Amelia Bones and Alastor Moody Apparated not far from Number 4, arriving almost simultaneously with Sirius and Harry.

"How does anyone tell these houses apart?" Amelia muttered, eyeing the identical rows of homes with a mix of curiosity and mild exasperation.

Moody grunted. "They all have different numbers on them." Without further preamble, he started toward Number 4. Amelia followed, glancing around the quiet Muggle neighborhood. She hadn't spent much time outside the office—something she realized, with some irritation, that she ought to change. There were too many things she simply didn't know.

Up ahead, Harry and Sirius waited. As the group closed the distance, Sirius gave the Auror and the Director a nod. "See you found the place okay."

Moody grunted and turned his whirring magical eye on Harry. "You must be Harry Potter."

The intensity of his stare made Harry instinctively stiffen, his fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to retreat behind Sirius. The man was utterly terrifying—scarred, grizzled, and exuding an aura of barely contained menace.

"Y-yes, sir," Harry managed, trying to remember Remus's etiquette lessons. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

Moody let out a rough chuckle. "Doubt that, but I'll take the compliment." He jerked his head toward the house. "So, this the place then?"

Harry grimaced, and Sirius nodded.

They were all dressed in Muggle attire to blend in—though Moody, despite the effort, still looked like a man who belonged nowhere and everywhere at once. With a flick of his wand, his appearance began to shift, the deep scars softening, his magical eye settling into something that, while not normal, at least looked human.

"Wicked," Harry breathed, captivated. "I wish I could do that."

His mind drifted back to his first visit to Diagon Alley—how the crowds had stared at his scar. He worried it would be the same at Hogwarts, that he'd always be gawked at. But Moody, with all his battle-worn features, had just erased years of damage with a simple spell.

Moody, as if reading his thoughts, smirked. "Someday, you won't mind the stares so much. I quite enjoy making the witches faint and the wizards piss themselves."

Amelia cleared her throat pointedly. "Best to get this over with."

Harry shifted closer to Sirius, his godfather's reassuring hand settling on his shoulder. As if preparing for battle, the four of them marched toward the front door. Harry hesitated only a moment before pressing the doorbell. Though he'd never used it before, barging in as he normally would didn't seem wise with an audience like this.

A few moments later, the door swung open.

"Yes, may I—?"

Petunia Dursley's polite facade shattered in an instant. Her lips parted in shock as her gaze darted between the formidable figures on her doorstep—and the nephew she had hoped never to see again.

"You!" Petunia Dursley snarled at Harry.

Then, as if remembering the presence of his companions, she swallowed whatever insult had been on the tip of her tongue. Her gaze flickered warily over the three adults standing with him. "So, where did you find him?" she asked stiffly.

"May we come in, Mrs. Dursley?" Amelia Bones inquired, her tone polite but firm—leaving little room for refusal.

Petunia sighed and pulled the door open wider. "I suppose."

Her sharp eyes turned to Harry, narrowing in feigned concern. "I've been worried sick, young man."

Harry barely managed to hold back a snort. The lie was almost laughable. She hadn't been worried at all—Remus had called and explained the situation.

In fact, Harry had barely talked Remus out of demanding a ransom for his return, just for the fun of it. "They wouldn't pay, Moony," he'd assured him. "They'd probably beg the kidnapper to keep me."

Remus hadn't believed him at first—until he actually spoke to Petunia on the phone. After that, he'd muttered darkly that either Lily had been adopted or Petunia had, because there was no way those two were blood-related.

Inside the house, Amelia took the lead again. "Is your husband at home, Mrs. Dursley?"

Petunia hesitated before nodding. "Yes, he's still—" She cut herself off, her suspicion deepening. "Can I ask what this is about? And who you are?"

Her question, however, was barely directed at Amelia. She kept sneaking uneasy glances at Sirius, who was regarding her with a grin that could only be described as feral. Instinctively, she took a step back.

"My apologies, ma'am," Amelia said, her tone dry. "I am Amelia Bones, this is my associate Alastor Moody, and I believe you already know Harry's godfather, Sirius Black?"

Harry watched as a look of horror—and something else, something unpleasant—flashed across Petunia's face.

"I remember you!" she practically shrieked, her composure cracking. "You ruined my dress at my sister's wedding!"

Harry blinked in shock. "You know each other?"

Sirius smirked at him. "I wouldn't go that far, pup."

Turning back to Petunia, he flashed a wicked grin. "I made your dress better." He shrugged nonchalantly. "You looked quite fetching in mustard yellow."

He winked at Harry, who stared at his aunt as though she had suddenly sprouted a second head.

Now that Petunia was certain the people in her home were that sort, any attempt at civility evaporated. Her lips pinched together, her nose wrinkled as though detecting a foul stench, and she held herself rigid, as if afraid magic itself might seep into the furniture.

Harry sighed. She really could have used some of the etiquette lessons Remus had once given him. The way she was treating her visitors was downright embarrassing.

Before anyone could comment, the heavy thud of approaching footsteps signaled the arrival of Vernon Dursley.

"Who was at the door, Pet?" he grumbled as he entered, struggling with his tie. He had never learned to tie it himself—Petunia always did it for him.

Pausing in the doorway, he frowned deeply. His small, piggish eyes darted between Amelia, Moody, and Sirius before landing on Harry. His expression twisted in displeasure.

"Thought we were shot of you until next summer, boy," he sneered. His walrus-like mustache twitched with irritation, his beady gaze filled with contempt. "You can just go back to wherever you were!"

Harry didn't get a chance to respond—Amelia took control before the situation could spiral further.

"We are sorry to intrude on your morning," she said, her tone polite but edged with authority. "However, we are here to discuss Harry's situation with you. Shall we sit down?"

Vernon puffed up like an enraged walrus, his face darkening to an alarming shade of purple. His mouth opened, no doubt ready to launch into a tirade, but then his eyes flicked to Moody.

The scarred man offered him a slow, toothy grin—one that hinted at a lifetime of violence and an utter lack of patience. Vernon's jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

Grumbling under his breath, he stomped over to the loveseat, sinking into it with Petunia stiffly beside him. "What is this about?" he demanded.

While the others settled, Amelia let her gaze sweep over the pristine living room. Everything was meticulously arranged, the air tinged with the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant—so much so that it reminded her of a hospital. The walls were adorned with pictures of a plump, round-faced boy, undoubtedly their son, Dudley. Not a single image of Harry could be seen.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Moody, meanwhile, had wandered off, shambling through the house, his magical eye whizzing erratically as he inspected his surroundings.

Amelia, however, wasted no time.

"It has come to our attention," she began evenly, "that you may not be the best-suited guardians for Harry. Especially now that he is starting Hogwarts. Harry has informed us that you do not like magic."

Vernon gave a sharp nod, puffing out his chest. "That's right. We don't. And if it weren't for your kind and their meddling, we would have squashed it right out of him."

Sirius stiffened beside Harry, his fingers curling into a fist. A sharp retort was already forming on his lips, but one warning glance from Amelia stopped him. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into the cool, unimpressed mask of a pureblood aristocrat. Instead of speaking, he wrapped a protective arm around Harry, holding him close in silent reassurance.

Amelia, however, was not one to let such a statement go unchallenged.

"And how, may I ask, were you planning to squash Harry's magic?" she inquired, her voice deceptively mild.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

"Through hard work and punishment," Vernon growled, his thick fingers gripping the arms of the loveseat as though he were restraining himself from throwing them all out.

Amelia lifted a single brow, unimpressed. "I see." She nodded, her tone deceptively casual. "And what would you call hard work?"

Vernon straightened, his mustache bristling with self-righteousness. "The boy takes care of the garden, washes the car, cooks, and does the dishes—"

Amelia held up a hand, stopping him mid-list.

She had noted Petunia's growing discomfort with each additional chore. The woman's lips thinned, her hands clasping each other in her lap as though resisting the urge to intervene.

"And the punishments?" Amelia asked, her voice taking on a colder, sharper edge.

Vernon scowled. "We were promised no interference from your kind. It's no business of yours how we choose to discipline the boy!" His voice rose with frustration, but Petunia's hand landed on his thick forearm in a silent warning. He settled back into fuming silence, his face blotchy with anger.

Amelia tilted her head slightly. "Be that as it may, what kind of punishments?" she pressed.

It was Petunia who answered, her voice clipped. "At most, he has been sent to bed without dinner from time to time." She sniffed, feigning indifference. "Mostly, we ground him to his cu—" She faltered for the briefest moment before correcting herself, "His room."

But Amelia caught the stumble.

She did not react beyond a slight narrowing of her eyes. "I see," she said coolly.

A heavy silence hung in the air before she sighed. "So, would I be mistaken in thinking that you would prefer if your nephew lived with different guardians?"

Vernon immediately began nodding with enthusiasm, his fleshy jowls wobbling. Petunia, however, hesitated, her mouth pursing before she finally admitted, "Well. I would think he would be better off with his own kind. But your Professor Dumbledore informed us that Harry staying here would keep us safe." Her sharp gaze flickered toward Harry before she added, "As long as he lived here."

Amelia hadn't yet examined the wards, but she had no doubt they were extensive. She nodded. "We could ensure your safety without the boy living here." She shrugged. "Or you could move. Change your names, if you were so inclined. Most witches and wizards have little understanding of non-magical address systems." She dismissed their growing panic with another casual lift of her shoulders.

Vernon's expression twisted with disbelief. "Oh, just like that, is it? Just move? Just change our names?" He scoffed. "Nutters, the lot of you!"

Before Amelia could respond, Sirius leaned forward, draping an arm over the back of Harry's chair. His smile was slow and lazy, the kind of smile that didn't belong on a sane man. His voice was velvet-wrapped steel.

"Watch your tongue, Dursley," he murmured, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "Before I have it cleaved from your dirty mouth."

Harry shivered. The air in the room had shifted, thick with tension. Sirius had spoken so sweetly—which, Harry thought, was even more terrifying than if he had shouted.

Vernon must have thought so too. His jaw snapped shut so fast Harry swore he heard his teeth click. His face turned an odd shade of puce, but—for once—he wisely held his tongue.

It was at that moment that Moody wandered back in, his magical eye whirling, his expression thunderous. He jerked his chin toward the hallway.

"So, anyone want to explain the cupboard under the stairs?"

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Amelia's gaze snapped to the Dursleys, catching the way they instinctively pressed closer together, as if sheer proximity could shield them from the storm bearing down on them.

Her voice was controlled, but there was steel beneath it. "What did you find, Alastor?"

Moody didn't answer right away. Instead, his normal eye locked onto Harry with a look so piercing that Harry felt stripped bare. Shame curled in his gut. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers clenching the fabric of his jeans.

"You should see it for yourself, Amelia," Moody said at last, his voice low and grim.

Harry swallowed hard. He had always known, on some level, that the way the Dursleys treated him wasn't right. But it wasn't until now—until he saw the anger in Moody's face, the horror in Amelia's eyes—that it truly hit him just how wrong it was.

Sirius's arm tightened around his shoulders, solid and unwavering. If not for that, Harry thought he might have bolted from the room entirely. Instead, he found himself being led down the hall, his feet dragging, his heart hammering in his chest.

The cupboard door was already open.

Moody had moved his school trunk aside, revealing the cramped space in full detail. A filthy, threadbare mattress was shoved against the back wall. Cobwebs clung to the low ceiling. The air inside smelled of dust and something stale, something forgotten.

But the worst part—the part that made something cold settle in Amelia's stomach—was the sign, tacked to the inside of the door in a child's uneven scrawl.

Harry's Room.

AN: edited 3/6/25