. Old breaks that never quite healed. Thin silver scars beneath collarbones. A set of claw marks along his right flank. Dark, webbed burns near the elbow.

Draco found them all. And he did not pause.

He reached for a small glass bottle of dittany, uncorked it with a practiced flick of his thumb, and began tending the worst of them with precise care. The fresh antiseptic stung in places, but Harry bore it in silence. Draco followed with salve, herbal, lightly scented, enchanted to relax muscle and skin. His hands never lingered, but they never avoided.

A scar across Harry’s left rib, deep, twisted, was traced with gentle pressure and then wrapped in a warming spell. Draco’s palm lingered over it a beat longer than necessary.

“You invoked her,” he said quietly, not as a question.

Harry opened his eyes slowly, not looking at him. “Yes.”

There was silence as Draco dipped his fingers back into the oil. He worked down to Harry’s thighs, firm pressure rolling out the ache buried in the tendons. The kind of ache that came not from activity, but from restraint. From holding a world on your back.

“You look like someone carved a war into you,” Draco said after a beat. Still quiet. Still kneeling.

Harry huffed something like a laugh. “They did.”

Draco’s hands stilled only briefly, then resumed, fingers tracing the edge of an old laceration across the hip. “No healer’s ever taken a proper look at you, have they?”

“I survived. That was the point.”

Draco hummed in disapproval but said nothing more. Instead, he pressed the pads of his thumbs into the tender hollows above Harry’s knees, working up with a focus that was closer to reverence than seduction.

The kind of touch given to altars. Or to kings.

Harry sighed then, just a little, just enough, and let himself lean into it.

The steam curled around them, fragrant and warm. The flicker of candlelight shimmered across the surface of the water. And for a moment, in the cradle of war-scarred marble and Malfoy hands, Harry Potter rested.

Not because he trusted.

But because he needed it.

Harry didn’t answer at first. But he didn’t deny it.

“The Mother,” Draco added, quieter this time. “Her magic lingers.”

Harry cracked one eye open, then closed it again. “She answered.”

Draco exhaled softly, his hands pausing just a beat before continuing. “You must be half-dead.”

“More like quarter,” Harry replied dryly. Then, quieter, “Keep going.”

Draco obeyed.

He shifted to kneel between Harry’s legs, the sponge long since discarded, now replaced by bare hands and oil. His palms glided over Harry’s thighs with rhythmic, practiced pressure, easing knots that even magic had never quite untangled. Tension and strain bled beneath his fingers, relics of war, of travel, of leadership, of endless nights without rest.

The water sloshed softly as Harry adjusted, baring more of himself without meaning to. His breathing was heavy, not from desire, not yet, but from the sheer weight that came with being touched without expectation.

Draco’s thumbs pressed into the tight line along the inner thigh, then slid upwards in a reverent glide. His fingers ghosted over sensitive skin, testing the edge of intimacy, waiting for a command or a rebuke.

Harry didn’t stop him.

His head remained tipped back against the porcelain, face unreadable, lashes wet from steam, chest lifting with slow, steady breaths. If there was permission, it was in the absence of refusal. If there was desire, it was buried under exhaustion and carved into the way he parted his knees a fraction wider.

Draco leaned forward.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of Harry’s thigh, light, barely there, reverent more than hungry. Not supplication. Not seduction. An acknowledgment.

Harry’s jaw tightened. His hand flexed against the edge of the tub.

“Draco…” he warned, voice a low thread of tension, frayed at the edges.

Draco didn’t pull away. His breath warmed Harry’s skin, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and terribly clear.

“I’m not one of your soldiers, Potter. I’m not a bleeding virgin either.” He met Harry’s eyes without shame. “You’re hot. Your magic makes me horny. And I want to suck your cock.”

Harry blinked. The bluntness, the sharp, almost teasing edge to the words, it hit like a slap to his discipline.

“You think I have room for this?” Harry said, not angry. Just weary. “Entanglement? Affection? I’m not built for it anymore.”

Draco tilted his head slightly. “I’m not asking for your heart. I’m offering you my mouth. As your servant. As your Malfoy. Take responsibility.”

There was a long pause. Steam curled around them, fogging the glass, hiding nothing.

Then Harry said, low and rough, “If you’re so intent on taking my cock, Malfoy… you’ll call me Harry.”

Draco smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“Yes,” he said. “Harry.”

Draco shifted lower, his knees damp against the bath mat, hands steady on the edge of the tub. He met Harry’s eyes one last time, seeking not permission, but recognition.

Harry gave it with a single nod.

Then Draco leaned in.

His lips brushed the tip of Harry’s cock, soft and exploratory, like he was memorizing the texture. The breath he exhaled made Harry twitch, not from arousal alone, but from the sheer foreignness of being wanted this way, by someone who knew exactly what he was, and desired him anyway.

Draco’s mouth opened slowly, deliberately. He took Harry in with controlled grace, no rush, no showmanship. Just warmth, and wetness, and the ache of submission.

Harry’s head fell back against the porcelain with a quiet thud.

Not a sound of pleasure. Not yet.

Just release, of control, of tension, of solitude.

Draco worked with precision, not like a lover, but like a penitent priest at the altar. His hands held Harry’s thighs, firm and grounding. Each motion was unhurried, reverent, and, most of all, offered. He didn’t gag, didn’t chase a reaction. He worshipped with purpose, not ego.

And Harry, for once, allowed it.

Allowed the way his body responded, slow and reluctant, then shuddering and raw. Allowed the truth of it to crawl beneath his skin: that he wanted to be wanted. That this, this touch , anchored him more than any oath or wand ever could.

His voice came low, wrecked. “Fuck, Draco…”

Draco made a quiet sound around him. Not resistance. Agreement.

His tongue curled. His fingers gripped tighter. He swallowed Harry deeper, then pulled back, slick and flushed, mouth swollen.

“Say it again,” Draco whispered hoarsely, breath brushing over Harry’s skin. “Say my name.”

Harry’s hand came to rest in his hair, not guiding, just there .

“Draco,” he said. Like it mattered. Like it tasted real.

And Draco smiled, and descended again.

The second time was less controlled. His pace quickened, coaxed by the tension in Harry’s thighs, by the hiss of breath through clenched teeth. By the fact that Harry didn’t stop him. Didn’t pull away. Just let him .

Harry came with a quiet gasp, no grand gesture, just a breaking apart behind the eyes. Silent. Spent. Human.

Draco didn’t flinch. He swallowed. Wiped his mouth. And then, kneeling, rested his cheek against Harry’s knee.

Neither spoke.

Steam curled upward. The scent of pine and sex and magic clung to the air.

And for one impossible moment, the Master of Death leaned forward, touched Draco’s hair gently, and whispered, 

“…thank you.”

Not for service.

For seeing him.

For staying.

Draco leaned against the marble counter, hair still slightly damp, robe clinging to his frame in a way that looked far too deliberate to be accidental. He sipped from his glass, ginger liqueur, sharp and golden, watching Harry through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you, Potter?” he said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

Harry, halfway through a sip of pear brandy, coughed violently. “What the hell, ?”

Draco’s grin was all teeth. “Not a crime. Just… evident.”

Harry set the glass down too hard. “Yes, alright? Been a bit busy, you know. Killing dark lords. Collecting titles. Fixing the broken wizarding world.”

Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. “Mm. Tragic. And here I was thinking Gryffindors were more adventurous.”

Harry shot him a glare, which only seemed to encourage him.

Draco’s smirk sharpened. “Perhaps you should ease into it, then. Theo’s a good start.”

Harry blinked. “Theo?”

“Theodore Nott,” Draco said, as if it were obvious. “Best bottom in Slytherin. Very pliant. Good with first-timers. Still walks funny after duelling practice, but that’s mostly due to Flint.”

Harry choked .

On air, on brandy, on dignity .

“You’re, what the fuck , Draco!”

Draco shrugged, infuriatingly serene. “Just offering resources. You said you were busy. Thought I’d be helpful.”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I came back from the dead for this.”

Draco chuckled. “No, but you’ll stay for it.”

That night, the grand bed in Draco’s suite was far too large for two people, and yet Harry lay pressed close, one arm wrapped loosely around Draco’s waist. The fire was still crackling low in the grate, the silk sheets warm against bare skin, but neither of them had made a move beyond proximity.

Harry’s voice came quiet, hesitant, in the dark.
“Draco… are you sure you’re okay doing… this? With me?”

Draco shifted slightly, just enough to look over his shoulder. “Potter,” he drawled, “Malfoys are infamous for two things: our devastating good looks, and our legendary talent for making idiotic decisions around powerful men with good dick. This”, he gestured vaguely between them, “is practically family tradition.”

Harry blinked. “Wait. What ?”

Draco smirked in the dark. “The Dark Lord, apparently, was quite the looker back in the day. Shagged my grandfather into a blood pact, the Dark Mark, and half a generation’s worth of disastrous life choices. All that, and he didn’t even cuddle after. The least I should be getting is a lord who’s willing to spoon.”

Harry made a strangled sound. “You’re, you’re so crass .”

Draco turned fully, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “Of course I am. I’m currently in bed with the Chosen One. The Savior of Magic. Do you know what this means for my standards, Potter? Ruined. Completely ruined. I’ll never be able to look at a Ministry intern again without thinking, ‘Ah, but is your wand core phoenix feather and trauma?’”

Harry buried his face into Draco’s shoulder, groaning. “You’re unbearable.”

“You’ll bear me,” Draco murmured smugly, nuzzling closer. “It’s Warrington’s thing that’s unbearable. As big as his name.”

Harry, Lord of Magic , twice-victor of Death, undefeated master of wand and will, choked. “ Draco. ”

Draco cracked one eye open, expression angelic. “What? Just offering helpful comparisons. It’s practically a public health concern. Daphne swore she couldn’t sit right for a week.”

Harry spluttered. “How do you even know this?”

“Oh, darling. Slytherin common room gossip is more powerful than Veritaserum.” He paused, then added innocently, “Besides, you should know what you’re up against if you ever need to assert dominance.”

“I don’t need to assert anything,” Harry grumbled, trying very hard not to imagine a lineup of Hogwarts alumni and their relative, attributes .

Draco smirked in the dark. “No? Because if I had just become the de facto ruler of wizardkind, I’d want a size comparison chart immediately .”

Harry groaned into the pillow. “You’re a menace.”

Draco yawned, content. “Mm. Yes. But I’m your menace, My Lord Potter.”

And to Harry’s own horror, or perhaps relief,  realised he couldn’t argue with that.

The morning light spilled through Malfoy Manor’s heavy curtains in narrow shafts, softening the edges of the room in gold and shadow.

Harry surfaced from sleep slow and reluctant, warm, boneless, sore in pleasant places. The first thing he became aware of was the heat at his back, and the unmistakable pressure of a hard cock pressed flush against him.

“Mm, fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep and arousal.

“Morning,” Draco said smugly, his breath warm against Harry’s neck, hips grinding in slow, sinuous motions that made Harry’s thoughts fizzle. “You were already halfway there, thought I’d help.”

Harry let out a groan that could’ve meant anything. Consent. Desperation. Delight. His own cock was hard, pulsing, aching with the kind of morning insistence that required attention or madness.

Draco took the lack of protest as the go-ahead. He slid one leg over and straddled Harry lazily, grinding down with practiced ease, their cocks aligned through thin, sleep-warm layers of cotton and silk. The friction was unbearable in the best way, lazy and lewd, their hips syncing in a rhythm born of indulgence, not need.

Harry’s hands found Draco’s hips. Not guiding. Just holding. Grounding himself.

Draco leaned down, lips brushing Harry’s jaw, then trailing to his ear. “Tell me if I should stop,” he whispered, even though they both knew he wouldn’t.

Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The weight, the slide, the breathless almost of it, he let it carry him under, let Draco move over him like smoke and heat until the tension coiled and snapped, sharp and messy and beautiful.

Draco followed a second later, gasping against Harry’s throat, hips stuttering before stilling.

They lay there, tangled and panting, the air between them thick with sex and satisfaction.

Harry cracked one eye open. “Are these how my mornings are going to go from now on?”

Draco hummed, smug as ever. “If you’re lucky.”

A beat.

“But if you really want the good stuff,” he added casually, “you should invite Theo to bed.”

Harry groaned. “Draco, ”

“He swore a blood oath never to bottom for me,” Draco said thoughtfully, inspecting Harry’s chest like it was a scroll of legal terms, “but that didn’t cover threesomes. Technically, you wouldn’t be me .”

Harry just stared.

Draco smirked, absolutely unapologetic. “We can totally do that. After you survive the goblins, of course.”

Chapter Text

Harry was already dressed when the knock came, dark robes fitted sharp across his shoulders, the collar high enough to suggest command without declaration. The Elder Wand slid neatly into the hidden sheath at his wrist, and the ring of the Hallows pulsed faintly on his finger.

He turned as the door creaked open. Narcissa entered like moonlight, composed and faultless in deep mourning blue, her expression somewhere between reverence and maternal inspection.

“My Lord,” She gave a small curtsey, and Harry nodded back in greeting. 

“Most of the wounded have stabilized,” she said without preamble. “Those who could recover have done so. The rest…” Her voice softened, just enough. “Will require longer care. I’ve assigned wings in the west wing for convalescence.”

Harry inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“I’ve also moved breakfast to the grand banquet hall,” Narcissa added. “The lesser dining rooms…” Her lips tightened. “Too many memories. Some not worth invoking.”

Harry exhaled. “Fair.”

“There are more than two hundred in the house now,” she continued. “Healers. Cursebreakers. Those bound by the Mark. The unmarked who pledged fealty under duress. They’ve all been fed, clothed, and magically screened. Many expect an address.”

Harry’s brow twitched. “An address.”

“You are their master, my lord,” Narcissa said gently. “And they need to know what sort of man that master intends to be.”

“Don’t call them that,” Harry muttered. “Not servants . Not… that.”

From the adjoining chamber, Draco emerged, still adjusting the cuffs of his storm-grey robes. “Harry, you’re our owner,” he said dryly. “You literally branded us with your victory and inherited a magically enforced fealty contract from a genocidal warlord. We’re practically chattel .”

Harry gave him a long look. “Right. First task of the day, find me a better term than servants or chattel to address the Marked.”

“Marked Collective?” Draco offered immediately, too smug.

“Too clinical.”

“The Bound?”

“Sounds like a cult.”

“It is a cult,” Draco said helpfully.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

Narcissa, mercifully, ignored the banter. “Will you come, my lord?”

Harry looked up. His eyes were tired, but clear. “Yes,” he said at last. “But they’re not mine. Not really.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Then tell them what you are. And let them choose to follow something other than fear.”

He nodded slowly. “Then let’s begin.”

Harry paced the length of the study, still tugging on his sleeves as he adjusted his robes for the day. “Don’t call them servants,” he muttered, not for the first time that morning.

Draco, lounging against the edge of the fireplace with a cup of black tea, didn’t even blink. “You are our owner, technically. We’re chattel, Potter. That’s the legal term in half the Ministry’s war registries.”

Harry gave him a flat glare. “Your first task today is to find a better name.”

Draco sipped his tea with maddening calm. “Already did. The Oathborne. Dignified. Broad enough to include reformed murderers and kiss-ass aristocrats.”

Harry paused, testing the name in his mouth. “The Oathborne.”

“Yes. Bound by the Mark, but formally tied by choice to something more structured. Gives you plausible deniability if someone stabs a Muggle and claims they were acting under your name.”

“That’s not, ” Harry cut himself off, then exhaled. “It’s not a bad idea.”

Draco set the cup down and crossed the room. “You should actually get an oath out of them. The Mark binds them physically and magically, but there’s no standard protocol. Nothing stopping a former Death Eater from hexing a half-blood healer in a fit of nostalgia.”

Harry’s expression darkened.

“An oath, Harry. Not for loyalty. For limits. No blood-based violence. No unsanctioned curses. No plots. Clear instructions work better with magic,” Draco said, quieter now. “And it protects you too. The magic won’t just punish them, it’ll stop them before it happens. You deserve peace of mind, even if you won’t ask for it.”

Harry looked at him for a long time. The quiet intensity in Draco’s eyes wasn’t flippant. It wasn’t lust or strategy. It was care, cloaked in law and logic.

Finally, Harry gave a small nod. “Call a gathering. Tonight. If they’re going to be Oathborne , they’ll prove it.”

Draco smiled, satisfied. “I’ll draft something suitably terrifying.”

Harry was escorted to the new Dining room by NArcissa. Before he could enter. Rodolphus Lestrange stepped into the corridor.

"My Lord," he said, bowing slightly, "we should take precautions before you enter. Macnair, Dolohov, Travers, the Carrows, even Thorfinn Rowle, they are not likely to respond well to being... debriefed."

Narcissa added, her voice low but certain, "The dungeons are too weak to hold them. But I have another suggestion. The Draught of the Living Dead. Administered in small, monitored quantities, it will render them unconscious. Stable. Until the Ministry is prepared to receive them."

Harry looked between the two. He considered the implications, then nodded once.

"Only those we've discussed. Make sure the elves know whose cups to treat."

Rodolphus inclined his head. "They will."

Narcissa offered him a gentle, assessing look. "Shall we?"

Harry followed them into the corridor, heart steady, eyes sharp.

When he entered the banquet hall, fifty faces turned toward him, some pale, some defiant, most afraid. These were the Oathborne now, though none yet knew it.

The room had been changed from its usual grandeur. Gone were the family portraits and tapestries. In their place, simple banners hung, neutral, unadorned. The long table was set, not lavishly, but with care. House-elves moved silently between the chairs.

Harry took his place at the head of the table. Draco flanked his left, Narcissa to his right. Kreacher stood silently near the wall.

He let the silence stretch. Then:

"Eat," Harry said simply. "Then we talk."

The breakfast passed under tension so taut it rang through every motion. Cutlery scraped softly. Cups clinked. No one spoke loudly. No one rose.

Harry waited until the last bite was taken.

Then he stood.

"You are under protective custody," he began, his voice calm, level, but without kindness. "That means your wellbeing is my concern. My priority is ensuring that every one of you still enrolled at Hogwarts, or underage, will be pardoned."

A murmur passed through the gathered group, uncertain, half-hopeful.

Harry continued. "I will review each of your cases personally. We will understand what happened. We will not allow ignorance, coercion, or cowardice to become cause for another war."

McNair scoffed, loud enough to be heard. Dolohov rose to his feet, sneering.

"You think you can, "

He collapsed mid-sentence, slumping over his half-finished tea.

Gasps broke the silence. One chair scraped back in panic.

Harry didn’t move. “The Draught of the Living Dead,” he said evenly. “Administered only to those we deemed irredeemable. You were told to eat. Not to threaten."

He turned slightly toward Kreacher. "Move them to the west wing. Those under the draught will remain there until Ministry transfer."

Rodolphus gave a nod and snapped his fingers. The elves moved swiftly.

When silence returned, Harry looked out over the rest.

"The rest of you," he said, "will listen. You will obey. And you will be given a chance, one chance, to prove that you are more than what your arm bears."

No one moved. No one spoke.

The Lord of Magic had spoken.

After breakfast, Harry moved to the east wing, where his offices had been established.

"What's on the agenda today?" he asked as his committee gathered in the meeting room.

Pucey cleared his throat, checking his parchment. "You have a meeting with the creature evaluator and a goblin representative, followed by an appointment with Headmistress McGonagall."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "We'll meet them at Hogwarts, near the second-floor girls' washroom. Moaning Myrtle's. Pucey, you'll join me, and, " Harry glanced around the table, assessing briefly. "Nott, you come along too. Draco, you'll remain here to maintain the wards."

Draco inclined his head without argument.

Harry continued, "After the creature evaluation, we'll meet with McGonagall directly. Then perhaps visit Gringotts. Ideally, the issue with the goblins will be settled today."

There was silence. Disbelief hovered palpably in the room.

Draco, ever perceptive, stood slowly. "The monster…you actually killed it."

Harry snorted softly. "By 'monster,' if you mean a thousand-year-old, two-hundred-foot basilisk's preserved corpse missing a couple of fangs, then yes." He paused. "Should be enough to repay the goblins, with significant funds remaining."

He glanced around again. "Who among you is best at finances?"

Draco raised an elegant eyebrow. "That would be me."

"Good. And law drafting?"

Cassius Warrington, Draco, and Rodolphus Lestrange all simultaneously indicated themselves.

Harry’s lips quirked into a small smile. "Perfect. Draco and Cassius, you’ll assist Theo. Classify the existing laws into those that require immediate repeal and those that merely need amendments. Rodolphus, you will supervise the final drafts."

Harry turned to Rookwood and Higgs. "Rookwood, Higgs, I need you both to ascertain precisely how much land Magical Britain controls, and identify suitable unoccupied Muggle areas we might acquire: private islands, preserved forests. It’s crucial to have resources ready for werewolf resettlement once Fenrir Greyback is eliminated. I’ll require this data to negotiate effectively with Tier Alpha."

"Consider it done," Rookwood responded immediately, Higgs nodding briskly beside him.

Harry surveyed his committee. "We have our tasks. Let's get to work."

"How are we progressing with the Muggle publications?" Harry asked, turning toward Warrington. "Cassius, were you able to reach Finch-Fletchley?"

Cassius straightened in his seat, giving a concise nod. "Yes. He agreed to meet, but he specifically wants to meet with you directly."

"Hmm," Harry murmured thoughtfully. "Arrange for him to meet us at Hogwarts as well. It will simplify matters."

Cassius nodded and immediately jotted down the note.

Harry then glanced toward Draco. "Draco, could you summon your mother for me, and Kreacher, as well?"

"Of course," Draco replied promptly, rising from his seat to carry out the request.

Harry leaned back slightly, surveying the committee. "The rest of you may go. We'll reconvene after lunch, before leaving for Hogwarts."

The group stood with quiet murmurs of acknowledgment, gathering their parchments and files before dispersing efficiently, leaving Harry alone in his office to prepare for the next steps of his agenda.

The doors to Harry’s office opened softly, admitting Narcissa Malfoy first, serene and poised, followed closely by Kreacher, who gave a low bow before standing quietly near the wall.

Harry rose, offering Narcissa a respectful nod.

"Narcissa," he began without preamble, "I've inherited a property under a Fidelius Charm previously held by Albus Dumbledore. Upon his death, the secret transferred to all who knew it. Of them, only the Weasleys, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione, and myself remain."

Narcissa's gaze sharpened with understanding. "My lord, you’re referring to the Black property."

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "I want the Fidelius broken and replaced with protective wards, wards that grant entry only with my explicit permission."

Narcissa tilted her head thoughtfully. "Rather than replacing a Fidelius, it would be far simpler if the secret itself no longer held true."

Harry frowned slightly. "Explain?"

"A Fidelius Charm requires a fact to be absolute," Narcissa clarified. "If, for instance, the property is known as the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, but the Order no longer exists or uses it as headquarters, then the charm dissolves naturally."

Harry’s expression cleared in understanding. "So if the Order is officially disbanded or headquartered elsewhere, the secret becomes invalid?"

"Precisely, my lord," Narcissa replied smoothly. "Moreover, as Lord Black, designated through Sirius's will, a single drop of your blood on the wardstone will reinstate your direct control."

Harry considered this, a determined set to his jaw. "Will you accompany me, then? Now? I intend to secure it immediately. Grimmauld Place should serve as a safe house for older students and those who've lost their homes." He paused, meeting her steady gaze. "I would also ask your assistance in organizing the cleanup."

"Of course," Narcissa answered without hesitation. "It is proper, however, for blood relatives of the wardholder to reside there if you want truly stable wards."

Harry shook his head slightly, sighing. "I have no blood relatives left, Narcissa."

She gave him a knowing, gentle smile. "You have a godson, my lord. Claiming young Teddy Lupin formally as your heir would suffice, at least until you have children of your own."

Harry felt a flicker of warmth, unexpected but welcome. He nodded slowly, accepting her counsel. "Then let's do that. Kreacher, you will come with us as well."

The house-elf straightened with visible pride. "Of course, Master Harry."

Harry stepped around the desk, reaching for his wand. "Let's move quickly, then. There’s much to do today, and I want this settled before I meet the goblins."

They Apparated with the faintest crack just beyond the wrought-iron gate of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

It stood like a wounded animal, hidden between the neat symmetry of its Muggle neighbors, cloaked in a flickering disillusionment charm now threadbare and sputtering. The once-imposing townhouse sagged against its foundations, soot and spell burns scorched across the stone facade. Several windows were broken, their panes jagged or missing entirely, and the black front door bore gouges from cursefire and claw.

The house was still under the Fidelius Charm. Harry turned to Narcissa and, under his breath, intoned, “The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

Narcissa blinked as the property shimmered into view. Her lips parted faintly at the ruin. "This… this was once the stronghold of the Noble House of Black."

"Now it's just injured," Harry murmured.

Kreacher whimpered beside him, old eyes brimming with something between grief and fury.

"The Mistress would scream," the elf muttered. "She would wail at what has become of her legacy. Even her portrait remains, trapped in silence. Nothing else has endured."

Harry’s mouth tightened. "Then we rebuild it in our name."

Together, they stepped through the rusted gate, the protective enchantments barely acknowledging Harry’s blood as they creaked open. The air was thick with ash and latent magic, old curses that had seeped into the walls, festering like rot.

Inside, the entrance hall was dim and smoke-stained. The grand chandelier above had long since fallen, shattered in a heap of crystal and gold. Wallpaper peeled like curling skin, and the floorboards groaned beneath every step. And still, the portrait of Walburga Black hung draped and sealed behind heavy curtains, the silence around it charged, as though even in dormancy she refused to be forgotten.

Their wands were already drawn.

"Stay close," Harry said quietly.

As they advanced through the narrow corridor, a sudden scuffle echoed from the parlour. Harry held up a hand, signaling stillness. Then, from the doorway, a small face peered out, filthy, frightened, wandless.

A child.

Then two more.

Three muggleborn children, no older than ten, emerged from behind the moth-eaten furniture. Hollow-eyed and barefoot, they looked more like ghosts than guests.

“Don’t hurt us,” one whispered. “The man said you’d come back.”

Harry lowered his wand immediately. “What man?”

“Mr. Lupin,” said the girl in the middle. “He brought us here during the fighting. Said it would protect us… but the house, it groans. And the shadows whisper. It’s scary.”

Narcissa stepped forward before Harry could respond, her voice velvet-soft. “You poor things,” she murmured, kneeling gracefully. “You’ve been very brave.”

The children looked unsure, but something in her bearing, the unshakable poise, the clean magic of an ancient name, calmed them. One even reached out, clutching a fold of her sleeve.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He turned to Kreacher. “Let’s find the wardstone.”

The elf nodded solemnly and padded ahead, deeper into the house where the Black family’s legacy, bruised, buried, but not broken, waited to be reclaimed.

The stairs to the ward room creaked underfoot, narrow and steep, the air growing colder with every step. Harry followed Kreacher down into the deepest part of the house, beneath even the old wine cellars and ancestral tomb niches, until they reached a small door sealed by old magic. A touch of Harry’s blood and a whisper of his name undid it.

The room beyond was silent, round, and ancient.

The walls were stone, veined with silver and iron, each brick carefully mortared with crushed obsidian and protective salt. The ceiling curved in a low dome, carved with faded constellations in the Old Tongue, runes etched by Black ancestors long gone. In the center of the room stood the heart of the house:

A wardstone.

It pulsed faintly, a monolith of black obsidian roughly the height of a child, dulled with age, a fine crack running along its base. Runes had been carved all around its circumference, some glowing faintly, others barely visible beneath centuries of dust. It had once been glorious. It had once been alive.

Harry approached, slowly, reverently. He knelt beside it and pressed his palm to one of the central runes.

Then, with a whispered incantation, he drew a knife from his sleeve and made a shallow cut across his palm.

Blood dripped onto the stone, red, bright, alive.

It sizzled.

The runes flared like waking stars.

Magic surged outward in a shiver, sweeping around the chamber, brushing over the walls like wind over skin. The house inhaled.

Harry pressed his cut palm flat to the stone. “By right of blood,” he whispered. “By right of name. I, Harry James Potter, heir of the House of Black through Sirius Orion Black… claim you.”

He closed his eyes and let his magic pour into the stone, steady and sure, not forced, but firm. He thought of Sirius, laughing and wild. Of Regulus, alone in the dark, defying death for honor. Of Andromeda, fierce and loyal. Of Tonks, brave to the end. Of Narcissa, calm and cold and standing at his side now. He thought of the strength and sorrow woven into these halls.

“The House of Black,” he murmured, “will not fall.”

The stone groaned beneath his hand.

A web of light unfurled around the room, threads of gold and white, wrapping each rune in brilliance. The crack in the wardstone began to seal, not fully, but enough. Enough to hold.

Magic poured from Harry, more than he’d meant to give, more than he thought he had. It should have drained him. Instead, it lightened him. Like the rush after a battle well fought, or the breath after a good run, his limbs stronger, his heart steadier, his body singing with power. The house welcomed it. Fed on it. Brightened because of it.

This was blood magic. Old magic. Banned for being too close to the Dark, but it did not consume. It protected. It bound.

And Harry understood.

He reached into the layers of magic now open to him and began to adjust them. The furniture would no longer draw blood to awaken. The doorknobs would not bite. The enchanted walls would cease their endless whispering. The house had been a grieving thing, ravenous and feral in its abandonment. Now, Harry soothed it.

He re-wove the privacy wards, deep, dense, and untraceable. No spell would find this place unless invited. No eye would see it unless welcomed. And at last, with one long breath, he unravelled the Fidelius.

The secret was no longer needed. The Order was gone.

This house would have a new name.

“The Black Brothers House,” Harry whispered aloud. “For Sirius and Regulus. Two brothers, brave, brilliant, bright like the stars they were named for.”

The wardstone pulsed beneath his palm. Whole now. Awake.

And so was the house.

Above them, the house changed.

It began as a shiver through the floors, then a pulse, like breath returning to a long-dead body. The draperies dusted themselves and brightened, rich velvets blooming back to their original hues. Tapestries mended, colours restoring like fresh paint upon ancient cloth. Chandeliers lit of their own accord, casting soft golden candlelight over polished wood and stone.

Even Kreacher changed.

Where once stooped shoulders and sunken eyes had defined him, he now stood straighter, his skin less papery, his magic steadier. He looked more like other elves, perhaps not young, but no longer the sad, decaying creature of war and grief. The house, its heart reawakened, was healing them both.

Harry focused.

He willed for the dangerous artifacts, cursed trinkets, predatory portraits, blood-baiting blades, to be collected and stored in the attic under a heavy blood lock, accessible only to him or a chosen heir.

The fifth floor, where the private family suites had been, transformed slowly.

He left Sirius and Regulus’s rooms untouched, shrouded in quiet magic, sacred in their stillness.

Instead, the master suite responded to new purpose. Harry thought of Andromeda, widowed, her daughter dead, her house broken into by masked men, and now left raising a toddler amidst war’s ruins. His magic, laden with that intent, reshaped the suite: wide windows letting in morning light, walls softened in tone, a nursery appearing as if it had always belonged. Crib, bookshelves, enchanted mobile, all conjured into being with the gentlest hum of approval from the walls themselves.

Magic was intention.

And the House of Black had waited years for someone to speak clearly to it.

Harry thought of the kitchen, how cramped it had been for meetings, how inadequate for feeding more than a handful, and the house responded. A second dining floor emerged above the basement kitchen. Below it, the old pantry was repurposed as a serving room. The ground floor now boasted a grand dining hall with tall windows and a long table made of elderwood and iron.

The foyer brightened. House-elf heads were quietly removed and tucked into the attic with other relics of cruelty past. A proper receiving room manifested to the right of the entry, beside a new cloakroom and adjacent to Harry’s private study. The study was blood-locked and lined with warded shelves. The patio doors opened onto a restored garden, the earth sensing a promise to be reborn.

The library remained on the first floor, but Harry willed the more dangerous texts, dark tomes and ancient grimoires, to be relocated to the Lord’s Study. The shelves responded accordingly. House of Black records remained in the library. Divided by purpose. Segregated by power.

The first floor expanded. A formal sitting room softened in deep greens and wine-red velvet, perfect for guests. A music room appeared beside it, a polished piano waiting in silence. Harry thought of children, scared, magical children, and a playroom unfurled near the library, filled with pillows, picture books, and toy brooms. A balcony extended from the hallway, overlooking the garden.

The second and third floors adjusted themselves into sleeping quarters: bedrooms, guest rooms, all carefully warded. Warmed fireplaces, clean linens, muted colours that calmed rather than stirred.

Harry paused at the fifth floor. He locked it, entirely private, accessible only to him and Kreacher. There, the original Floo was repaired for private correspondence. A public-access Floo was added to the receiving room below.

In the basement, new elf quarters were carved, modest, warm, with comforts no elf under his care would lack. Kreacher’s room mirrored Regulus’s old suite, dignified and quiet.

And finally, Harry turned back to the wardstone.

It still pulsed under his earlier touch, but now, as he stepped forward again, he poured the last of his intention into it: This house will not be haunted. It will not be feared. It will be a haven.

A place of safety.

A place of belonging.

The crack sealed fully. The stone gleamed with a clean, silver-black sheen. Magic thrummed softly through the foundation, no longer desperate but content, protective.

The Black Brothers’ House had been reborn.

And the stars it was named for, those bold, burning boys, might finally rest.

Harry climbed the stairs from the basement, the wards humming quietly behind him, and entered the newly transformed dining room.

Narcissa sat at the end of the long table, graceful and composed even in repose. Before her, three children were feasting on a spread that, judging by the silver platters and careful presentation, had likely been summoned from Malfoy Manor.

They looked up as he entered. Two boys, perhaps six and eight, clearly siblings with matching curls and watchful eyes. Beside them sat a girl, older, nearly eleven by his guess. Her back was straight, her hands folded in her lap despite the warmth of the food in front of her.

Harry took a seat across from them. “What are your names?” he asked gently.

They exchanged glances before answering. Their voices were soft, tentative. The boys introduced themselves first, Daniel and Max. The girl’s name was Eliza. Harry didn’t recognize their surnames, but when he glanced at Narcissa, the faint narrowing of her eyes told him she did.

“Thank you for taking care of them,” he said softly.

He turned back to the children, offering a small, reassuring smile. “This is Kreacher,” he said, gesturing to where the elf stood at attention near the doorway. “He’ll be here to help you during the day, meals, clothes, anything you need.”

The boys nodded, still wary. Eliza, however, slid off her chair and crossed to him, wrapping thin arms around his middle. Harry stiffened for a heartbeat, then rested a hand on her back.

“What happened to Mr. Lupin?” she asked quietly, looking up at him.

Harry looked away, his throat tight. “He was injured in the war,” he said at last. “He didn’t make it.”

Silence settled over the room like a heavy cloak. Even the boys stopped chewing.

“I’m sorry,” he added, his voice low.

Eliza nodded and stepped back, her composure a fragile thing.

Harry glanced at Kreacher. “Please look after them. Ensure they’re comfortable. I’ll have someone come stay here soon, an adult, someone kind. You won’t be alone.”

Kreacher bowed low. “Yes, Master Harry. Kreacher will see to them.”

And with that, Harry rose to his feet again, his shoulders weighted with both grief and responsibility, but his purpose clear. The house was ready. Now, it needed to be filled, with life, with safety, with hope.

“You are now keyed to the wards,” Harry said quietly. “You can Apparate there as needed. Will you ensure they’re provided for while I find a suitable guardian?”

Narcissa inclined her head with the grace of a duchess and offered a soft, “Of course, my Lord,” before sweeping out of the room.

Harry stood still for a moment, then turned and made his way toward the adjoining chamber, where several long tables had been set up for committee coordination. The men looked up as he entered, falling silent.

He glanced around and spoke crisply. “Adrian. After Gringotts, I’ll be visiting my godson. I should return in time for the Oath to take place today. Be ready.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Pucey replied, making a note with his charmed quill.

Harry’s gaze shifted to Higgs. “Terence, on priority, I want you to contact the Ministry. Ask for the location of any muggleborn children currently in their custody or displaced. I've made arrangements for their shelter.”

Higgs frowned slightly, already reaching for his satchel. “They won’t give that up easily.”

“I don’t expect them to,” Harry said, tone sharper now. “Which is why you’ll go through Hermione. If anyone needs browbeating, she’s the right hand for it.”

A few smirks passed around the room.

“Is there even a Department of Children's Welfare?” Harry added, half-rhetorical, half-disdainful.

Theo Nott muttered dryly, “If there is, it’s been collecting dust since Grindelwald.”

“Then blow off the dust,” Harry said. “Find whoever’s supposed to be in charge. If the Ministry can’t protect children, I will. And if they argue, remind them they failed once already.”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgment this time. The room understood.

He went back to his desk, thinking of those who had been hurt, and those who would be now homeless.

Dear Andy,

I’m so sorry, for everything you’ve lost.

Dora… she was laughter. Light. The brightest person in any room. To know that she and Remus are both gone, taken in a war that mirrored the one that orphaned me, it’s a grief I can’t yet even begin to feel.

Remus told me they named the baby after her father. Edward. Edward Tonks Lupin. Until things change, he is my heir.

I know you were forced into hiding after your home was destroyed. I don’t know if it’s safe for you and Teddy to return there yet. But I’ve made arrangements, a family property, long neglected, now restored. It’s safe, secure, and most importantly, needs a heart at its center.

There are so many orphaned children, Andy. More than anyone’s talking about. And not enough people to care for them. I can think of no one better.

I’ll be at Gringotts this evening. If things go as planned, I’ll send a portkey from the bank. Will you come? Please?

With love,
Harry

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Dean,

I hope this letter finds you safe and unharmed.

I’ll be arriving at Hogwarts later today, and I wanted to reach out ahead of time. I’ve secured a place, safe, well-warded, and fully under my protection, that can offer shelter to those who need it. If you’re without a home, or if you know anyone else in the same position, this space is open to you.

There are a few younger children already staying there, Muggleborns the Order managed to rescue from the Snatchers. They’re scared and alone. I think they could really use an older presence around, someone steady. I can’t think of anyone better for that than you.

If you’re able, please gather whatever belongings you have and meet me in the Great Hall. I’ll be there before evening.

Could I also ask you to help with something? I need a list of anyone who’s been left without a home or family, students, siblings, anyone. I’ll do my best to arrange housing and guardianship, at least through the summer. No one should be left adrift after everything we’ve survived.

Looking forward to seeing you again,
Harry

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Luna,

I hope you haven’t sustained any serious injuries, though I imagine if you had, you’d find something interesting to say about the scars. Still, I hope you’re well.

I’ll be at Hogwarts later today. If you’re in need of a place to stay for the time being, I’ve prepared a home that’s both protected and peaceful. There are children there, young ones who’ve been through more than anyone their age should have. I think your presence would be a comfort to them. You have a way of making things feel lighter.

More than anything, I’d like to know you’re safe. If you’d like to come, I’ll meet you in the Great Hall. Bring whatever you need, and I’ll handle the rest.

I’ll see you soon, my little moon.
Love,
Harry

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry set his quill down and watched the ink dry. He folded both letters with care, sealing them with a flick of his wand, charmed to open only for the intended recipients.

Draco, who had been leafing through a registry near the fireplace, looked up as Harry turned.

“Draco,” Harry said, holding out the three letters. “These need to be sent before lunch. To Dean and Luna at Hogwarts, and Andy wherever she’s hiding. Quietly. No fanfare.”

Draco accepted them with a nod. “Elf delivery, then. Hedwig’s…” He paused, mouth tightening. “I remember.”

Harry didn’t reply, but something in his eyes flickered.

“I’ll send Misty,” Draco offered gently. “She’s fast and discreet.”

Harry gave a short nod. “Thank you.”

Draco was already turning for the door. “They’ll be in the right hands before your next meeting.”

After lunch, the three stepped into the green flames of the Floo and emerged into the familiar warmth of Professor McGonagall’s office.

The headmistress stood tall, as always, but her face softened the moment she saw Harry. “Oh, Potter,” she said, crossing the floor in brisk strides before wrapping him in a brief but firm hug. “I heard all about your visit to the Ministry yesterday. Caused quite the stir, I gather.”

Harry smiled faintly. “That seems to be my specialty.”

Minerva sniffed, eyes crinkling. “Well, I think you were quite right in your stance. Kingsley ought to know, things worth having aren't supposed to be easy. He’s always been an optimist, but sometimes optimism makes men soft.”

She turned, gesturing toward the far end of the room. “Now, your requested magical creatures expert, one Mr. Rolf Scamander, is waiting with his goblin partner, and two additional goblins, acting as emissaries. I’m not entirely convinced having so many goblins within the castle walls is wise.”

Harry nodded, offering a smile and the appropriate grimace. “Understood. Personally, Headmistress, I think it would be wise to request the goblins conduct a review of the Hogwarts vault. And perhaps, ask them to evaluate the state of the wards, if only for precaution.”

Minerva raised a brow, considering. “We’ll discuss that later.”

“Of course.”

With that, Harry exited the office, Pucey and Nott falling into step behind him.

As soon as the door closed, Adrian whispered, “I can’t believe you spoke against her, Potter, I mean, my lord.”

Harry didn’t look back. “I respect her,” he said simply. “But I don’t think that gives her the right to be prejudiced.”

Theo snorted. “Now that sounded very Gryffindor.”

Harry smiled faintly, but his eyes were already focused forward.

Chapter Text

The halls of Hogwarts bore their wounds like a battlefield stripped bare of illusion. As Harry walked toward the second-floor corridor, each step echoed over cracked tiles and past scorch-marked stone. A section of wall still wept dust from where a curse had torn through it. Charmed torches flickered uncertainly, as if mourning.

There was blood on the marble, not yet cleaned. Smeared handprints, boot tracks dried to rust. Harry paused, his gaze catching on a burnt Gryffindor banner barely clinging to its pole.

Theo Nott and Adrian Pucey flanked him, respectfully silent.

They entered Myrtle’s Bathroom, where Rolf Scamander seemed to be having a conversation in Gobblegook.
Rolf Scamander looked up first, disheveled in the way all Scamanders seemed to be by blood, with parchment tucked behind one ear and his dragonhide gloves stained with ink.

“Lord Potter,” he greeted, standing and giving a polite, if slightly distracted, bow.

The goblins remained seated. Three of them. One wore deep green robes stitched with fine silver thread and had a thick ledger under his arm. Another wore ceremonial battle-plate, subtle, yes, but not accidental. The third was older, with black eyes that glittered like flint.

“You summoned us,” the elder goblin said.

Harry inclined his head. “Because I owe your nation a debt.

“Our nation has suffered insult and injury,” the goblin in armor snapped. “Your people looted our vaults, your ministry sanctioned it.”

Harry’s voice remained calm, quiet. “And I am not the Ministry. Nor do I believe you’ve been wrong to be furious.” He stepped forward, hands behind his back. “But I inherited a resource. One I intend to use for amends. A corpse, ancient, magical, and intact. Worth more than the vaults that were broken into.”

Even Scamander blinked. “You can’t mean…”

Harry turned to Theo. “Nott, open the door.”

The bathroom stall shifted with a hiss as the entrance to the Chamber responded to Harry’s Parseltongue. The sink rotated. Stone groaned. The pipe revealed itself like a wound.

“You’re taking us down there?” the youngest goblin asked sharply.

Harry stepped forward and turned. “Yes. I killed the Basilisk here my second year. Its remains lie untouched, still laced with ancient venom and magic.”

Even the goblins were momentarily struck silent.

Harry continued, voice firm. “You may examine it. A portion of its body and its materials will be granted to Gringotts. What remains shall go to fund the rebuilding of Hogwarts. I want the nation of goblins to know we remember who helped build this school.”

“And if we accept?” asked the elder.

“Then we begin again. With new terms. New trust.”

There was a moment of stillness, and then the elder goblin nodded slowly.

“Lead the way, Lord Potter.”

And with that, Harry turned back to the open mouth of the tunnel. The Chamber was ready to receive them.

The Chamber of Secrets lay deep beneath the foundations of Hogwarts, far below the dungeons and even the catacombs. Accessible only through the concealed entrance in the second-floor girls' bathroom, once activated by Parseltongue, it opened into a vast, stone tunnel, damp and echoing with the weight of forgotten centuries. The air was heavy with moisture and old magic, smelling faintly of mildew, decay, and something more ancient than time.

At the end of the serpentine passage stood an immense stone door engraved with intertwined serpents. When spoken to in Parseltongue, they uncoiled, parting to reveal the chamber beyond.

The Chamber itself was cathedral-like in size, carved from green-black stone and lit dimly by phosphorescent moss growing in veins along the high arched ceiling. Massive serpentine columns lined either side of the hall, each carved with entwined snakes, bearing the likeness of Salazar Slytherin at the crown. Their eyes glinted with inlaid emeralds, cold and watchful.

At the far end of the hall loomed a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin himself, stern-faced, gaunt, with a long beard and eyes that seemed to follow intruders. Beneath it had once rested the Basilisk’s lair, a low stone platform cracked from the battle that took place there years ago. Now, the skeletal remains of the great serpent lay coiled and broken, two of its fangs removed, its body petrified in death and still radiating residual magic.

The silence was complete. No wind. No footsteps. Just the heavy stillness of a tomb filled with the memory of power.

The descent into the Chamber was not graceful. The stone tunnel spiraled into the earth like a snake coiling deeper into its burrow. The group descended in silence, the occasional gust of cold air carrying the scent of time, dust, and magic.

The floor leveled, and they emerged into the great underground hall. Massive serpentine pillars lined either side, carved with coiled serpents, their stony eyes watching. The face of Salazar Slytherin loomed at the far end, solemn and grim. The whole place thrummed faintly with ancient magic, sleeping but not silent.

And there, stretched like a fallen titan across the chamber floor, lay the Basilisk.

Even knowing what they came to see, the sight drew a collective intake of breath.

It was enormous.

The corpse shimmered faintly in the dim green light, scales still intact and glistening, preserved by magic and cold. Its body ran the length of the hall, thick as an oak tree trunk, coiled and broken in some places. The gaping jaw was frozen open, a shattered fang missing.

Near the edges, three long, dry shed skins lay like ghosts, crackling faintly with residual power.

Rolf Scamander let out a low whistle. “You defeated this when you were twelve?”

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable. “Yes. Circumstances demanded either its survival or mine.”

Adrian Pucey and Theo Nott stood frozen, their composure utterly shattered. Adrian stared openly. Theo mouthed something soundless.

One of the goblins dropped to one knee beside the corpse, muttering under his breath. His fingers ran reverently over the scales, testing the resilience, the enchantment. “This is a thousand years old,” he whispered. “And it’s... intact. The venom sac. The hide. The bones. Even the heart.”

He stood, stunned. “With the shed skins and full corpse, Lord Potter, this alone is worth a billion galleons. Perhaps more on the open magical market. There is nothing like this in the world. It's the last of its kind.”

Rolf’s brows furrowed. “Wait,” he said, eyes scanning the enormous form. “Are there any eggs?”

Harry blinked. “Eggs?”

“Yes.” Rolf stepped carefully toward the belly of the beast. “This is a female basilisk. They require only ambient magic to reproduce. If she was active during your second year, she would’ve laid. Have you checked the nest?”

Harry flushed slightly. “No, I haven’t. I didn’t think to.”

Scamander gave him a knowing smile. “Well, you were twelve.”

The older goblin suddenly looked alarmed. “If any eggs are viable, even the smallest burst of magic could awaken them.”

“Exactly,” Rolf said. “We should identify the nesting site immediately. Ensure the eggs are stable and then transfer them. If they’re intact, they’ll be the last of their species. We can’t let them fall into the wrong hands.”

Harry gave a short nod, then turned. “Let’s go. And be careful. This place is saturated with residual dark magic. One wrong step and we’ll have more than just eggs to worry about.”

They moved deeper into the Chamber, no longer conquerors or negotiators, but caretakers of a legacy too old and too powerful to ignore.

“There are traces of Dark Magic here,” one of the goblins muttered, his voice low and wary. He pressed a hand to the damp stone floor, feeling its pulse. “Too dark.”

Harry didn’t respond at first, his gaze on the basilisk’s still form. Then, quietly, “Yes. I… killed someone here.”

The words hung heavy in the chamber.

All eyes turned to him. Even the goblins looked up, startled.

“When you were twelve?” Rolf asked carefully.

Harry nodded. “It was a shade of Voldemort. He’d possessed my friend, Ginny Weasley, through an artifact. A diary. I had to destroy it. It was the only way to save her.”

There was silence again. Even the ever-curious Scamander looked uneasy.

“That’s black magic,” one of the goblins said grimly.

Harry didn’t confirm, but his silence did.

“How did you destroy it?” asked Theo, his voice hoarse.

“When the basilisk bit me,” Harry said, glancing at the great serpent, “its fang got stuck in my arm when I tore away from it. I pulled it out and used that to stab the diary.”

“This basilisk…” Theo’s voice cracked as he looked at the fangs as long as his forearm. “It bit you?”

Harry rolled up his sleeve and showed the scar, faint, but still glowing faintly against his skin, unnaturally healed.

“How are you alive, Potter?” Theo breathed.

“Ah,” Harry gave a sheepish shrug, “a phoenix healed me. Fawkes. He cried into the wound. And… well. I did die.”

“You what?” Pucey choked.

“I died,” Harry repeated, calm now. “Only… I didn’t stay dead.”

No one spoke after that.

They simply looked at him, this boy, this man, this war-forged myth who spoke casually of surviving death, slaying monsters, and wielding the magic of resurrection as if it were just another part of the tale.

The basilisk’s corpse loomed large behind him, but for the first time, it didn’t seem the most terrifying thing in the room.

They found three eggs nestled beneath the remains of the nest, large, ivory with veins of gold, faintly pulsing with dormant magic.

Rolf Scamander let out a breathless gasp. “Merlin’s wings… these are basilisk eggs. Intact. Viable. This is… this is the discovery of the century!”

The three eggs, however, reacted to the hum of magic in the air, specifically, to Harry. The faint pulse quickened, a faint golden glow flickering beneath the surface.

“They’re responding to you,” Rolf whispered, reverent. “You’ll need to saturate them with your magic to hatch them. Basilisks born of intent bond to the first signature they know.”

Harry flushed bright red. “Umm… can we not do that right now? Next week, next month, maybe next year?”

He shot Adrian a desperate look. Help.

Pucey, blessedly, stepped in without missing a beat. “Indeed, Mr. Scamander. You may take the eggs, property of Lord Potter, of course, into your care and stewardship. Anything regarding their hatching or magical bonding can be discussed at a later date. Lord Potter currently has matters of state to conclude with the Goblin Nation.”

Harry clapped a grateful hand on Adrian’s back. “Thank you.”

Turning to the goblin emissary, he spoke clearly. “As you’ve heard, the valuation exceeds twelve million Galleons. I wish to transfer the rights to the basilisk corpse and the shed skin entirely to the Goblin Nation, to manage or market as you see fit. In return, I would like to retain a single fang, preferably forged into a dagger.”

The lead goblin nodded, respectful now. “Understood.”

“Our previous negotiation arrived at four hundred twenty-four million, three hundred forty-six thousand, four hundred eighty-seven Galleons,” Harry continued. “I believe we can round it off to four hundred thirty million, if that is agreeable?”

The goblins inclined their heads. “It is.”

“I’d like the remaining funds transferred to a new account,” Harry added. “We’ll finalize the details at Gringotts.”

With stiff bows and unmistakable satisfaction in their eyes, the goblins grasped the edge of the basilisk hide and disappeared with the corpse, the shed skins, and the valuation ledgers.

“Well,” Rolf exhaled, his smile wide. “They were certainly excited. That’s a first.”

Harry chuckled, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. Then, with a sideways glance, he asked a question that had lingered in the back of his mind since he'd first befriended Luna Lovegood.

Harry chuckled, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. Then, with a sideways glance, he asked a question that had lingered in the back of his mind since he'd first befriended Luna Lovegood.

“Mr. Scamander,” he said, voice almost shy, “are… um, are Crumple-Horned Snorkacks real?”

Rolf blinked. Then he grinned, slow, knowing, and just a touch mischievous.

“Well,” he said, “that depends on whether you believe in things that only show themselves to those who truly believe in them. And I’ve spent years trying to catch one on camera.”

Harry smiled despite himself. “So that’s a maybe.”

“That’s a ‘not yet,’ Lord Potter,” Rolf replied with a wink. “But hope is half the magic, isn’t it?”

“I believe I have a friend whose company you’ll enjoy,” Harry said to Rolf Scamander as they made their way back up to the second-floor bathroom.

As they emerged from the Chamber and climbed into the musty space above, a familiar ghostly figure floated down from the ceiling, her face lighting up with eerie delight.

“Harry!” Myrtle swooned. “You finally died, we all felt it, but then you came back. I thought we could spend eternity together this time.”

Harry gave her a tired, but amused smile. “Sorry, Myrtle. Maybe next time.”

Myrtle let out a dramatic wail and dove into the toilet with a splash. Theo and Adrian, trailing behind, stared after her in stunned silence.

“She flirts with you?” Adrian asked, incredulous.

“She’s tried to kiss me through the loo before,” Harry replied dryly. “This was tame.”

They continued through the corridors, pausing just outside the infirmary. Before they could knock, a flash of pale yellow darted toward them, and Luna Lovegood wrapped Harry in a gentle, unhurried hug.

“Harry,” she said serenely. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Next week, you should try exercising here as well. The walls will heal faster.”

Harry blinked. “You mean the wards, don’t you?”

Luna nodded dreamily. “You won the conquest. The castle knows you.”

“I’m not the Headmaster,” Harry said, half protesting.

“You don’t need the title. Magic answers to who it believes in,” Luna replied.

Harry hummed, unsure whether she was speaking metaphorically or literally. Probably both.

Then he turned, gesturing to the man beside him. “Luna, I’d like you to meet one Mr. Rolf Scamander.”

Luna inclined her head. “Hello, Mr. Scamander. What you’re looking for is at home.”

Rolf blinked, clearly taken aback by the abrupt greeting. Then he smiled. “Oh, wonderful. I must move accordingly then. Will you write to me, Ms. Lovegood?”

“Yes,” Luna said simply. “And I like yellow.”

Rolf’s ears tinged pink. “Duly noted.”

He turned to Harry with a respectful nod. “Lord Potter, I’ll take my leave. I’d rather not expose the eggs to any more magic than necessary.”

“Of course,” Harry said. “And thank you, Mr. Scamander. You may write to us about any further developments.”

As Rolf departed, Luna beckoned Harry aside once more.

“Yes, Little Moon?”

“There are eight here who will need your house,” she said softly.

Harry’s face grew serious. “Will you have them ready? Have them meet me at Professor McGonagall’s office.”

Luna nodded and, without another word, pressed a light kiss to his cheek before drifting away like mist on the wind.

Theo let out a low whistle. “You certainly have interesting friends.”

Harry allowed himself a small, fond smile. “That’s one word for it.”

As they stepped out of the corridor, Harry turned to Theo and Adrian. “Disillusion yourselves,” he murmured. “There are too many eyes here.”

With subtle flicks of their wands, the two vanished from sight, leaving Harry to walk alone into the infirmary.

The scent of blood and antiseptic lingered in the air. The beds were full, burns, broken bones, grief stitched into every blanket. In the far corner, a curtain was drawn halfway. Harry walked toward it.

Lavender Brown lay still, her skin waxy and pale, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. Bite marks, vicious and raw, marred her neck and shoulder. Her breathing was shallow. Madam Pomfrey sat beside her, wand hovering above a bowl of potion that shimmered sickly green.

“Will she live?” Harry asked, voice soft.

Madam Pomfrey looked up, lines of exhaustion etched deep into her face. “She’s very weak, Harry. The blood loss, the magical trauma, it’s not enough to sustain the transformation. If she survives the first moon, she might stand a chance.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “What does she need?”

“Silverleaf for infection. Dittany for the scarring. Wolfsbane if we want her mind intact. Your father and his friends… they were better werewolf healers than anyone I ever knew. But I don’t have the resources here to do more than keep her pain at bay.”

“What about St. Mungo’s?”

“They’re overrun,” she said, bitterness creeping into her tone. “And they don’t take in creatures. Official policy.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists. “Then prepare her for transfer. I’ll arrange something, somewhere safer, better protected, where she can be cared for.”

Pomfrey gave him a long look. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

“Are there any other severe injuries?” he asked, scanning the ward.

“No, Harry dear,” she replied gently. “They… they couldn’t reach us after you came back alive.”

“I see.” His voice was quiet.

And if I’d died earlier, would Remus still be alive? Tonks? Fred?

The thought twisted something deep inside him.

“If you need anything,” he said, “anything at all, just write to me.”

“I will,” Pomfrey said softly. “And you take care, Harry.”

He gave her a small, weary nod and turned to leave, the weight of everything pressing down heavier than ever.

As Harry stepped out of the infirmary, a tall, solid figure collided with him.

“Harry, mate!”

It was Dean Thomas.

Harry caught his balance and looked up, a tired but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Dean.”

He got a proper look at his friend, taller than ever, but the scars told stories of close calls. One arm moved a little stiffly, and a faint burn glimmered across his jaw.

“How are you holding up?”

Dean gave a wry grin. “Good. A few nerves fried, thanks to dear Bellatrix, but I’m alive.”

Harry nodded. “And the kids?”

“Luna’s got eight with her. I found three more from the DA, Dennis Creevey, Sally-Anne Perks, and Fay Dunbar. Dennis… he lost his whole family.”

Harry winced. “I see.”

“Also, Finch-Fletchley’s around,” Dean added. “Said he’s here to meet you.”

Harry's gaze turned distant for a moment, then sharpened. “Alright. Have them all head to Professor McGonagall’s office. Bring their things. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder before moving off, leaving Harry to wander down a quieter corridor until he found a half-crumbled classroom. He stepped inside and sat on a dusty chair, the scent of charred wood and magic clinging to the air.

He stared at the rubble for a long moment.

He had already poured magic into the wards at Grimmauld Place today. It made sense to give it a week before attempting the same here. His strength was steady, but magic had rules, and even he was not above them.

Raising his wand, Harry cast a Patronus to call Finch-Fletchley. The silvery form that erupted from his wand made him pause.

It wasn’t a stag.

It was a thestral.

“What is that?” Pucey asked, eyes widening as the winged beast soared down the corridor.

“A thestral,” Theo answered quietly, stepping beside Harry. “You can only see them if you’ve seen death.”

Harry looked over, curious. “You’ve always seen them?”

Theo nodded once. “Since I was eight. My mother.”

Harry held his gaze for a moment, then glanced back at the fading silvery figure. “For me… it was Cedric. I didn’t remember my parents dying. But Cedric, I watched that happen.”

A silence settled between the three of them.

Then Harry spoke, voice low and sure. “At the Ministry, instead of that fountain, I want a tower. A watchtower. Something to remind them their purpose is to protect. It’ll be etched with the names of everyone they failed, starting with Cedric Diggory.”

Adrian nodded solemnly and pulled out a small notebook, jotting the idea down. “It seems apt.”

Moments later, Justin Finch-Fletchley stepped into the room. His robes were travel-worn, and a thin, healing slash traced across his eyebrow, but he stood tall.

“All well?” Harry asked by way of greeting.

Justin gave a crooked smile. “As well as can be. Certainly better than you.”

Harry couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “Fair enough.”

Harry sat down beside Justin, stretching his legs out as he leaned back.

“There’s a lot changing,” he began. “And fast. I don’t want to patch over cracks anymore, I want to rebuild the whole foundation

 And the Muggle-born issue, well, that’s where I need you.”

Theo stepped forward, slipping a folded parchment into Harry’s hand, which he then passed to Justin.

Justin unfolded it, brow lifting as he read. “This is smart,” he said after a pause. “Smarter than any magical–Muggle ministry interaction I’ve seen.”

Theo nodded slightly. “It’s meant to be. We're not just asking for reparations or apologies. We're laying out a framework, one built on dignity and policy, not pity.”

Justin nodded, eyes sharp behind the calm. “After I got my letter to Hogwarts, I had my father look into the legal standing of previous ‘arrangements,’” he said, tone dry. “What I found was offensive. They were protected, yes, but the entire system was set up like a glorified adoption programme, no rights, no records retained, nothing meaningful carried over. Most guardians were barely checked. And worst of all, it kept us isolated. Disconnected.”

He folded the parchment again, carefully. “This? This is different. Tell me more, Potter.”

There was something almost Malfoy-esque in his poise, the way he demanded information with quiet confidence, well-dressed, self-possessed, and suddenly very much not the quiet boy from first year.

Harry didn’t mind.

He leaned forward. “We’re drafting a full legal proposal to amend Muggle-Born Registration and Reintegration. It’ll ensure blood status can’t be used as a basis to exclude or exploit. Muggle-borns will have a say in how they are introduced to the magical world, and we’ll set up a proper department, independent from both the Muggle Liaison Office and the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. That’s key. And I want Muggle-born witches and wizards who lived through this war at the table.”

Justin considered that, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once.

“Good,” he said. “Then you’ll have me.”
Justin leaned back slightly, arms folded as he asked, “What do you need from me specifically?”

Harry took a breath. “I want you to act as liaison between the two governments, the Muggle and the Magical. Whatever authority the Minister had in this matter, I’ll see it appropriately transferred to you. I want the truth of the war, what we can share of it, presented to Muggle authorities under the guise of a neo-Nazi insurgence. Enough to explain disappearances, casualties, infrastructure collapse.”

Justin’s brow furrowed slightly, nodding along.

“Second,” Harry continued, “I want to set up a helpline. A number anyone can call, especially Muggleborns and magical children, if they’re lost, scared, or in need of shelter. I’m trying to move everyone who’s homeless into a protected house. You’re welcome there.”

“And what would I do there?” Justin asked, more thoughtful now.

“I need someone who can coordinate with Muggle institutions. Police, welfare offices, child protection, schools, someone who knows the system, and can explain that these children aren’t missing. That they’re safe. That if they have families, and it’s safe to return, we’ll do so.”

Justin’s smile curled, just slightly. “That works, Potter. Or should I call you my lord now?”

Harry hesitated, a little uncomfortable, but it was Adrian who answered, cool and polite.

“Lord Potter will suffice.”

Justin chuckled. “Wonderful. I’ll bring my things along with you lot, then apparate home to see if my father has time to discuss some of this. One more thing, Lord Potter, ” he said, tone teasing as he emphasised the title, “, I have opinions about a few proposed bills. If you’ve got someone handling legislative review, I’d like my suggestions to be considered.”

Harry smiled in return. “Justin, meet Theo Nott. He’s in charge of law and policy review.”

Theo gave a short nod. “If you’ve any recommendations for viable amendments, you may owl me.”

Justin’s eyes brightened. “Excellent. He’s a sharp one, isn’t he? Good. I’ll collect my things. Shall we reconvene at McGonagall’s floo?”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed.

And just like that, another piece of his vision slid into place.

As they made their way through the hallways toward McGonagall’s office, Adrian remarked under his breath, “I didn’t know Finch-Fletchley was politically astute.”

Harry smirked faintly. “He’s the Muggleborn version of Malfoy. His father’s a cousin to the Queen and holds a noble title. Justin’s the second son, so he’s not the heir, but they’re a well-established aristocratic family.”

Adrian gave a low whistle. “Explains the posture.”

As they rounded the last corner, about fifteen people stood gathered outside the Headmistress’s office, some with small trunks or satchels. Harry greeted the ones he recognised, Dean, Dennis Creevey, Sally-Anne Perks, Fay Dunbar, and offered them a brief nod of reassurance.

“I’ll just be a moment. Please wait here.”

He stepped through the office door. Professor McGonagall looked up from behind her desk, her expression tired but composed.

“Headmistress,” Harry began, “any update on how the reconstruction is going?”

“I’ve written to the ICW,” she said, rubbing her temple. “They’ve acknowledged the request, but I don’t think we’ll be ready by September. Perhaps the following academic year.”

“That’s understandable,” Harry replied. “Right now, rebuilding is more important than rushing students back in. I wanted to let you know I’ve made arrangements for the Muggleborn students. I’m relocating them to a secure property, it’s called the Black Brothers House. You’re familiar with it, I think.”

A flicker of memory crossed her face. “Indeed I am. That’s a good call, Potter. Parts of the castle are still unstable. The structure is being held together by residual enchantments, but I don’t know how much longer that will last. We’ve lost spells that no one remembers how to recast.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “I understand, Professor. Would you be willing to convene a Board of Governors meeting? With anyone who’s survived, maybe this week?”

“I’ll see to it,” she promised.

“Great,” Harry said, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be using your floo in a moment to send them through.”

She gave a weary but approving nod. “Of course.”

Harry stepped into the floo first, speaking clearly: “Floo Connection.”

The flames flared green, drawing him into the ancient fireplace system created by Orion Black himself, a secure enchantment keyed only to that phrase. As he arrived in the front parlour of the Black Brothers House, the air was cool, humming with residual magic and quiet purpose.

He paused to re-establish the wards. Intent-based magic shimmered at his fingertips, and Kreacher approached, bowing low.

“Mistress Walburga had no tolerance for mischief,” the elf rasped. “Master Orion modified the protections. You may add the clause now.”

With Kreacher’s help, Harry cast a spell that would alert him to any magic used in the house with harmful or prankish intent, anything meant to harm, embarrass, or coerce. A quiet warning bell would chime in his mind. He wondered briefly why the Weasleys hadn’t ever thought to use such a charm in their chaotic household.

Once satisfied, Harry knelt by the fireplace, sticking his head into the flames. “Pucey, the connection is ready. Have everyone outside McGonagall’s office come through. Same phrase, Floo Connection .”

He stepped back, and Kreacher gave a crack of his fingers, summoning the three children already housed there.

“Harry!” Max, the younger of the boys, ran into his arms. “Did you find an old person to take care of us?”

“I found an adult,” Harry said with a smile. “Barely, but yes.”

The first person to emerge from the floo was Theo Nott, dusting soot from his shoulders. “Pucey will close the floo after he comes through,” he informed Harry.

Next came Luna, serene as ever, followed by eight younger students Harry vaguely remembered from the corridors or DA meetings. Dean followed after, carrying two bags slung over his shoulder, then Dennis Creevey, Sally-Anne Perks, Fay Dunbar, and finally, Justin Finch-Fletchley. Pucey stepped out last, muttered the counter-phrase, and sealed the floo.

Harry raised his voice to the gathered group.

“This is the Black Brothers Home. You’re all safe here. Bedrooms are on the second and third floors. This is Kreacher,” he gestured to the elderly elf, who gave a stiff bow. “He’s cared for this house for over two hundred years. He knows what he’s doing.”

Kreacher gave a pointed sniff.

“You will listen to him. Kreacher will help you find rooms. No one is allowed on the fifth floor, in the study on the ground floor, or in the attic or basement. Luna and Dean are in charge while I’m away. If you need anything, you go to them.”

Kreacher gave another snap, and the students slowly followed him upstairs, curiosity and quiet awe on their faces. Luna and Dean remained behind.

Dean glanced around. “Not as grim as the stories made it sound.”

“We cleaned it,” Harry said simply. “If anything comes up, ask Kreacher. I’ll have a few more house-elves brought in over the next few days. Just make sure no one hexes anyone. Luna,” he turned to her, “can you keep an eye on those who lost family? Especially Dennis?”

Luna nodded, her gaze unusually serious. “Yes, my lord.”

Dean gave a small nod as well.

With a final glance at the entryway, Harry stepped back into the fireplace, calling out for Gringotts.

Chapter Text

At the grand marble entrance of Gringotts, Harry stepped through the threshold alongside Theo and Pucey, his expression neutral as the guards immediately straightened and moved to intercept them.

“Harry Potter,” one goblin guard intoned. “The Director, Ragnok, wishes to meet you.”

Harry nodded calmly. “Lead on.”

As they followed the goblin through the winding halls, Theo leaned in and whispered, “Potter, the Director is not just a bank official. Ragnok is the reigning Prince of the Goblin Nation.”

Harry nodded once in acknowledgment, filing the information away without comment. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it with the same clarity he had brought to the war.

They were led into a private chamber, dimly lit, lined with ledgers and ancient artifacts. It had the feel of both a study and a war room. At the far end, behind a stone-carved desk, sat Director Ragnok. Two goblins stood at attention flanking him, both dressed in ceremonial black and gold.

“Harry Potter,” Ragnok greeted, voice low and unmistakably regal.

“Director Ragnok,” Harry replied with a respectful nod.

“Sit.”

Harry took the chair set before the desk. Theo and Pucey remained standing behind him like quiet shadows.

The Director’s dark eyes bore into his. “You entered Gringotts under false guise. You breached a vault that was not yours. You removed an item held in deep trust. You freed our security creature. You caused structural damage to our institution. Because of your actions, the Dark Lord was invited into sacred ground, resulting in the deaths of thirteen goblins. Do you plead guilty?”

Harry didn’t flinch. His back remained straight as he answered, voice steady:

“No, Director. I do not.”

“I did not enter the bank in disguise. I wore the Cloak of Invisibility, an ancestral artefact of the House of Peverell, to which I am heir.”

“I did breach the Lestrange vault. That vault was the private property of Bellatrix Lestrange, a convicted criminal and known Death Eater. I am the acknowledged Lord of the House of Black, of which she was a member. As Lord Black, I held the right to access that vault under inheritance law.”

“I did not steal an item. I destroyed one, a Horcrux, a cursed object that housed a fragment of Voldemort’s soul. It was not your property. It was a violation of life and magic.”

“The dragon you refer to was not your possession. No being, especially one as sentient as a dragon, can be shackled and labeled 'security'. Its liberation was long overdue.”

“As for the structural damage,” he said, voice gentling, “it is precisely because of that destruction that I’ve offered reparations far exceeding any calculated cost.”

He paused for a beat, then added more quietly, “I am sorry for the goblin lives lost. I wish they hadn’t been. But I am also grateful that your nation endured the war with no further losses.”

Silence fell.

Theo’s jaw was tight. Pucey’s hand hovered near his wand.

But Harry simply met Ragnok’s gaze, unflinching and still.

Ragnok regarded him for a long moment, tapping a clawed finger once on the desk.

“You are brave,” he finally said. “Braver than most I’ve met. But also cunning. Careful. You speak like a warlord.”

Harry offered a small smile. “I’ll take that as high praise, coming from the Prince of the Goblin Nation.”

The goblin's eyes glittered. “You are also Magic’s chosen. Her Lord.”

“Yes.”

Ragnok leaned forward. “You may be wixen, but know this, Magic is not your dominion alone. Goblins are magic, just as centaurs are, and dryads, and all other beings your kind has bound under parchment and seal. The Ministry has treated us as subordinates. That is a mistake.”

Harry nodded once. “I do not speak for the Ministry. But I understand your grievance. I ask that you compile your concerns, concisely and clearly, and address them to Mr. Pucey.” He gestured behind him. “He oversees political correspondences in my office.”

Ragnok raised a brow. “You think letters will change anything?”

“No,” Harry replied simply. “Which is why I’d also like to invite you to nominate a representative. A goblin, loyal to your Nation, who can serve as liaison to mine. I believe mutual respect begins with presence at the table.”

The room was still.

“You would have a goblin kneel to you?” Ragnok asked, voice low.

“I would have a goblin advise me,” Harry corrected, “and work with me. Not beneath, not above, but beside. You said I am Magic’s chosen. If that is so, then I must serve her in all forms. Including through those she gave voice to, your people included.”

Ragnok studied him, inscrutable.

“I’ve recently come of age,” Harry continued, “and would like to be apprised of my inheritances, vaults, properties, everything connected to the House of Potter, the House of Black, and any other assets tied to my name. I would also like direction on the funds coming from the basilisk transaction. A liaison would help greatly.”

“No wixen has offered us such terms before,” Ragnok said at last.

Harry met his eyes squarely. “That’s not on me.”

A silence passed between them, heavy, but not hostile. Then Ragnok inclined his head, a gesture that felt older than tradition.

“I will select one. And I will meet your Mr. Pucey. Let us begin this accord, then… Lord Potter.”

Ragnok rose from his seat and clapped his hands once.

A younger goblin, silver-badged and sharp-eyed, entered with a lacquered box etched in runes older than Britain. He set it on the table between them with reverence.

“This,” Ragnok said, “is the Bloodstone Ledger. It will read your blood and declare all magical titles, vaults, properties, debts, and legacy-bound assets. Your lineage, both living and dead, will be confirmed. The test cannot be altered, and it cannot lie.”

Harry gave a nod and reached out.

“Draw your wand,” the younger goblin instructed, “and slice a line across your palm. Let three drops fall on the central rune.”

Harry obeyed. The cut stung, but he made no sound as he let the blood drip onto the rune.

At once, the box pulsed with red light. The runes glowed gold, then blue, then green, before shifting into clear, shimmering script that floated above the box in scrolling rows.

The room fell silent as the results formed:

⚜️ Gringotts Wizarding Bank ⚜️

Department of Legacy Magic & Lineage Verification
Bloodline Assessment Scroll Issued by the Authority of Director Ragnok, High Prince of the Goblin Nation

Consolidated Inheritance & Estate Portfolio of Hadrian James Potter

1. Identity and Bloodline

• Full Name: Hadrian James Potter

• Blood Status: Pureblood

• Magical Titles:

• Master of Death

• Lord of Magical Britain

• Lord of the Noble House of Potter

• Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black

• Lord of the Ancient and Legendary House of Peverell

• Lord of the Imperial House of Slytherin

• Biological Parents: James Fleamont Potter & Lily Potter (née Evans)

• Blood-Adopted Father: Sirius Orion Black (adopted 1st August 1980)

• Godparents:

• Godfather: Sirius Orion Black

• Godmother: Alice Longbottom

• Magical Gifts and Abilities:

• Metamorphmagus (Black Line)

• Parseltongue (Peverell Line)

• Mind Magic (Peverell Line)

• Blood Magic (Potter Line)

• Magical Sensitivity (Bestowed by Mother Magic)

1. Financial and Property Holdings by House
2. Potter Family

Vaults:

• Potter Family Vault (No. 201): 521,842,297 Galleons

• Heir Vault (202), Consort Vault (203), Trust Vault (204), Dowar Vault (205)

Business Shares:

• Sleekeazy Hair Potion Co. – 10% Share – Monthly Dividend

• Daily Prophet – 10% Share

• Flourish and Blotts – 15% Share

• Globus Mundi – 5% Share

• Quality Quidditch Supplies – 30% Share

• Sugarplum's Sweet Shop – 100% Ownership

• Twilfitt and Tattings – 12% Share

• Honeydukes – 5% Share

• Wizarding Wireless Network – 20% Share

• Nimbus Company – 39% Share

Estate Properties:

• Potter Manor (Cotswolds, England)

• Potter Cottage (Godric’s Hollow)

• Potter Summer House (Mykonos, Greece)

Vacation Properties:

• Holiday Homes: Spain, South of France, Italy

• Apartment in Magical New York

Investment Properties:

• Diagon Alley: 15 commercial, 25 residential

• Hogsmeade: 7 commercial, 6 residential

• Knockturn Alley: 10 commercial (underperforming)

• Horizont Alley: 7 commercial

• Full ownership of Carkitt Market

• Godric’s Hollow: 7 residential cottages

1. Peverell Family

Vaults:

• Peverell Family Vault (1): 891,832,101 Galleons

• Heir Vault (17), Consort Vault (174), Trust Vault (175), Dowar Vault (176)

Business Shares:

• Dervish and Banges – 5%

• Dogweed and Deathcap – 10%

• Hogwarts Express & Hogsmeade Station Co. – 30%

• Scrivenshaft's & Spintwitches – 5% each

• The Magic Neep – 100% Ownership

• Eeylops Owl Emporium – 10%

• Gambol and Japes – 10%

• National Owl Post Offices – Full Ownership

• Daily Prophet – 7%

Estate Properties:

• Castle in Scotland

• Manors in Devonshire and Kent

• Cottage in Surrey

• Island off the coast of Scotland

• Bulgarian mountain estate

Investment Properties:

• Diagon Alley: 10

• Hogsmeade: 4

• Knockturn Alley: 7

• Horizont Alley: 4

• Werewolf Lodging House in Knockturn Alley (1 residential)

1. Black Family

Vaults:

• Black Family Vault (32): 981,821,191 Galleons

• Heir Vault (182), Consort Vault (183), Trust Vault (184), Dowar Vault (185)

Business Holdings:

• Twilfitt and Tattings – 12% Share

• Madam Malkin’s Hogsmeade Outlet – 25% (proxy held)

• Maison du Saphir – Partnered perfumery (France)

• Nero Mare – Coastal café & alchemy cellar (Italy)

• Ligne Noire – 8% (Paris fashion house)

• Aether’s Path – 10% (Magical sailing charter, Greece)

Estate Properties (UK):

• Black Manor (Blackwater, Scotlandu)

• 12 Grimmauld Place (London)

• Starfall (Private)

• Hunting Lodge (Dartmoor)

• 4 Hogsmeade Residences

• 2 Godric’s Hollow Cottages

Overseas Holdings:

• Black Cottage (Villefranche-sur-Mer, France)

• Beachhouse (Manarola, Italy)

• Summer House (Mykonos, Greece)

• Townhouse & salon (Le Flambeau Noir, Paris)

Knockturn Alley Properties:

• Plot 6: Pawn Shop + Upstairs Flat

• Plots 27, 29, 31: Linked Cafés and Restaurants

• 6 Additional Commercial Plots (Unreviewed)

1. Slytherin Family

Vaults:

• Slytherin Vault (51): 100,628 Galleons

• Heir Vault (52), Consort Vault (53), Trust Vault (54), Dowar Vault (55) – Note: Replenishment suspended

Properties:

• Slytherin Castle (Amesbury)

• Hunting Lodge (Loch Ness)

• Townhouse (Edinburgh)

• Cottage (Hogsmeade)

• Ownership of one-quarter of Hogwarts Castle

Investments: None (estate previously mismanaged by Gaunts)

III. Special Notes & Assets

• Family Libraries: Extensive, housed at Potter Manor, Black Manor, and Grimmauld Place

• Ancestral Rings: Four worn, others warded for bloodline claimants

• Magical Artefacts: Wands, portraits, cursed heirlooms, historical spellbooks

• Inheritance Clauses: All estate provisions as per will; heir access governed by majority and ritual acceptance

1. Summary & Directives

• Eligible for Wizengamot Seats: Potter, Black, Slytherin, Peverell
  
  
• Recommended Appointments: Goblin Liaison, Magical Executor, Legal Counsel
  
  
• Heir’s Magical Signature Confirmed and Sealed
  
  
• Recommendation: Update Will and Magical Contracts within 90 days
  
  

Document Ratified and Sealed on behalf of Gringotts by:
✍️ Director Ragnok, High Prince of the Goblin Nation
🪶 Witnessed by:

• Theo Nott, Legal Advisor to House Potter-Black
  
  
• Adrian Pucey, Political Liaison
  
  

“In blood, in bond, in magic ,  so is inheritance remembered.”
- Inscription, Chamber of Legacy, Gringotts, 1342 BCE

Harry studied the ledger in front of him for a long moment before lifting his gaze.

“I’d like a full report on all properties under my name,” he said. “Ownership, status, occupancy, and access procedures. Are you my account manager?”

The younger goblin inclined his head. “I am Spellcleaver. I currently oversee all active Potter accounts. The others have not yet been reactivated.”

“Well met, Spellcleaver,” Harry said. “Would you be willing to assume charge of the remaining accounts as well? I want all liquid assets and investment portfolios consolidated under your stewardship. The titles and estates can remain distinct, but the gold should work smarter.”

Spellcleaver blinked once, then slowly nodded.

“I’d also like you to begin investing more aggressively,” Harry continued. “Ten percent of monthly profits are yours. But if any portfolio loses more than five hundred Galleons in a month, you forfeit three percent of your management fee from that portfolio. Fair terms?”

A pause. Then, sharply, “Agreed, Lord Potter.”

“I’m open to Muggle stocks, particularly in tech. And if you hear of any high-value acquisitions :untouched forests, old manors, anything tied to magical ley lines or ancient holdings :send word. I’d be interested.”

“Understood. I shall flag all such opportunities for your review,” Spellcleaver confirmed. “In the meantime, I will summon your family’s lordship rings. Would you require any other protective artefacts? Items for an intended, a scion, or perhaps your stewards?”

Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. “From the House of Black: a guardian’s ring, a scion’s ring, and ten stewardship pieces.”

“Noted, Lord Potter. Shall we proceed to the drafting of your will?”

There was a pause.

“Not at the moment,” Harry replied, voice calm but final.

Behind him, Theo exhaled :not quite a sigh, more relief given shape.

Harry turned slightly toward him, one brow arched in subtle inquiry.

Theo met his gaze evenly, cheeks faintly flushed but his voice composed. “You should aim for a very long life, my lord… for stability.”

Harry didn’t smile, but there was warmth in the stillness that followed.

While reviewing the latest estate reports and portfolio summaries, Harry paused at the third page of transactions.

“Spellcleaver,” he said without looking up, “could you arrange a letter of summons to Andromeda Tonks? Preferably with a portkey, immediate transport if she accepts.”

“It will be done,” Spellcleaver replied smoothly.

Harry gave a faint nod, eyes returning to a page listing enchanted artifact inventories. Half an hour passed in silence, broken only by the quiet rustle of parchment and the scratching of a quill. Then, 

The vault door shimmered open. Andromeda Tonks stood in the entrance, looking exhausted and frayed around the edges. Her blue-haired infant cried softly in her arms, one small hand gripping the strap of a worn Muggle baby bag. She carried an enhanced trunk behind her, levitating it with tired wandless magic.

Harry rose immediately, crossing the space in two long strides.

“Andy,” he murmured, wrapping her in a hug, “I am so, so sorry.”

She leaned into him, too tired to speak. Her breath hitched.

Harry took the child from her gently. “Hey, Teddy.” His voice softened. “You don’t remember them, do you?”

Teddy cried harder for a moment, and then stilled, wide silver eyes staring up at Harry’s face. Harry let a small current of his magic flow into the baby, soothing and warm, instinctive and grounding. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable, Teddy’s hair turned a tousled black, a mirror of Harry’s own.

Theo, standing a short distance away, blinked. Even he had to admit, Teddy was a striking blend of Lupin, Black, and Tonks. There was something oddly noble about the tiny boy, even as he clutched Harry’s robe and babbled sleepily.

“Spellcleaver,” Harry said, adjusting the baby in his arms, “this is my godson. I wish to blood adopt him under House Potter. And as my godson, I also wish to name him as a scion of the House of Black.”

“Of course, Lord Potter,” Spellcleaver replied. “The ritual can be conducted at once.”

Harry turned to Andromeda.

“Would it be alright… if he were a Black? In name and in magic? I want him protected, Andy. He’ll be mine to shield.”

She looked up at him, weary eyes bright with pain. “Whatever protects him, Harry. Edward Remus Lupin Black. Bit wordy, but if you're certain, ”

Harry shook his head gently. “Edward Tonks Black Lupin?”

A pause. Then a nod.

Spellcleaver brought out a parchment and an obsidian quill. The blood adoption ritual was ancient, simple, and binding. Harry signed his name with a single drop of blood, watching as Teddy’s name burned into the document, golden and sealed by magic.

The air shimmered as Teddy’s magical signature flared and re-aligned itself with both Houses, Potter and Black.

“Now,” Harry said quietly, “I’d like to review the Black family tapestry.”

A heavy scroll was unrolled on the nearby table. Names bloomed and faded, some bright, some grey, some scorched out. Harry reviewed them with purpose.

A heavy scroll was unrolled across the nearest obsidian-inlaid table, its enchanted threads humming with ancient power. As Harry leaned forward, names began to glow into being, some bright and vibrant, others greyed with time, and a few scorched away by the consequences of exile.

He reviewed them with clarity and purpose.

Bellatrix Lestrange : stricken.
Walburga Black : disowned as a daughter of House Black, only recognised as a Black bride.
Regulus Arcturus Black : left unchanged, his status unresolved, held by fate and memory.
Sirius Orion Black : restored.
Beneath his name, Hadrian James Potter-Black flickered into view, glowing gold, his title marked clearly: Current Lord .
Andromeda Black Tonks : restored, her name gleaming with steady dignity.
Edward Tonks : added.
Nymphadora Tonks : added.
Remus Lupin : added, reluctantly accepted by the tapestry’s ancient magic.
Alphard Black : restored, his rebellion posthumously forgiven.
Edward Tonks Black Lupin : added, marked as Scion , tethered to both Andromeda and Harry by blood and magic.

A thin golden needle shimmered into existence beside the newborn’s name. It floated gently before pricking Teddy’s palm.

The boy didn’t cry.

His eyes, already keen with flickering emotion, shifted from silver to moss-green in an instant, echoing the magic’s confirmation. He was, in soul and blood, a Black.

Harry smiled and straightened.

“Kreacher,” he called softly.

There was a pop , and the ancient elf appeared, slightly hunched but alert, his eyes wide with reverence.

“Kreacher greets the Lord of the House of Black,” he rasped, bowing deeply.

“This is Andromeda Black Tonks, and her grandson, Edward Tonks Black Lupin,” Harry said, placing a hand gently on Teddy’s back. “They will be occupying the master suite on the fifth floor. They are tired. I want a childcare-experienced elf assigned to Teddy at all times, and I want Andromeda treated with the honour due a Dowager. You will answer to her. She is your new Mistress.”

Kreacher blinked, then bowed again, lower. “Mistress Andromeda,” he murmured, voice trembling with awe and old memory. “Welcome home.”

“Grimmauld Place, then?” Andromeda asked, her voice low and dry. It carried the weight of someone who had fought a war, lost a husband, a child, and every version of home she had once known.

“It’s cleaned up,” Harry replied simply.

She gave him a tired nod. He could see the ache beneath her skin.

“I’ll write to you later,” she said. She reached forward and wrapped him in a hug, one that trembled more from exhaustion than emotion.

Teddy was passed back into her arms, his hair turning silver again in imitation of hers. Kreacher took her trunk and baby bag. Before they departed, Harry offered her a necklace, a guardian's ward, and slipped a resized protective anklet onto Teddy’s ankle. Finally, he whispered the private Floo address for the fifth floor suite into their ears. It would remain theirs alone.

They left through the Gringotts travel hearth, vanishing with a soft whoosh of green flame.

Harry lingered in the silence a moment longer, the blood-magic of family still lingering warmly in the air.

Then he turned, scanning the room.

Adrian Pucey was deep in conversation with two goblins from the investments division, poring over charts and old Wizengamot ledgers. Nearby, Theo sat upright with a journal in his lap, eyes flicking toward Harry and then away again.

“Anything of note, Pucey?” Harry asked, stepping closer.

“Several seats listed as dormant,” Adrian said, glancing up. “Black, Peverell, Slytherin. All eligible for reactivation. There are others, Braxton, Harrington, Winterbourne, listed as bequeathed holdings with outstanding titles. If you want them recognized, it would shift the balance.”

Harry nodded once, gaze steady.

“Then we start the process.”

They Flooed into Malfoy Manor just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting the grand atrium in amber-gold light. The contrast between the hush of Gringotts and the echoing majesty of the Manor struck Harry like a tolling bell.

He was exhausted, mentally gutted , if he were honest. The thick sheaf of documents in his arms felt heavier than parchment had any right to be. Behind him, Adrian Pucey had already begun muttering to himself, quill scratching against another list on his clipboard that now spanned two feet of parchment and counting.

Harry passed his personal study on the way to the dining wing, pushing the door open with his hip and levitating the stack of ledgers and records inside. The wards keyed to him shimmered in acknowledgment.

By the time he reached the new dining hall, a converted ballroom wrapped in silver drapery and stark grandeur, Draco was already waiting outside with Narcissa and Rodolphus Lestrange.

All three were dressed in shades of black and green, the accents subtle but unmistakably traditional. Draco’s expression was carefully blank, though Harry could see the tightness around his mouth.

“My Lord,” Draco greeted, voice low but resolute, “you will be conducting the Oath tonight, as planned?”

Harry nodded once.

Draco continued, his tone more clinical than cold. “For those we suspect to be… problematic, the Draught of Living Death has already been administered, in select cups. If they act out, they will sleep. Permanently, if necessary.”

“Wonderful,” Harry murmured, dry. “I’ll deal with them later.”

He fell silent as he mentally reviewed the Oath he’d crafted, line by line, intention by intention. It wouldn’t choke pureblood supremacists, but it would chafe them. It would burn in their mouths like holy oil. They would bleed every time they spoke untruth, and feel the bite of loyalty like a collar they’d chosen.

That would do.

With a flick of his wand, the double doors to the dining hall opened. It was quieter than it should have been. The long table stretched ahead, blackwood polished to a mirror shine, runes etched subtly along its edges. Gilded place settings glimmered beneath a hovering chandelier enchanted to resemble a night sky.

And seated on either side, in deliberate symmetry, were the remnants of Voldemort’s Death Eaters.

Some had straightened their backs at his entrance. Others kept their eyes lowered. A few, Avery, Mulciber, Travers, wore the faintest sneer. But none rose. None spoke.

At the head of the table stood a throne-like chair carved from onyx and ash, with deep emerald cushioning and silver serpents curling up its sides. Clearly designed for him .

Once, he had been their prey, hunted through forests and cursed in their master’s name.

Now, he was their Master.

And tonight, he would bind them.

Harry entered the hall.

They stood.

A rustle of robes and breath held in collective anticipation filled the air. Death Eaters, one and all, some masked by courtesy, others by fear, waited.

Harry strode forward, the echo of his boots reverberating across the marble. He channelled Sirius’s easy grace, that almost-arrogant lilt in his gait. But in his stillness, in the fall of his robes, in the tilt of his chin, there was Severus Snape: precise, unyielding, theatrical in restraint.

He reached the head of the table and took his seat, his throne .

With deliberate grace, he lifted his goblet and held it aloft.

They sat.

Silence returned. Thick. Suffocating. Magic curled in the air like smoke.

"You are all men,” Harry began, his voice quiet but razor-sharp, “who, outside these walls, are reviled as Death Eaters.”

A pause.

“You have caused the deaths of many, purebloods, half-bloods, Muggleborns, Muggles, creatures, entire family lines. But most importantly, ” his gaze swept over them, unwavering, “you have hurt Magic .”

A shift. A flicker of discomfort. A few avoided his eyes.

“Many of you are brilliant. Gifted. You command wealth enough to see your great-grandchildren live in luxury doing nothing but spending. Most of you were born to this world, raised steeped in spell and shadow. Magic is not a tool to you; it is your breath. Your birthright. Your identity .

“And still, you betrayed it.”

The words fell heavy. Condemnation without rage. Truth without theatrics.

“You hurt your country. Your people. Your society. Your children . You chose to follow the ravings of an angry, brilliant, but insane half-blood who murdered his own father and called it destiny.”

Someone flinched. Someone else’s hand trembled around a goblet.

“You let your family names, some older than this castle, become synonymous with terror. You allowed yourselves to be branded like cattle, and you obeyed.”

His voice rose, only slightly. Just enough to cut deeper.

“You fought a war not your own, for ideals you did not understand, under a master who lied to you, used you, stunted you .”

Then, softer. Like steel cooled in water.

“Many of you had no choice. Many were deceived. Many were young, afraid, proud, or desperate. You were punished for being Dark wizards. And that alone was never a crime.”

Silence again. Some looked up. Some straightened.

“You are here now because you survived not one, but two wars. You served the same master, twice . He failed. Twice. And now…” He set his goblet down.

“ You are mine. ”

The words rippled. Shivered through the room like a binding.

“I will not ask you to call me Lord. I do not want soldiers. Or slaves. I offer you a path forward, one I have forged from the ash and blood you helped spill.”

He stood.

“Tonight, I ask you to swear an Oath. Not of servitude. Not of worship. But of balance .”

A few gasps. Soft murmurs. Faces tilted toward one another.

“Those who take my Oath shall be called Oathbourne . Not Death Eaters. Not chattel. Not followers. Enforcers , of magical balance. You will not be forgiven, but you will earn your penance. Through order. Through protection. Through magic restored.”

He let them breathe, let them hope , just for a moment.

“But before I ask you to kneel,” Harry said, lifting his goblet once more, “ I offer you a pledge.”

The hall fell still again. This time, reverent.

“I will not bind myself to the Light. Nor let the Ministry blind me with its rot. I will maintain the Statute of Secrecy, but not at the cost of heritage. I will restore our schools, our rites, our traditions. I will not favour the Light over the Dark, nor the Dark over the Light. I will seek balance .”

A breath.

“And I pledge to protect the innocent among you . The young. The coerced. The unwilling. I will not let children pay for their fathers’ sins.”

The goblet hovered at his lips now.

“And for those of you who must face judgment…” Harry’s voice quieted, rich with finality, “I will see to it that your family names do not die. Your line will not be abandoned. No longer will our magical Houses wither from shame.”

He drank.

And one by one, the Death Eaters began to murmur.

Then to speak.

Then to rise.

Some with hope.

Some with horror.

Some, already falling asleep, their goblets laced with potions, slumped forward, silenced before they could defy.

But many remained.

Still standing.

Waiting to kneel.

The dissenters were quietly removed by house-elves, silent vanishing acts mid-sentence, mid-thought, leaving behind only full goblets and the faint shimmer of vanished presence. The room held its breath. Then, Harry stood.

“The Oaths will be given three at a time,” he announced, voice calm, but resonant with controlled power. “Each bond will be sealed with intention, not mass ritual.”

Rodolphus Lestrange rose first, expression unreadable, eyes dark with old war and older regret. Beside him, Theo Nott, the youngest in the room, bore the rigid stillness of calculated courage. And Draco, already bound to Harry by something older than names and newer than time, stepped forward as though drawn.

They knelt before Harry in a quiet triangle, heads bowed, wand hands open over the black stone dais. A silver mist rose between them, delicate and laced with oath magic.

Harry extended his wand, and the Obsidian Basin glowed. “Speak.”

In perfect unison, the three recited:

“We, who kneel in the shadow of magic,
Do now rise to swear not fealty, but balance,
Not servitude, but service.
I, Rodolphus Lestrange... I, Theodore Nott... I, Draco Malfoy... forsake the mark of the tyrant and swear my wand, my will, and my name unto the Oath of the Oathbourne.

I shall not raise wand nor curse against the innocent nor cause harm to Muggles, Beings, or Creatures of Magic, unless in true self-defense or defense of others.
I shall cast no Unforgivable Curse, nor any Dark Work that cleaves mind or soul, save in battle where no other path remains.

I shall not discriminate by blood, birth, beast, or belief in my dealings, especially in matters of governance, justice, or employment.
I shall not betray, curse, or endanger my fellow Oathbourne, whether by spell, by word, or by silence.
I shall uphold the dignity of a Dark Wizard in control of his magic: disciplined, proud, and cunning, yet bound by purpose.

I shall never again raise arms in blind hatred, nor allow for the balance of magic to be disrupted.
To Lord Potter-Black, I swear this bond not as a slave to power, but as a warden of it.
I seek redemption through purpose, and in turn, pledge to protect the realm of magic and all who walk beneath its veil.”

Harry raised his wand higher. “I accept your oath. Magic, bear witness.”

A flash of silver burst from the center of the Obsidian Basin and wrapped around the three like a slow-moving storm. Each man was marked at the wrist by the seven-pointed star and ouroboros, first glowing white, then settling into silver ink just under the skin. Harry pushed a thread of his magic into each tether, testing their strength, feeling them accept the bond.

Draco’s eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, Harry felt the recognition there, and a faint echo of comfort. Theo's oath settled like a forge-cooled sword, purposeful, quiet, but firm. Rodolphus took it like penance, rigid and unflinching.

When the light dimmed, Harry nodded. “Rise, Oathbourne.”

The three stood. No applause. No theatrics. Only the sound of robes shifting and the hum of bound magic in the air.

Harry turned to the others, his voice like carved stone. “Next.”

Adrian Pucey, Marcus Flint, and Cassius Warrington stepped forward next.

They knelt without hesitation, Flint's jaw tight, Warrington’s hands trembling faintly, Pucey calm and precise. Harry watched them each closely. These were warriors, not thinkers. They had followed orders in the war, brutal and efficient. Now, they bent their heads to new command.

“We, who kneel in the shadow of magic…”

The words rolled out, worn already into the bones of the room. The air shifted with each oath, not just with magic, but with meaning. For Flint, it was control. For Warrington, it was fear mingled with hope. For Pucey, it was strategy. When the silver light wrapped around them, Harry reinforced each tether personally, feeling the shape of their bond, the edges of their loyalty.

Terence Higgs, Augustus Rookwood, and Corban Yaxley came next.

Higgs had the look of someone who hadn’t quite found his place yet, perhaps too young to have chosen a side in the last war, and too clever to die in the next. Rookwood, by contrast, met Harry’s gaze steadily. He was older, a man who had worn the Department of Mysteries like a second skin and survived Azkaban by becoming colder than its stones. Yaxley was all polished arrogance, but the oath began to strip that away.

Their kneeling felt different. Yaxley flinched when the light branded him; Rookwood did not. Harry pushed deeper into their bonds, making sure they held. Making sure they burned just enough.

Parkinson. Avery, Senior and Junior.

Parkinson was deliberate, he knelt with a performer's grace, knowing well the value of optics. The Averys knelt together: father and son, and yet not quite in rhythm. Avery Senior stumbled slightly over the phrasing. His son did not. Harry watched closely, wondering which would break first if pushed.

Crabbe and Goyle, Senior and Junior.

These were brutes, but brutes with families. And oddly, it was Goyle Junior who looked most solemn as the oath began. His voice faltered once, but when the magic marked him, he did not resist. Crabbe Senior kept glancing at Harry, eyes narrow with the wariness of a man who had lived his life watching the powerful change sides. Goyle Senior only exhaled when it was done.

And so it continued , through the late hours, through the old names and fading legacies:

he room hummed with spent magic and flickering torchlight, oath after oath etched into the floor, rising like prayers.

By the time the last trio knelt, Harry’s magic had thinned to a knife’s edge, sharp and steady, but worn. The table was half-cleared, wine glasses forgotten, and many of the newly sworn Oathbourne sat silently, nursing the weight of the vow.

Harry stood slowly, robes heavy with magic. “Tonight you swore not to me, but to magic itself. Let your actions prove your worth. There is work to be done.”

He dismissed them, and they left in slow clusters, some silent, others whispering. A few lingered in shadowed corners, Rodolphus, Theo, Pucey, watching him with something between reverence and curiosity.

Draco waited at the edge of the doorway, his expression unreadable. “Well, my lord?” he asked softly.

Harry let his shoulders drop, tension leaving with a long breath. “We’ve planted the roots,” he said. “Let’s see what grows.”