Disclaimer: JKR and Warner Bros own Harry Potter, in case you hadn't heard.
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"Mr. Black?"
Sirius started awake. "Mmrrpha? What? Yes!"
A young healer leaned over him, clearly exhausted. "Healer Bronswell says you can come in."
Harry.
Sirius lurched upright and shuffled tiredly after the healer. His back was killing him after spending he didn't know how many hours sitting in the relatives room for the children's intensive care ward. Scrimgeour and Alice had stopped by some hours ago; Scrimgeour to take his official statement, and Alice to bring him a bagel sandwich and a jug of coffee. She had rambled for a while about Dumbledore examining the house, the bodies being cared for, the MLE beginning a full investigation. Somewhere in there she had mentioned social services but he'd been too split between exhaustion and worry to pay much attention.
The exhaustion was hardest to deal with. At 21 he should have been fine as a daisy with being up all night. He vaguely recalled Alice mentioning things like "shock" and "emotion drain."
"Mr. Black?"
Sirius looked up into the face of a middle aged man who was holding out his hand. Sirius took it briefly. "That's me."
"I'm Healer John Bronswell," the man continued. "I have news about Harry, but I'm sure you'd like to see him first?"
Sirius nodded. Bronswell slid open a door and gestured Sirius into the hospital room. Dawn was just peeking through the window. Another young healer was sitting half asleep in a rocking chair holding a very sleepy looking toddler. The green eyes turned to the door as they entered and widened at seeing Sirius.
The boy squirmed and then held up his arms. "Pa-s," he called.
Sirius rushed over and lifted Harry into a fierce hug. "Oh, pup!" For several minutes he held the boy, allowing his tears to surface and trying not to jostle or shock his godson. Harry was trembling, and gripping Sirius just as tightly.
"He's only been awake for an hour or so. We kept a sleep charm on him. It helps with young children in dealing with trauma."
"Trauma?" Sirius said.
"Not physical trauma in his case. He has a cut on his forehead and some bruises, but that's the only physical damage."
Sirius nodded. "Face wounds. Got it." They tended to bleed a lot, making the damage appear much worse than it really was.
"He seems to be fully fit otherwise, though he may have some emotional trauma to deal with for some time. Losing his parents and adjusting to a new living situation will make healing more difficult, but not impossible."
Again, Sirius nodded. Then frowned. "If that's all, what took so long?"
Healer Bronswell sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "There is something else we found. Something much more serious, but we don't know what to do about it just yet."
"Go on," Sirius urged when the healer stalled.
Healer Bronswell swung out a wheeled stool and sat, gesturing for Sirius to take the now vacated rocking chair. "Sit, please."
Sirius sat and settled Harry in his lap. Sirius cupped Harry's cheek and gently kissed his forehead. Then he noticed the jagged cut, still red and raw. "Why haven't you healed his forehead?" he demanded with a growl.
"We tried. It was made by a curse, and we can't determine which one. Whatever it is, the cut isn't responding to any healing charms or potions. We cleaned it and treated it with muggle medicine, so we are hopeful it will heal in time. There will be a scar though, unless we can find out what this curse is and reverse it."
"Is the curse still active?"
Healer Bronswell frowned and folded his arms. "We can't be sure. It seems… dormant. As far as we can tell he isn't in any imminent danger, though we have no idea what may or may not trigger whatever it is. Healer MacBrian was on duty last night from the Dark Curse floor. He took a look but said he'd need to consult with the rest of the department. He hopes to get the Heads together by 10 this morning to go over the case. Until we know what we're dealing with we would like to keep him here."
Sirius nodded. "Is there anything you need from me?" he asked.
"The clerk will have some forms for you to fill out, and I expect a social services agent will want to speak with you, too. And we need to know how to reach you if you leave the hospital."
"Social services?" He vaguely remembered Alice mentioning something about that.
Healer Bronswell looked pointedly at Harry. "To establish wardship."
Oh.
Emmaline Vance frowned down at the immaculately groomed front garden. She was all in favor of a well ordered garden, but there was something almost sinister in the perfect marches of geraniums lining the walk.
She blew out a breath and knocked on the door, hoping it wasn't too early for the muggles. Seven am was a bit early for her.
She knocked again.
Hearing no answer she finally rang the bell, listening to it echo through the house. There, rustling. Oh! Ouch! Screaming toddler! Oops.
Thumping footsteps approached and the door was flung open.
"What? Do you know what bloody time it is?" demanded the walrus. Emmaline blinked away her affronted surprise.
"Mr. Dursley, I presume?" she asked. The walrus nodded gruffly. "My name is Emmaline Vance. I'm from the Ministry, Social Services. I apologize for the early hour, but I have some sad and urgent news."
"Ministry?" the man huffed. "What ministry? What do you mean 'social services?' We're not on the public dole! How dare you suggest such a thing? Say your peace and get gone! Can't you see you've woken our Dudley!"
That must be the screaming she heard in the background. She pitied the man's wife. "You misunderstand me, sir. Might I come in? It is imperative that I speak with you and Mrs. Dursley immediately."
A woman came up behind the walrus, struggling to hold a squirming beach ball. The woman reminded Emmaline strongly of a horse.
"What's going on?"
"I have some unfortunate news, Mrs. Dursley," Emmaline said quickly, "About your sister."
Millicent Bagnold waved impatiently for everyone to be seated. "You have all read the Aurors' reports of last night's incident? Good, we've no time to waste. Dumbledore, as Chief Warlock and Head of the Order, please give your assessment of our current situation."
Dumbledore nodded politely to her and stood, his face grave. "Some things I feel must still be verified, but here is what we can know with reasonable certainty. Last night Lord Voldemort attacked the Potter family personally, at their home in Godric's Hollow. We have not yet determined how he was able to find them as their location was under a Fidelius Charm. At one time, the plan was for Auror Sirius Black to be their Secret Keeper, but I have traced him thoroughly, and verified by Legilimency, that that plan was changed. The MLE is currently trying to track down one Peter Pettigrew, who it seems may have taken his place. We do not know if Mr. Pettigrew betrayed the Potters or if Voldemort may have discovered them by some means yet unknown. Sadly, I fear betrayal is the far simpler explanation.
"It is apparent that Lily died while physically shielding young Harry Potter from Voldemort. Though the house is nearly in ruins residual magic suggests that her death triggered ancient blood magic, forging a protection from her murderer to form in the very blood of her child. The Killing Curse was cast twice in the nursery, that much is barely deducible from the residue. I conclude that after Lily's death, Voldemort must have attacked the child, hitting the blood protection, causing the curse to rebound. Young Harry is currently in Saint Mungos, miraculously alive. The damage to the house is considerable and it is fortunate that the boy was not injured in the explosion."
Dumbledore paused.
"And what of You-Know-Who?" prompted the Minister.
Dumbledore's frown deepened. "This, I fear, is where we must leave the realm of fact and enter into the realm of speculation. As you know, Voldemort's wand was recovered from the floor of the nursery. It bears minor cosmetic damage only. It is currently in the possession of the MLE?" he looked around the table and got a nod from the MLE Head. "Excellent."
Many heads nodded.
"It may be important for that wand to be preserved. There is a chance it may undo certain evils it has caused in the past. In the meantime, Minister, we must arrange for the wand to be protected. We cannot risk his followers liberating it."
The minister nodded. "I will speak to the Goblins."
Dumbledore continued. "The existence of the wand and the absence of both its master and the Dark Mark over the site suggest that the final Killing Curse did not merely rebound off of Harry Potter, but also rebounded to Lord Voldemort. It is very possible, even likely, that his destruction caused the damage to the—"
"So he's gone?" several voices asked.
Excited muttering began all through the room.
The Minister rapped her wand on the long table and a gong rang through the room. As the voices ceased she turned back to the Chief Warlock.
"This is speculation, only," he continued. "We have no eye witnesses, no body. But there is one bit of evidence I wish to present for consideration."
He pulled a vial from his robes and poured its contents into a silver bowl resting on the table. Tapping it with his wand a misty image rose from the bowl showing a bare forearm. The Mark was clearly visible.
"This memory is mine, from last night. I had a very desperate visitor, whose identity shall remain hidden for now, though clearly you can see he was in Voldemort's service at one time. As we spoke he was suddenly overcome with intense pain, such as I have rarely witnessed in my life. I doubt the Cruciatus Curse could match it. Fortunately for my visitor, it passed swiftly."
He tapped the bowl and the image moved forward, still focused on the forearm. The Mark began to fade.
"As you can see, the Mark on his arm faded substantially, until it was quite nearly gone. This, more than anything tells me that Lord Voldemort suffered a grave defeat last night."
Again, excited mutterings rose around the table.
"However!" Dumbledore boomed. Silence once again spread. "It is terribly, terribly, important that all of you note that though the Mark faded, it did not, and still has not, disappeared."
They all sat for some minutes in silence.
"What meaning do you ascribe to this, Albus?" the Minister demanded.
"I very much fear what this suggests. My suspicion is that Voldemort's body was destroyed last night, and, we can hope, much of his power as well. However, that the Mark lingers on in his servants suggests that he is not entirely vanquished. He is not dead. Somehow, his spirit has found a way to cling to life. This then leaves us with several challenges.
"As his defeat was not witnessed, his Death Eaters are not disbanded. Some may panic and lash out. We must be prepared," he looked pointedly at Scrimgeour. "Others may hold themselves in readiness for a future reappearance of their Lord or other opportunity to do mischief. I recommend extreme caution in the future, years into the future, in dealing with those known to have served him or even been loyal to his ideals. Even if they have not been convicted of any crime and suffer no penalties, we must be vigilant. Even if he is gone and never returns, his sentiments are hardly gone. How this plays out legally has yet to be determined. For now, I advocate only vigilance.
"Our next challenge then, for which I request the special attention of the Unspeakables, is to find the means by which he avoided death. And, if possible, undo them. It may not be necessary to hunt down his remaining spirit if we can merely prevent him ever returning to power."
A shadowy figure at the end of the table nodded. No one other than the Minister knew who the head of the Department of Mysteries actually was. Well, officially, no one else knew, but there was no accounting for Dumbledore.
"Our final challenge will be how and when to release this information. The public must be told something. However, I cannot urge strongly enough that we not divulge everything we know until we are certain of several things. It could be disastrous if the news were broken too soon. We must ensure the Death Eaters are accounted for, and as far as possible verify Voldemort's defeat."
"I agree," said the Minister, turning to her Undersecretary. "Let the Prophet run a story on the attack, but do not mention the wand or the disappearance of You-Know-Who."
"Or the absence of the Dark Mark, or the survival of Harry. He may yet be in danger," added Dumbledore.
That night Sirius sat on the floor of the hospital room playing with Harry. He'd left for a few hours during Harry's afternoon nap to shower, change, and salvage some of Harry's things from the house. The bodies had been moved. Scrimgeour told him the MLE would release them in a day or so for preparation and burial. It had been the creepiest thing he'd ever seen, to walk through the house in the light of day. So much of it was intact, perfect. Tidy but not overly neat; a stack of books here; a few stray toys over there; dishes still in the sink; flowers in a vase on the table. Then that blasted hole in the roof and scorch marks on the walls testified loudly to the events of 24 hours ago.
Twenty four hours? Not even. Not quite. And the whole world was upside down.
So far Harry was quiet. He had clung to his toys, one at a time, and snuggled deeply into the blanket Sirius had brought.
A knock made Sirius look up.
In the doorway a blonde witch stood holding a formidable portfolio of parchment.
"Mr. Black? May I have a word?"
Sirius waved her in. "I'd rather not leave him alone, if it's all the same to you."
She stepped inside with an understanding smile. Though her hair was bound up in a classic wizarding fashion, her robes were tailored to mimic muggle business wear.
"My name is Sandra Smythwethr. I work with the Ministry, as a soliciter in social services." She neatly folded herself into the rocking chair. "This must be Harry Potter?"
Sirius nodded. "I'm his godfather."
"Yes, we know. All the paperwork is in order. You are aware that it's not automatic though?"
Sirius looked up at her, the question obvious in his expression.
"There will be a reading of the Will in a few days. We have an older copy, as does Gringotts, but it will take a day or so to verify that the Will we have is the most recent. Some wizards keep an updated version at their home." She let the implication settle. "Once we know the Potters' wishes, we will determine if that is a safe and acceptable home for Harry."
Sirius looked back at the boy. Harry was staring quietly between the two of them. A home for Harry. His flat could use some work, especially for raising a kid. He ran a hand through Harry's hair reassuringly. He hadn't even considered not taking Harry in. The thought of someone else taking him, of losing all of the Potters, made him slightly ill.
"I see," he said, trying desperately to just be polite and get through yet another horrible conversation.
"The process will involve a few interviews and a tour of your property. The interviews will mostly determine if the people caring for him are capable, mentally, physically, and emotionally, and what their intentions are for his future. If all is acceptable, a formal wardship will be established. We try to move things along quickly so the children can get back to…well, normal certainly doesn't apply… Anyway. I take it you intend to apply to care for him?"
Sirius sent her a fierce look. "I'm his godfather," he said again.
She nodded, still smiling sadly. "Of course. At this point I don't see any reason to worry. But there may be other claimants. He has some relatives, and there is the Will. I just want you to be aware of the process and not taken by surprise. You are managing his care at Saint Mungo's?"
"Yes," Sirius croaked out.
"Good. Are you on leave from the Auror Department?"
"I… honestly don't know. I haven't asked yet, and no one's told me. Probably. I'll check with Scrimgeour. It's been hell."
"I understand. I'll check with the Department. Harry will need a guardian until he is settled permanently. I see you have a flat in Kingsbury?"
"Yeah. I do. I have a room for… had a room... for the Potters. They came over sometimes."
"So Harry has been there before?"
"Multiple times. Has his own toys. A crib. All of it," Sirius replied.
"Excellent," she continued. "From what I hear from the staff and what I can see, I am authorizing Saint Mungo's to release Harry to you once they clear him. Again, I see no real reason to worry, but please keep in mind that this is just temporary. It may be a couple weeks before everything is set in marble."
She watched the young man to be sure he understood. He was clearly still recovering from the incident himself. She hoped he truly grasped what was going on. She sighed. "I'll leave this folder with you. It has information about the wardship process and the typical process for reading and executing Wills. There's also contact information for the current case managers: myself and Madam Brown. Finally, I highly recommend you look through the packet on raising a ward. It may help you prepare in case you need to defend your claim. And I do advise you to speak with a solicitor of your own in case there is a challenge, Madam Brown and I must represent Harry, so you will want someone to help you."
Sirius merely nodded again. What was there to say?
"Well," she said sadly. "I'll check in with you when there's news."
After Madam Smythwethr left Sirius sat for hours in the rocking chair watching Harry sleep. For the first time since he was 16 he felt the repercussions of being disowned. Before, he'd have contacted his father and the family solicitor. Before, he'd have been able to waltz through this process on gilded wings, almost literally. Before, he'd had the power of the Noble and Most Ancient House behind his every whim. No one would think of challenging a Black's claim to a ward. (Well, a handful of other pureblood Houses had the clout to challenge, but only if they were willing to risk a possible House war.) Before...
Before he'd walked out. Before he'd raged against everything they believed. Before Regulus. Before Gryffindor. Before James… James…
Now, with Remus gone, Peter on the run, James and Lily dead, he had nothing but himself. He had a steady job and a decent living situation, sure. He was a more than capable wizard, so raising a wizarding child wasn't an issue, magically. He had no criminal record (unless someone raided Filch's office).
Not a bad situation really.
Except that he was, for the first time in his life, utterly alone.
A letter was waiting for him on the shabby desk. He was exhausted from a baffling day. His quarry had escaped, again, and his research was yielding no results. Aching for the shower—however grimy it was—he slit open the parchment.
The first sentence was enough to still his breath. His eyes leapt up and down the page in confusion before he forced himself to read it word by word. Four, five times he read it; trying to process; trying to force the words to become something else. The parchment fluttered from his fingers.
For several moments he stood in shock.
Suddenly he moved. Flinging a battered briefcase onto the hostel bed he began tossing objects into it from all over the room. In less than three minutes he'd stripped the room of his belongings. He dug a handful of gold coins from his pocket.
Briefcase in hand he hurried down the stairs and turned down the back hallway. He pounded on a thin, ancient door until the bleary eyed landlord opened it, snarling.
"I'm sorry. It's an emergency. This should cover what I owe you," he shoved the coins at the man. It was probably more than he owed, possibly by quite a bit, and he really couldn't afford it, but right now, he just had to get out! "Thank you for your hospitality."
He spun away and marched out the back door of the hostel. Stopping on the sidewalk for a deep breath he felt the tears finally catching up to him. No time! He had to go. He spun on his heel and disapparated with a subtle pop.
A few jumps later he landed at Devon before a towering, lopsided, house. He knew it was the middle of the night but he hoped they would be awake. Taking out his wand he tapped the edge of the ward surrounding the house and waited for the return signal allowing him passage.
He stumbled across the dark yard and reached the kitchen door just as a lamp was lit inside.
"Arthur," he said haggardly, as a man in a patchwork robe swung the door open. "Is it true?"
Oh God, it was true! How can it be true? He could read it in Arthur's face.
"Remus… " Arthur choked. "Come in."
