Beneath Silver Pinions – EAD 2026

Title: Beneath Silver Pinions
Author: Claire Watson
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Canon Divergence, Drama, Fix-It
Relationship(s): Gen
Content Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Major Character Death, Character Bashing, Discussion-Murder, Discussion-Child Abuse, Discussion-Hate Crimes
Author Notes: This was my first attempt at writing after a long hiatus; it’s more of a pansted than a plotted project (although I do know where I want it to finish.) There is more here than what was posted in July 2023.
No Beta
Word Count: Approx 10k
Summary: Harry’s eleventh birthday was the most eventful day in his memory. Finding out he was a wizard, discovering that he had a vault full of wizarding money, experiencing Diagon Alley, getting his first ever birthday present; he could hardly believe this was happening to him. After Hagrid put him on the train back to Surrey, Harry wished to himself that he didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys.
He hoped for, rather than expected, his wish to come true; he never dreamed that it would happen so quickly.

Chapter one

31 July 1991

It had been the most amazing day of Harry’s life. Even better than finding out he was a wizard and would be going to wizard school far away from the Dursleys, was finding out that his parents were good people who’d left him well provided for rather than the deadbeats that the Dursleys had always said they were.

On top of all that, Hagrid had given him his very own owl as a birthday present! It was a pity that the day had to end, but eventually Hagrid walked him to Paddington Station and made sure he got on the train back to Surrey. It was a bit weird, sitting on a train with an owl in a cage right beside him, but Harry was so used to people scowling at him that the looks of vague curiosity just bounced off him.

It wasn’t until the train doors had closed and the train had started moving that it occurred to Harry to wonder how he was going to get from the train station to the Dursley’s house, or even if they’d be back yet. Just as soon as it crossed his mind, he dismissed it. There was no point worrying about it; he’d just have to figure it out when he got there.

He watched out the window as the train pulled out of the station, wishing that he didn’t have to go back at all. There was still a whole month until school started, and the wait was going to be agonising.

A loud crack—it sounded like thunder—caught his attention, surprising him since the sky was clear and just starting to darken with early evening. He watched with wide eyes as a glowing ball of light descended in what seemed like slow motion towards the city.

Just as it dipped out of sight, the world was suddenly so bright that Harry closed his eyes in reflex.

Before he could open them again, the world seemed to explode around him. The last thing Harry registered was the agonised sound of metal tearing and the feeling of being thrown through the air; then he knew nothing at all.

v^v^v

The last day of the month was always stressful. As the Head of the DMLE, Amelia was expected to be at all Wizengamot sessions in case her expertise was required. That meant that the morning was spent reviewing departmental reports so that she was as prepared with as much up-to-date information as possible.

She would have been at the Wizengamot sessions anyway; as the sole remaining adult member of the House of Bones—of the main line, anyway—she needed to be present in order to vote. However, the burden on a simple voting member was far less onerous than on the Head of DMLE, even in peacetime.

In fact, Amelia would argue that peacetime made acting as Head of DMLE at the Wizengamot meetings harder than it would have been during wartime. At least when there was a war on, she wouldn’t have to constantly defend the budget allocated to her department from members who felt that spending anything at all on policing was a waste of galleons that would be better spent elsewhere.

Still, July’s meeting was finally done with. At least with Susan at home, Amelia had an excuse to skip the post-meeting social side of things. The last thing she wanted to do was spend hours dissecting and arguing over the minutiae of the recent decisions with a bunch of people that she despised.

Theoretically, these gatherings were informal and voluntary, but no one with any political nous believed that. If you didn’t have a good reason to be absent, you were expected to be present. Luckily for Amelia, as the sole guardian of a pre-Hogwarts-age child, her regular absences were regarded as acceptable.

Amelia had one more month of this grace, and she intended to take advantage of it while she could.

As such, she’d left the Ministry as soon as the July meeting was over, flooing back to her home in Norfolk in time to share a slightly late dinner with her niece, Susan.

Dinner was delightful; Susan was brimming with excitement about the trip to Diagon Alley that had been arranged with her best friend Hannah for that coming Saturday. They were going to make a day of it; firstly to get the items on the school list that they didn’t already have—including Susan’s first wand—followed by dinner at the Happy Hippogriff.

They had just finished dinner when Amelia felt the ring of office on her left forefinger grow painfully hot for a moment. Almost before she had the chance to register that the Ministry wards were on the brink of collapse, the heat faded.

“Aunty?” Susan asked, interrupting her monologue about how much she and Hannah both hoped to make it into Hufflepuff. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Amelia replied, drawing her wand and tapping the ring for a status report on the Ministry wards.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Amelia tried again. Again, there was no result.

This had the potential to be very concerning. The spells tied to the Ministry HOD rings were anchored by an artefact kept in the Department of Mysteries. For the ring to suddenly fail like this, something must have happened to either the wards or the artefact.

It was probably nothing, just an experiment in the Department of Mysteries somehow interfering with the notification system, but it needed to be investigated ASAP in case it was something more sinister.

Amelia smiled at Susan reassuringly. “It looks as though I’ll have to go back to the Ministry to check something out. While I’m getting back into my work robes, can you floo the Abbots and ask if they’d mind having you for the night? Who knows how long it will take to sort out whatever the problem is.”

Susan agreed readily enough; it was a regular enough occurrence that the Abbots would be unfazed at  Susan arriving on such short notice. In fact, without their support through the years, Amelia didn’t know if she’d have been able to cope with both her job and Susan’s upbringing.

Susan came to find her just as she was strapping one of her magical knives to her calf. “I can’t get the floo to work,” she reported. “The fire goes green, but it’s like there’s nothing to connect to.”

Amelia started to get worried. The floo network was considered a critical system; it hardly ever went down. All times in recent history that it had been unreliable were during the war, when He Who Must Not Be Named had imperiused some of the operators into sabotaging floo connections so that victims of Death Eater raids couldn’t escape.

And if the floo wasn’t working, that meant…

Amelia winced. “I’ll have to side-along you.”

Susan grumbled a bit, but seemed to realise the importance and didn’t put up the fuss she usually would.

Amelia sent a quick patronus to the Abbots to explain the matter and inform them of their imminent arrival, then helped Susan get her overnight bag sorted. They were about to leave when a spectral barn owl winged its way into the room and spoke with a familiar voice that she couldn’t immediately place. “Madam Bones, we have an emergency situation at Azkaban. The dementors have all disappeared, and the Ministry isn’t responding to my requests for backup!”

v^v^v

Pomona Sprout had arrived back at Hogwarts to begin preparing for the upcoming school year. She liked to give herself a full month since lessons in the greenhouses weren’t nearly as simple to arrange as transfiguration or potions. She needed the correct plants to be at certain growth stages at specific times, with enough specimens for everyone to work on.

Pomona was the only one at dinner that night. Sybil and Severus had taken the opportunity afforded by Albus’ Wizengamot attendance to eat in their rooms, and Hagrid hadn’t yet arrived back from the mysterious errand Albus had sent him on. Albus hadn’t specified what it was, only that it was related to an extra task he needed to discuss with her in the next day or two.

She was just lingering over a small glass of firewhiskey when the peace of the evening shattered. The very walls rang as if a gong had struck them, before sparks of magic flickered in the air. The entire castle began to shudder as if hit by a series of earthquakes.

A wild-eyed house-elf popped in front of her. “You is needed! Wards is being unravelling very soon, elves is only balancing them for a short time!”

Pomona had never seen a house-elf in this state. She rose to her feet even as she tried to make sense of the situation. “The wards? Has something happened to the Headmaster? Where should I go? What should I do?”

“You is bleeding on wardstone to claim wards. Wards will reset.”

“But…I’m not in line to be Headmistress!” Pomona objected. “Can’t we wait until Minerva gets here? Or Filius, at least?” They all knew that Minerva was Albus’ preferred successor, and Filius was the next best option.

The house-elf tugged its ears in agitation. “Bad Headmaster has been taking some wards from castle wardstone and putting own wards in place, but Bad Headmaster is gone and ward foundation is unbalanced! Wards must be claimed and reset before castle is torn to pieces!”

Not having had any interest in warding, most of that went over Pomona’s head. What was clear, however, was that there was no time to debate. They would have to sort out the ramifications later. “Where is the wardstone?”

“In room under big chair in great hall,” said the house-elf. “Tolly is taking you now.” Grabbing hold of her hand, it popped her directly into the great hall. Albus’ throne in the centre of the staff table had already been moved out of position, and a stone stairway led down.

At the bottom of the short flight of stairs was a circular room. The walls were carved with runes; some familiar, some not; and in the centre of the room was a huge chunk of shimmering rock.

“You is cutting hand and putting it on wardstone,” Tolly instructed, handing her a runed athame. “Then tell stone you is doing your best for students. Castle will be saved.”

The shuddering of the stone surrounding her was increasing every moment, so Pomona put aside her hesitance and did as Tolly said.

As soon as her bloody hand connected with the wardstone, the colours rippling over its surface froze and the shuddering stopped. The air grew thick with expectant magic, and Pomona took a deep breath, focusing on her belief that all the children should be able to learn and explore their magic in a place of safety and encouragement.

There was a long moment where she wondered if she’d done it wrong, or if they’d been too late to do what Tolly had told her was necessary. Then the stone under her hands changed, losing its colour until it looked like an ordinary grey rock; the walls lost their glow as magic drained from the runes. Just as she began to panic, colour rose as if from inside it. Slowly, the stone went from grey to pink to the red of blood. Around her, the walls seemed to sigh as runes lit up one at a time.

Tolly sighed, too. “Good. Castle is safe again. Does Headmistress have orders for elves?”

Pomona finally removed her hand from the wardstone. “No orders, Tolly. I have many questions, though.”

v^v^v

Sirius woke from his usual nightmares to find something had changed. The oppressive feeling of cold and dread that had been part of his existence since he’d been locked up in this awful place had lifted. For the first time in years, he could think clearly.

He could hear voices: Bella’s mad cackle, as well as the deeper rumbles of her husband and his brother. There were also other voices, familiar although he couldn’t say who was speaking.

Given that they were all Death Eaters, he had no interest in what they were saying until he heard the word ‘Potter’ in his crazy cousin’s mad sing-song voice.

It didn’t take long to get the gist of the conversation. Bella and her compatriots were planning to take advantage of the sudden lack of dementors to break out of Azkaban, whereupon they intended to find ‘the Potter brat’ and kill him in a ritual sacrifice to restore their lord to power.

Sirius snarled. There was no way in hell that mad bitch was going to get anywhere near his godson, not when he had the power to end her here and now. It had to be now; who knows if he’d get another chance like this one?

His animagus form was just thin enough to slip through the bars.

One by one, he executed every single one of the bastards who’d been planning his godson’s death. He ignored the shouts that turned into screams as he mercilessly tore out their throats with his teeth.

When he was done, he retreated back to his cell to rest.

For the first time in years, his sleep was peaceful.

Chapter two

3 August 1991

It was being called ‘the Impact.’

Such a small word to describe such a devastating event.

A meteor had fallen to earth, striking the most populated city in the British Isles right at its heart. Along with the immense numbers of muggle dead—including many members of the government; the Prime Minister, his deputy, and both the cabinet and shadow cabinet amongst them—the Impact had also wiped out the Ministry of Magic and Diagon Alley.

The magical protections—that had kept both locations safe during World War II—had never been expected to hold out against a force as strong as the one that had hit them. St Mungo’s had suffered severe damage, but its distance from the epicentre of the Impact and the strength of the wards put in place during the Blitz meant that although there were many injuries, there was no loss of life, and the building itself remained in one piece, barely.

The Ministry was almost at the epicentre, and its wards had overloaded so quickly that the physical foundations had exploded. It happened so swiftly and with such force that everyone inside died before they even realised they needed to escape.

The destruction of the Department of Mysteries had made things worse; whatever they had going on down there had reacted badly—both with the building collapse and each other—and as a result, the entire ruin was an unstable mess with unpredictable magic making it impossible to excavate. The first two attempts had been disastrous, and they didn’t have the people to spare on what increasingly appeared to be a futile mission.

As for Diagon Alley…the remnants of the building housing the London branch of Gringotts were the only evidence that the Alley had even been there. Gringotts preferred their buildings to be non-magical structures, with wards layered over ordinary stone—unlike the shops and houses in the rest of the Alley—and while the lobby area had suffered significant damage and many had died, the underground tunnels and offices were only lightly affected.

The rest of London’s largest magical centre was just…gone.

Thank Merlin the Impact happened in the evening rather than earlier in the day. Most of the shops had already closed; the men and women working there gone for the day. It was the same with the Ministry workers; unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for most of the Wizengamot. They’d lost almost the entirety of the current sitting Wizengamot: the Chief Warlock and the Minister for Magic, along with most of the high-ranking Ministry Department Heads.

The lack of recognised voters meant that there was no legal way to restore either the Wizengamot or the Ministry, which led to the situation Amelia found herself in now.

She looked around at the small council she’d cobbled together to deal with this particular aspect of the current crisis. “My meeting with the Queen is on Wednesday at 10:00 am. Before then, we need to have at least the outline of a proposed charter in place. Your job is to review the laws and pick out the bare bones of what our society needs to function. None of you will leave here until I’m satisfied; I have no intention of embarrassing myself in front of the Queen because the seven of you can’t come to an agreement.”

Marjorie Stanwell, who until recently had been the Lead Liaison Minister of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, gave her an understanding nod. Amelia was counting on her slightly more than the others; hopefully, her training in diplomacy would come in handy.

“It’s humiliating!” said Mortimer Hartwarren, Senior Investigator for the Beast Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. “The very idea that a muggle should have any say over how we govern ourselves is preposterous!”

Amelia glared at him. “I won’t have this argument again, Hartwarren. The legitimacy of the Ministry of Magic is hanging by a thread; the only way to save what little we have left is to convince the reigning monarch to re-negotiate the Treaty of 1707. Without it, we are merely a group of unaffiliated wizards and witches running an illegal administration on sovereign territory. We will lose our standing with the ICC, any prisoners will be set free, and we will lose any right to control taxation. Law and order will go out the window, and it will be anarchy.”

“But why do we need to convince her of anything?” asked Tariah Hutton, Senior Secretary of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. “She’s only a muggle; have someone confound her into signing a copy of the current laws and then obliviate her.”

“That would be illegal,” Amelia replied through gritted teeth, making an internal note to investigate the standard practices in the Obliviator Headquarters. “Also, we’re talking about a binding magical agreement; any attempt to use coercive magic will automatically render it null and void. Not to mention that such an attack would automatically cause the cancellation of the current Treaty, the only reason we have jobs. On top of all our other problems, we would likely find ourselves at war with the muggles, thus implicating us in a massive violation of the Statute of Secrecy for which we would be held directly liable by the ICC.”

Todd McFarlan, Senior Officer of the Ludicrous Patents Office in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, cleared his throat. “What about—”

Amelia slammed her hand on the table. “Since it seems I haven’t made myself clear, let me explain again. In small words, so there is no chance of misunderstanding. Unless we get the Queen to sign a new treaty, without casting any spells on her or using magical coercion in any way, Magical Britain will cease to exist. So, we have to bring her a treaty that she will agree to. The last treaty was very good for us, but even then, we were repeatedly in violation.” She glared around at them. “That means we broke it on many occasions, something the Queen will no doubt know. We weren’t punished because, as I said, the Treaty of 1707 was in our favour, and whoever wrote it managed to add small print stating we could only be punished if wizards and witches acting on behalf of the Ministry attacked the muggle sovereign.

“The current Queen is not an idiot. She isn’t open to flattery the way Queen Anne was, and she’s no doubt fully aware that we will take advantage of her if she lets us. She will ensure that we won’t get terms like that again. If we want to be re-instituted as a governing body, we have to fall in line. There is no choice. From now on, if you object to this process, I will assume you are expressing your wish for the Ministry of Magic to be dissolved and you will forthwith be excluded from this process.” She leaned forward. “That means kicked out.”

Jesthia Fandle, Senior Inspector for the Floo Network Authority of the Department of Magical Transportation, narrowed her eyes. “You’re not the Minister, Amelia; you don’t have the authority to fire us.”

“She never said she’d fire you, only exclude you from this process,” Stanwell pointed out. “As the only duly recognised Head of Department left, she’s the only one with any actual authority to speak on behalf of the Ministry.”

“Technically, that probably makes you acting Minister, Madam Bones,” murmured Kingsley Shacklebolt, Amelia’s current second in command and the representative for the DMLE on this council. His expression was serious and his voice calm, but she could see the mirth dancing in his dark eyes.

She spent a moment contemplating how satisfying it would be to switch him with Robards—who she had sent to deal with the mess at Azkaban—but then decided it was probably worse punishment to leave him here.

Adam Brown, the representative for the Department of Mysteries, cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since he’d joined them. “What do you expect to be the biggest problems with getting a new treaty signed?”

“Probably the openly discriminatory laws,” Amelia replied. “My sources tell me that the muggles make a big deal about discrimination.” She sighed. “With that in mind, it’s also possible that our ‘being’ categorisation will have to be revised. Anyone who’s spent time with a muggleborn will know that the muggles are likely to take a dim view of sentient and sapient species not having the same rights as fully human wizards and witches.”

“I suppose if it has to be done, it has to be done,” grumbled Sutton. She brightened slightly. “We can always pass new laws once the Ministry is up and running again.”

“It’s just a temporary measure, then?” said Hartwarren, looking relieved. “Well then, let’s get on with it!”

Amelia, Stanwell, Shacklebolt and Brown exchanged glances but did nothing to correct the misapprehension their colleagues appeared to be under. If they wanted to fool themselves, that was their business. She’d made the situation perfectly clear.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Amelia said, getting to her feet and casting a quick tempus. She had twenty minutes before her meeting at Gringotts to review the current state of the Ministry’s finances.

v^v^v

Pomona Sprout had never been a politically minded person. Her magic was earth oriented; the centre of her art was growth and nourishment, and she thrived on stability. She was slow to anger and difficult to truly provoke, but when her temper was fully roused, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Three days into her tenure as Headmistress, Pomona was past angry and well into a roiling fury. She’d learned a lot in three days, and what she’d learned would change her perspective on Albus Dumbledore forever.

In the wake of the disaster in London, the remaining staff had cut their holidays short and returned to offer what help they could.

Thankfully, they had only lost three members. Albus Dumbledore, who must have stayed after the Wizengamot meeting and thus perished in the Ministry building; Quirinus Quirrell, who had been named as one of the wizards who had died in the Gringotts lobby; and Rubeus Hagrid, who was last reported to be buying an owl in Eeylops Owl Emporium.

Pomona’s first action as Headmistress, after learning of the scale of the Impact, had been to offer Hogwarts as a makeshift hospital and staging ground for the Ministry until a new location could be decided on. She did make it clear that these were only temporary measures and that the school year was expected to begin as usual on 1 September.

That had been the topic of her first argument with Minerva.

“Inviting the Ministry to set up shop here is a mistake!” Minerva said as soon as she heard about it. “They’ll put down roots, and you’ll never be able to get rid of them again. Albus always said that if you gave them an inch, they’d take a mile.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m quite adept at uprooting stubborn weeds,” Pomona responded dryly. “Even if I wasn’t, I hold the wards. If they try to linger beyond their welcome, it will be easy enough to remove them. Besides, Madam Bones is currently leading the Ministry, and I trust her.”

“Albus would never—”

“Albus isn’t here anymore,” Pomona interrupted her. “I have to make the decisions I think are best, without reference to anyone else’s agenda. They shouldn’t bother you overmuch; Filius has agreed to oversee them.”

Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “The Board of Governors isn’t going to like it.”

Pomona rolled her eyes. “The Board of Governors is in as much of a shambles as the rest of us; most of the current members died when the Ministry collapsed.”

Although it needed to be done soon, she wasn’t yet ready to tell Minerva that as soon as things had settled down, she intended to abolish the Board and return to the old way of doing things. She did need a sounding board, though—she didn’t want to follow in Albus’ footsteps—so she took Filius into her confidence that evening.

They sat down together in the Headmistress’ office, surrounded by portraits of Headteachers past who all pretended that they weren’t paying close attention to what was happening. Pomona had placed Dumbledore’s portrait over the door so she could see it easily from her desk, but had yet to activate it.

At first, it was because his loss had been too painful. But loss shortly turned to disgust, and now she had no wish to hear anything he had to say. However, she kept it in view as a reminder to herself of what she didn’t want to be.

“Explain it to me,” said Filius when Pomona told him how she wanted to structure the staff layout.

Pomona sighed. “The portraits have been very helpful. It turns out that historically, the Headteacher of Hogwarts ran the school in committee with the four Heads of House, who didn’t teach, as such, but primarily looked after their house. The closest they got to teaching was in-house study sessions. There was also no single assigned deputy, the Heads of House together performed that duty.”

Filius nodded slowly. “That…makes sense. I must admit that I sometimes feel as though I don’t have enough hours in the day to do everything, and my Head of House duties are the ones that suffer.”

“Exactly,” Pomona agreed. “While the Headteacher was nominally in charge and acted as the front piece of the school, any decisions he or she made—other than small daily ones—required agreement from at least two Heads of House. Any permanent changes required the agreement of three. And together, the four Heads of House could override the Headteacher and even dismiss them.

“Early in Armando Dippet’s stretch, that routine fell by the wayside, replaced with the system we’re used to. The idea, originally, was that the Headteacher would run the school with assistance from the Board of Governors, who were to be appointed each year by lottery from the established families of the children attending. This would free the Heads of House to take on supplementary teaching roles. As a result, funds in the budget usually spent on salaries could be earmarked for other things, such as building and ward repair, construction of greenhouses, stables and other amenities, and specialist classes for NEWT students.”

“I can see the logic,” said Filius. “What went wrong?”

“Grindelwald,” replied Pomona. “In the late thirties, he stepped up his campaign. Student numbers dropped, leading to a reduction in teaching staff. That was when the core subjects were brought down to one teacher per subject. The Board stopped holding a lottery, and the same members held their seats year in and year out, regardless of whether they had children attending. But once the war was over and student numbers had picked up again, the number of teaching staff and altered Board arrangements remained the same.

“The Headmaster still ran the school in conjunction with the Board of Governors, but the Heads of Houses were now working full time as teachers; you and I both know how little time is left outside of that. In what time is available, energy for their Head of House duties is minimal. As for finances, a good portion of the budget that should have gone to teacher salaries was initially diverted to help cover the fees for war orphans in the hope of revitalising the economy post-war.”

“Ah,” said Filius. “I think I can see where this is going.” His gaze darted up to where the portrait of Albus Dumbledore slept.

“Yes,” said Pomona. “That was the state of things when Albus Dumbledore became Headmaster.”

Filius sighed. “I take it our departed employer didn’t improve matters?”

Pomona snorted. “Improve? No, that’s not the word I’d use. As a war hero, the one credited with the defeat of Grindelwald and thus the end of the Global Wizarding War, Dumbledore didn’t so much seek guidance from the Board of Directors as inform them of the actions he planned to take. Eventually, after a few years, he didn’t even bother with that. The monthly Board meetings dwindled until they only happened yearly, a formality to approve the budget. It carried on that way until after Voldemort was defeated. That was when the Board started flexing their metaphorical wand arm.”

“Yes, I remember an upheaval on the Board around that time. Also, I imagine his other duties didn’t improve matters.”

“Not at all. Over time, he began delegating more and more of the tedious administration tasks to Minerva, eventually keeping only those that outsiders would expect to witness the Headmaster performing. Which left Minerva with three jobs, only one of which was being done to an acceptable standard.”

Filius frowned. “I was aware that she left most of her House responsibilities to her prefects, but I wasn’t aware that there was anything amiss with her role as deputy.”

“You wouldn’t be,” replied Pomona. “I wasn’t either. It’s possible that even she didn’t know. But Hogwarts has been spending far more than it ought to, and I can only attribute that to a lack of time to do any analysis or research on ways to reduce spending, not to mention any scrutiny of suppliers.

“For instance, Hogwarts used to grow a lot of its own produce here on castle land, with the house-elves doing most of the work. Dippet was the one to discontinue that practice; instead, he outsourced production with yearly contracts to the lowest bidder. But the records indicate that Dumbledore signed an open-ended contract with the Head of the Dent family, which has never been challenged. The cost of produce has risen steadily every year since, and Minerva has signed off on it for over a decade with no signs that she ever so much as queried it.”

“Perhaps the cost of food really has risen,” suggested Filius, although he didn’t sound convinced.

Pomona snorted. “I sent a letter to the Head of the Dent family, asking to meet with them to discuss this. I was also very curious about who this mysterious person could be since they’d never been referred to by name. All correspondence has been sent to ‘the Head of the Dent family’, and the contract has an official seal rather than a signature.”

“Very suspicious.”

“Exactly. I got a response back almost immediately. It seems the Head of the Dent family changed hands in the Impact, and the new Head was extremely surprised to discover that his maternal great-grandfather’s name was still in use, since the line was deemed functionally extinct when the only remaining daughter had no sons to pass the name to.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Unless you’re pleased to hear that our late Headmaster was embezzling from the school budget, then I imagine not. And that’s not even the best part.”

Filius closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “What’s the best part?”

“Albus—as Head of the Dent family—owned the land where the produce was grown, but guess where he got the labour from?”

Filius winced. “Hogwarts house-elves.” It wasn’t even a question.

Pomona’s smile held no happiness. “Correct. Aberforth was horrified. He’s offered to dissolve the contract and sell the farm to us for next to nothing, provided we acknowledge his lack of culpability when the matter is made public. I’ve agreed. I’ve freed up close to half the yearly budget for a one-off outlay of fifteen galleons. And that’s just the food situation; I have yet to investigate some of these other yearly expenditures. But you see my point? A competent deputy should have picked that up. I don’t blame Minerva—she had far too much responsibility placed on her—but nonetheless, her performance was subpar.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Filius came to terms with what he’d learned.

“I suppose this means Rolanda will finally get the brooms she’s wanted for years,” Filius offered half-heartedly. “I can hardly believe this, Pomona. How could we have been so wrong about someone? How did we never see this?”

Pomona shrugged. “Minerva is the only one entrusted with these tasks, and my theory is that he deliberately kept her too busy to ask questions. He used the same method on you and me to a lesser extent. There have been matters that I wanted to do something about, but there just hasn’t been time. Not during the school year, anyway, and by the time the students leave on the train, I’m mentally and physically exhausted.”

Filius sat back and tapped his fingers together absently. “So, you’re returning things to the way things used to be. What will that mean for Minerva, Severus and me?”

“Severus won’t be in the equation,” Pomona replied. “I disagreed with Albus when he hired him, and in the years since, I’ve only become more certain that he shouldn’t be in a position of power over children. I know several witches and wizards with the required qualifications; many owe me favours. Between them, I can cover classes for this year, giving me a respectable window to find full-time teachers to take over next year.

“You and Minerva, however, must choose between your roles as teacher and Head of House. Not right away; we’re too close to the start of term for that to be feasible. For now, I will provide you both with assistant teachers. I want your decision by Yule; we’ll implement it at the start of the next school year. I’m also scrambling to find teachers to cover DADA and Herbology. Herbology will be easier—at least in the short term—for much the same reasons as Potions. DADA… to be honest, I’ve been asking friends if they know anyone even vaguely suitable who’s willing to help.”

“What about the curse? I saw several curse breakers in the castle yesterday; they wouldn’t tell me what they were there for, said that it was on your orders.”

Pomona got up and retrieved the report she’d received that afternoon from Gringotts. “Read this. The relevant information is about three-quarters of the way through.”

While Filius scanned through the fifty-six-inch report, Pomona summoned two 30ml liquor glasses and the bottle of Swott Malt Whisky that she usually kept on hand for emergencies. She liked to buy a bottle each year and then share what was left—if there was any—at the end-of-year staff gathering.

This year’s bottle was already half empty. She poured them each a glass before sending the bottle back to its cupboard.

Filius put down the report and accepted the offered drink, sipping it appreciatively. “The curse was really that easy to dispel?”

“I can only assume that Albus wanted it there.”

“When will you tell Minerva?”

Pomona sighed. “I’m giving myself a week. I’ve asked her to meet with me next Saturday morning. By then, I should at least have an idea of where we’re at. In the meantime, I’ve asked her to continue dealing with the arrangements for the firsties. That will be one of the tasks I’ll be taking in the future, but there’s just no time right now.”

“And the Board?”

“As I said to Minerva, it’s currently a shambles. As dreadful as the Impact was, it’s given us some breathing room. So long as the school remains functional, everyone will be more concerned with restoring the government than about us. By the time people start asking questions, I’ll have organised everything I need to support my decisions.”

“I don’t envy you the task you have before you,” Filius said sympathetically, taking another sip. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please ask.”

“You’re already helping a great deal,” Pomona replied. “Having someone I trust in charge of the Impact relief effort while I deal with these matters is invaluable. Other than that…I need someone to talk to. Someone who, if they disagree with the choices I’m making, will tell me. Minerva…”

Filius nodded understandingly. “Minerva was always much closer to Albus than we were. On top of that, she’d always expected to be Headmistress after him. Best to give her a little time to work through some of that.”

Pomona drained her glass. “She’s got till next Saturday.”

v^v^v

It was three days since the dementors left, and Sirius still had no idea what was going on or why everything had changed. In place of the dementors, a warden patrolled his wing once an hour like clockwork. On the first day, three separate groups of witches and wizards had come to gawk at him, but none of them would talk to him. When they spoke to each other, it was under a muffliato, and he’d never been good at lip reading.

As the days passed and the dementors didn’t return, his mind grew clearer and clearer. It didn’t take long for him to realise that the clarity he’d had when he first woke was an illusion. Or not an illusion—he’d been thinking clearer than since before that awful night when Peter betrayed James and Lily to their deaths—he just wasn’t as clearheaded as he’d thought.

He could escape if he wanted to—the wardens were unaware he was an animagus and could slip through the bars—but he wouldn’t because he knew he deserved to be locked up.

Not that he regretted killing those Death Eaters. Harry was his; the only thing left of James, the one who’d been the centre of Sirius’ world.

Blacks were obsessive; it was something that every Black grew up knowing. That one day, they would find their Purpose. For some it was money or power, and they focused on accumulating as much as possible to the detriment of everything else. For others it was magic, a need that drove them to destruction as they pushed their magic beyond their limits. For many it was a person, someone to cleave to. Not necessarily a lover—although it sometimes was—it could be a friend, a brother or sister, or even their own child.

For Sirius, it had been James.

When they first met, he’d known instantly. He was thrilled that he’d found his Purpose so young. Even better, James understood and accepted him, even welcomed him. Of course, James had Black blood too. His Purpose was Lily Evans. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel the same way, and Sirius had thrown himself into championing James’ cause.

Being eleven years old, they’d gone about it completely the wrong way. They made a terrible first impression, one that took years to overcome. Still, overcome it they did, and eventually, Lily agreed to date, then marry James Potter.

Even with the war raging around them, Sirius had been happier than he’d ever been. James and Lily continued to welcome him into their lives, treating him almost like a third in their partnership. He had his own room in their house—one that he often shared with Remus or Peter when they came to stay—and he and James were Auror partners while Lily had been recruited to the Unspeakables. Then Harry came along, and Sirius was the only choice for godfather.

Everything had been going so well, and then Dumbledore had told them about the prophecy. Not the specific wording, just that one had been made, that Harry was a candidate, and that Voldemort was hunting him.

Looking back, that had been the beginning of the end. The decision to use the Fidelus, Sirius’ fear, not that he would be captured and tortured, but that under torture, he might fail James. The idea to switch the secret keeper to Peter had seemed like inspiration. This way, Sirius would be the only one at risk.

And then it had all fallen to pieces.

James and Lily were dead, and it was all his fault. Sirius was a failure, like his mother had always said, and it was better for Harry if he stayed away lest he fail him too.

Sirius watched as the warden marched past his cell to the end of the row and then back again. He was the only prisoner left in this wing, and didn’t mind the solitude at all.

He lay back on the ratty cloth that served as his bed and stared at the ceiling, losing himself in the memories of James, Lily, and Harry that had been slowly returning.

v^v^v

Harry’s dreams were disjointed.

He was riding a stag through a dark forest. Then the stag turned into a flying motorcycle which flew into a great big sticky web. An old man with a long white beard helped him out of the motorcycle.

“This isn’t right,” the old man said. “I need to get you back where you belong.”

Harry saw a flash of green out of the corner of his eye and thought he heard a scream. When he turned to look, there was nothing there, and when he turned back to the old man, he was gone. Then Harry was standing in front of the gates to his old primary school. It was nighttime, and the moon was full.

The headmaster, Mr Peterson, loomed over him, scowling. “This isn’t your place, Potter. You need to go home.”

Harry walked the dark, silent streets back to 4 Privet Drive. There were no people, no cars, just him. The fence around the house was so tall that he couldn’t see over the top, and when he got to the front gate, it was locked.

“You don’t belong here, Harry,” said Mrs Figg from behind him. “Why don’t you go home?”

“I don’t know where home is,” he said. “Is it Hogwarts? Is that where I’m supposed to go?”

The sky started glowing green, and Mrs Figg faded into nothing. There was the sound of high-pitched laughter, and a woman shouted something he couldn’t make out before screaming in terror, the same scream he’d already heard.

Then he was back in Madam Malkin’s, where the blond boy he’d met sneered at him. “I don’t think they ought to let your sort in, do you? Go home, where you belong.”

Madam Malkin nodded in agreement. “He’s right. You should go home.”

Then he was in the wand shop, and Mr Ollivander peered creepily at him. “The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter. It would be best if you went home.” He walked away, disappearing into the darkness at the back of the shop.

Harry backed out the door into Diagon Alley. It was full of faceless strangers hurrying past who ignored him. “I don’t know where I’m supposed to go,” he said, hoping someone would hear him and help.

The faceless people kept ignoring him, but a whimpering sound caught his attention. A big, black dog was lying down behind him, scrawny and unwashed and miserable-looking. It was chained to the ground with a chain so short that it couldn’t even sit up. Despite its size and his previous bad experiences with dogs, Harry wasn’t scared.

“I’ll help you,” he said and undid the collar around the dog’s neck.

The dog stood up, and up and up, until it was a man. “Thank you. But why are you here? You shouldn’t be here.” He offered his hand. “I don’t belong here, either. Do you want to come home with me?”

Harry took hold of the hand. Somewhere, a woman was laughing, and the sound made a warm feeling rush through him. “Do you know where to go?”

The man shrugged. “No, but that doesn’t matter. We can find it together.”

A woman’s voice whispered, “Wake up.”

Harry woke up.

Chapter three

6 August 1991

With less than a day left before her meeting with the Queen, Amelia was busier than she’d ever been. What she wouldn’t give for a time-turner; it would be invaluable for the paperwork alone. As it was, she’d decided that for the moment she’d have to make do with a transcription spell that was most commonly used in court cases. It had to be refreshed every few hours, and she was running through storage crystals quickly.

Still, it was the best option she could think of, and the knowledge that the transcriptions would eventually be publicly available was helpful in keeping her honest. In a crisis like this, it would be easy to take shortcuts, and Amelia wasn’t so egocentric that she thought she was above temptation.

The need for transparency and accountability had been brought home emphatically once Gringotts had made the Ministry’s financial information available to her.

It wasn’t as though Amelia had never suspected her Ministry colleagues of corruption; however; she had never dreamed the reality could be as bad as it was. The amount of money being diverted from the Ministry into private accounts was staggering. No wonder the budget for her department kept getting cut!

Rather than try to follow all the twists and turns in the limited time she had available, Amelia put an immediate freeze on all Ministry outgoings. Gringotts was only authorised to pay individual Ministry workers their monthly salary, provided they could produce their official employment contract and it held up to magical scrutiny. Until she had a chance to get to the bottom of this, everything was going to be scrutinised extremely carefully before any other funds were disbursed.

In keeping with that plan, she’d hired a Gringotts auditor to keep an eye on things. It was expensive but necessary.

The most expensive initial requirement had been locating and acquiring a new Ministry building. Luckily, there was an adequate structure in Wales, an old castle falling into ruin that was up for sale. It wasn’t particularly famous, so the magic required to ensure secrecy was kept wouldn’t be too onerous. It might even be worthwhile to refurbish the main building and open it to muggles, both as camouflage and an alternative source of income.

The Treaty Council had cobbled together a prospective foundational document that Amelia wasn’t completely ashamed to bring before the Queen, so she’d released the members back to their various departments to help with reorganisation.

Now, nearly a week after the Impact, she was finally sitting down with Gawain Robards—recently Senior Auror and now Head of the Auror Office following Rufus Scrimgeour’s death in the Impact—to discuss Azkaban.

“The biggest problem is mealtimes,” Robards explained when Amelia asked him what the most urgent matters were. “We just don’t have the numbers to manage without the widespread use of stunners. That’s workable in the short term, but before long the inmates are going to build up a resistance and then where will we be?”

“We don’t have the workforce available to increase your numbers,” said Amelia, thinking hard. “We might be better off changing the prison layout. Or even finding somewhere else and building something new. Without the dementors, Azkaban is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Robards frowned. “They’re really not coming back? I thought that the dark magic that Ekrizdis performed tied them to the island.”

“Originally, maybe,” Amelia replied. “I met with Croaker this morning and he informed me that matters changed some time ago. Back when Eldritch Diggory was trying to get the place shut down, the Unspeakables managed to transfer the bonds tethering the dementors to the island and to a specially created artefact.”

“So are they loose and preying on the muggles, or are they gone forever?”

Amelia sighed. “Your guess is as good as mine. None of the remaining Unspeakables have ever studied the artefact, and the records are gone with the Ministry. Either way, I doubt we’ll be getting them back. I’ve asked Croaker to come up with a way to kill them on the off chance that they turn up; they were a magical experiment that should never have been allowed to linger.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” said Robards feelingly.

“What about the high-security wing?” asked Amelia. “Any trouble with them? Signs of an incipient breakout?”

“You haven’t been reading the reports, have you?”

Amelia shook her head. “I’ve been lurching from one urgent matter to the next since the Impact. I’ve been averaging three hours of sleep a night, and I haven’t been home or even seen my niece. If you didn’t mark your report urgent, then no, I haven’t seen it.”

“Every single prisoner in the high-security wing, aside from Sirius Black, is dead.”

“What?” It was the first time Amelia felt truly shocked since she’d learned of the scope of the Impact. “When? How?”

Robards shrugged. “When…sometime between the last warden check before the Impact and the first one after it. It could have happened at the same time as the dementors left, before, or even after; we have no way of knowing. The senior wardens’ first priority was getting the island secured and making sure she and her fellow wardens were safe until backup could arrive. No one got to the high-security wing until well after noon the following day, and by then all but Sirius Black had their throats torn out.” He shuddered. “It looked like some animal had got in and savaged them. Something with sharp teeth.”

Amelia stared at him. “You expect me to believe that an animal somehow made its way onto a magically hidden and warded island, made its way directly to the high-security wing where it murdered all but one of the inmates and then just…left?”

“I’ve done three full sweeps, and there’s no animal there now,” replied Robards. “Look, I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s the best explanation I can come up with.”

“Was there anyone in the high-security wing other than Death Eaters?” asked Amelia, still trying to wrap her head around it.

“No, just the Death Eaters,” Robards confirmed. “I know what you’re thinking. Why was Sirius Black spared? I’ve been trying to figure it out. It wasn’t because he’s a Black, or Bellatrix wouldn’t be dead.”

“What’s he been like since then?”

“He’s been as close to a model prisoner as it’s possible to be. He stays well back at feeding time; we haven’t even had to stun him. He doesn’t shout or rave or curse at us; he doesn’t even try to talk to us. All he does is eat, sleep, and stare out of the window. Oh, and cry.”

Amelia eyed the man in front of her. Something was making him uncomfortable, something he wasn’t telling her. “Out with it, Robards. You’re holding something back.”

Robards took a deep breath. “I remember back when it came out that he’d betrayed the Potters; I was so shocked. The whole thing seemed so unbelievable! And I know he did it—everyone knows he confessed—but maybe it wasn’t quite as simple as just handing them to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Maybe there was other trickery, or the imperious or something.”

“You don’t think that it would have come out at his trial? And what about Pettigrew and the muggles?”

“I don’t know!” Robards said, running his hands roughly through his hair. “But what if the thing that was different, that saved him when all the others were killed, was that Sirius Black wasn’t a willing Death Eater?”

Amelia shook her head slowly. “I see where you’re coming from, but I don’t see how that can be. If he wasn’t truly guilty, it would have been uncovered at his trial.”

“But what if it wasn’t?” Robards sighed. “It’s ironic; the Impact has put me in a place where I want to check his trial records, yet because of the Impact that’s impossible.”

“Not completely impossible,” Amelia pointed out. “Gringotts would have been sent a copy. It’s standard procedure on conviction and required before Gringotts allows the Ministry to deduct court costs. They’ll no doubt make you pay for it, but I don’t see why they’d refuse to hand it over.”

Robards brightened. “Thanks, Amelia.”

v^v^v

Pomona Sprout was annoyed. She’d received confirmation that she’d have the new potions teachers she’d asked for, and she needed to let Severus Snape know that his contract was being terminated. However, it was very difficult to sack someone when you couldn’t find them.

On her way back from the dungeons, she ran into Filius. “Filius, have you seen Severus in the last couple of days?”

“No, now that you mention it, I haven’t.”

“He’s not turned up to meals, and when I asked a house-elf to take a message to him, she said that she couldn’t find him.”

Filius raised his brows. “That’s unusual. Do you think he’s developed a spell to hide himself from house-elves?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, but I’m coming up blank on other reasons for him to be missing. Has he given you any indication that he might be leaving?”

“No. In fact, the last time I saw him he was heading into the Forbidden Forest to gather potions ingredients.”

They exchanged glances.

Filius cleared his throat. “You don’t suppose he…”

“Surely not,” said Pomona, even as she considered the many dangers in the forest. “He’s a skilled wizard; he’s been harvesting in the Forest for years.”

“It only takes one slip-up,” Filius pointed out.

Pomona sighed. “I suppose we should look for him. Come to think of it, I’ve been meaning to have a discussion with the centaur herd. The ancient agreement that allows them to make their home in the forest in return for their aid if the castle is ever besieged hasn’t been ratified in nearly a century. I might as well ask if they’ve seen Severus at the same time. Will you come with me? Two wands are better than one.”

“Send a patronus to let Magorian know that we’re coming,” Filius advised, summoning a warm coat and some sensible shoes. “Or we might find ourselves fending off a hail of arrows.”

That done, they set off.

The centaur herd had cleared a space for themselves at the top of a hill near the northern boundary, much closer to the snowline of the nearest mountain than Pomona had expected.

Even with the patronus to warn them, the centaurs weren’t exactly welcoming. One particularly angry-looking stallion with a dark coat and skin kept an arrow half drawn and pointed in their general direction the entire time they were there.

Magorian proved to be somewhat calmer but wasn’t particularly friendly. “What is it that the humans wish from us?” he asked, his voice deep and his gaze penetrating.

“Hogwarts administration has changed hands,” Pomona began, doing her best not to let her disquiet show. She had nothing against centaurs, but they were much taller than humans and being surrounded by so many when there was just her and Filius was uncomfortable. She suddenly wondered if Filius felt like this all the time. “I’m Pomona Sprout, the new Headmistress; I hold the wards. This is my colleague, Filius Flitwick, Charms Professor and Head of Ravenclaw. I wanted to introduce myself and discuss the renewal of the agreement. I was also wondering if you’d seen any sign of another wizard, a man named Severus Snape. We last saw him heading into the forest.”

The dark centaur snorted rudely but didn’t say anything.

“There are many dangers that might prove the downfall of the unwary,” Magorian replied. He spoke slowly, as if he was considering each word carefully. “The spiders have become restless. Mars grows bright.”

Pomona blinked. That was cryptic. Did the spiders symbolise something? “I’m not familiar with the spiders,” she said cautiously.

“The acromantula colony,” Magorian explained.

“The what?” Pomona couldn’t believe her ears. Acromantulas this close to the castle? How had they crossed the wards without detection? How had they come here, acromantulas weren’t native to Britain!

“How big is this colony?” Filius asked urgently. “Where can we find it?”

“They lair south-west of here,” replied Magorian. “Their numbers grow by the year. There are many dozens; we find it harder and harder to avoid their hunts. Only our best warriors venture deep into the forest; it is only a matter of time before we lose someone.”

“By the year?” Pomona was aghast. “How long have they been here? Why didn’t you tell someone?”

Magorian raised his brows. “Decades. And what makes you think we didn’t report them? We have been driven back into this corner of the forest by their predations, and our young are stifled by this confinement. The Headmaster has promised to ‘do something’ many times; yet here we are.”

“Filius, they’re already inside the wards!” Pomona said urgently. “There’s nothing to stop them swarming the castle! Our only defence is sending the castle into full lockdown, but if they got the drop on us, it would be too late!” She bowed to Magorian. “Thank you for this information. Please take some time and consider how you want to proceed with the agreement; I assure you I’m open to renegotiation. Filius, we must get back right away.”

v^v^v

Sirius woke confused and disoriented. The disturbance in his gut that he’d been experiencing since he killed the Death Eaters was getting worse; it wasn’t painful yet, but the discomfort was growing. He tried to distract himself by thinking about the dream he’d just had.

Since the dementors had disappeared, Sirius had immersed himself in memories of James, Harry, and Lily. He’d been dreaming about them too, but this was the first time he dreamt of Harry as anything other than the charming, cheerful toddler he’d been before everything went so wrong.

Why would he dream of a Harry who looked like a neglected waif? Was it his mind trying to punish him by presenting him with new nightmares? It was definitely Harry; with that hair and those eyes, it couldn’t be anyone else.

The roiling in his gut got worse. With a start, Sirius realised that it wasn’t a physical sensation; but the root of his family magic agitating, the same way it had That Night.

Was his magic confused? Had his dream about Harry somehow triggered it to activate; or was the dream his mind’s attempt to get him to pay attention to the family magic? Had it been his magic all along, and he’d only made the connection?

Either way, his magic was prompting him to take care of Harry.

Sirius considered ignoring it—additional discomfort seemed only appropriate punishment—but there was the nagging thought: what if Harry really was sick or in danger and needed him?

He already knew his Padfoot form could leave anytime he wanted…maybe he should just leave and check. If it turned out that Harry was fine, he could always come back.

Mind made up, Sirius decided not to waste any time.

v^v^v

Harry sat up in bed, eagerly awaiting the lunch service. It wasn’t just the food he was looking forward to, but the chance to exchange words with someone who wouldn’t try to interrogate him.

Being the sole survivor from the train was about as unpleasant as being The-Boy-Who-Lived. Not that Harry would have preferred death—of course he wouldn’t. But being gawked at by strangers who asked question after question about the whole thing was exhausting in a way that doing the Dursley’s yard work wasn’t. The only plus side was that the strangers didn’t feel entitled to reach out and touch him the way they had in Diagon Alley before Hagrid made them back off.

When he first woke, it was to discover that it had been days since the Impact. He soon learnt that, despite not having any visible injuries, his lack of consciousness had led to him being placed in a tent with five other boys of various ages and levels of injury who had one other thing in common with him.

No one knew who he was. Despite his image being printed in all the national newspapers—along with the others—no adult had come forward to claim him.

Harry had considered giving a false name or pleading loss of memory in the hope of escaping the Dursleys forever—as they were no doubt hoping for too—but in the end gave his real name and address when asked.

The next day a lady with a calm, soothing voice came to visit and ask about how things had been with the Dursleys: whether he liked it there, if he had chores he was supposed to do, what sorts of meals he liked best, where he slept.

Harry didn’t mean to tell her anything—Uncle Vernon had made it clear over the years that if Harry went ‘telling tales’ then he’d regret it—but somehow he found himself explaining about the cupboard and the frying pan and Aunt Petunia’s roses, and then about not being allowed to do better than Dudley at school if he wanted to eat and about Harry Hunting.

He talked much longer than he was used to, all of it spilling out. He did manage not to say anything about Hogwarts or Hagrid or Diagon Alley; he didn’t want her to think he was a nutter, and he didn’t have any proof. All of his new magical belongings had been on the train with him, and from what he’d overheard, the train had been completely destroyed.

As much as that upset him, it wasn’t nearly as upsetting as the thought of the loss of the owl Hagrid had given him. The first birthday present he could remember getting, and it didn’t even last an hour! She’d been so beautiful, with such an intelligent look in her golden eyes.

Maybe it was better that he hadn’t got to know her. It was possible the Dursleys would never have let him keep her anyway, and it least this way she would have died quickly and without a lot of suffering.

A/N Sorry, that’s as far as I could get for now. FYI, in case it wasn’t obvious, Harry is assuming Hedwig is dead but he doesn’t know for sure yet.