Meanwhile, back at the Tonks cottage, Ted was pacing the kitchen with the focused intensity of someone whose legal mind had just been presented with the most complex case of his career and was already seventeen steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
"Right," he said, stopping mid-pace to face the group with the kind of determined expression that had made him one of the most successful magical lawyers in Britain despite being Muggle-born in a profession that still harbored some unfortunate prejudices about blood status. "Here's how we're going to play this."
He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began sketching what looked like a battle plan that had been designed by someone who understood that winning wars sometimes required creative interpretations of truth and strategic applications of misdirection.
"As far as the Ministry is concerned," Ted continued, his voice taking on the authoritative tone that had intimidated opposing counsel for four decades, "Drakor doesn't exist."
Harry nearly choked on his bacon, which was unfortunate because it was the best bacon he'd ever tasted and definitely didn't deserve to be wasted on surprise. "What do you mean he doesn't exist?"
"I mean," Ted said with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just figured out how to make the impossible seem merely improbable, "that when we present this case to the Wizengamot, we're going to tell them that Harry Potter was rescued by an unknown vigilante—someone powerful enough to break into Azkaban, intelligent enough to recognize wrongful imprisonment, and ethical enough to ensure the safety of an abused child."
Sirius raised an eyebrow with the kind of aristocratic skepticism that had made professors question their life choices for seven years at Hogwarts. "You want to lie to the entire Wizengamot?"
"I want to present the facts in a way that allows them to process the information without having complete nervous breakdowns about cosmic entities and interdimensional justice," Ted corrected with the patient tone of someone explaining strategy to people who weren't trained in the fine art of legal maneuvering. "Think about it—which sounds more believable to a room full of wizards who think the height of innovation is adding a new flavor to Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans?"
He began counting on his fingers like someone outlining a particularly complex mathematical proof.
"Option One: Harry Potter was rescued by an ancient cosmic entity that eats Dementors and has strong opinions about child welfare. Said entity consumed two Death Eaters, violated several fundamental laws of physics, and is currently living in a ten-year-old's head while providing restaurant reviews for existential horror."
"When you put it like that, it does sound rather unbelievable," Bellatrix admitted, her voice carrying that precise articulation that came from expensive education mixed with growing amusement at the absurdity of their situation.
"Option Two," Ted continued, warming to his theme, "Harry Potter was rescued by an unknown vigilante who investigated the original cases, discovered evidence of wrongful imprisonment, and decided to take direct action when the official justice system failed to address obvious miscarriages of justice. This vigilante disappeared after ensuring Harry's safety, leaving behind evidence that exonerates Sirius and Bellatrix."
"That's... actually quite brilliant," Andromeda said, pausing in her preparation of medical supplies to appreciate her husband's strategic thinking. "It gives them a narrative they can understand and accept without requiring them to acknowledge cosmic entities or rewrite their understanding of reality."
"Exactly," Ted said with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved world hunger using nothing but superior legal reasoning and creative storytelling. "Plus, it puts the focus where it belongs—on the failures of the justice system rather than on the methods used to correct those failures."
"But what about the evidence?" Harry asked, his ten-year-old mind already working through the practical implications of this strategy. "How do we explain knowing about Peter Pettigrew being the real traitor, or the marriage contracts that enslaved Bellatrix?"
"Anonymous tips," Ted said promptly, his legal mind having already anticipated this question. "The vigilante left behind detailed information about the real crimes, including evidence that would have been available if proper investigations had been conducted in the first place."
Drakor's voice emerged from Harry's transformed features, carrying the tone of someone who'd just been presented with a strategy that appealed to his sense of cosmic irony.
"I have to admit," he said, his otherworldly harmonics making the kitchen windows vibrate slightly, "there's something deliciously poetic about using their own incompetence to explain how they missed obvious evidence of innocence. Very elegant approach to cosmic justice through bureaucratic misdirection."
"Will it work?" Sirius asked, though his voice carried the kind of hope that suggested he was already beginning to believe that competent legal representation might actually be possible.
"It'll work," Ted said with the confidence of someone who'd spent forty years making impossible cases seem reasonable to judges who thought creative thinking was something that happened to other people. "Especially once Andromeda finishes documenting the medical evidence of Harry's abuse. Nothing motivates the Wizengamot to reconsider their decisions quite like discovering they've been complicit in child endangerment."
Andromeda, who had been listening to this legal strategizing while organizing medical supplies with the efficiency of someone who'd dealt with complicated cases before, looked up from her preparations with the expression of someone who'd just remembered an important detail that everyone else had forgotten.
"Speaking of medical concerns," she said, her voice taking on the brisk professional tone that had made her one of the most respected healers in magical Britain, "Harry, you mentioned that Drakor has specific dietary requirements that we need to address. Could you elaborate on what exactly he needs to maintain his health?"
Harry's expression shifted slightly as Drakor took more direct control of the conversation, his features taking on that otherworldly quality that suggested ancient wisdom with a side of cosmic hunger.
"Phenethylamine, primarily," Drakor said, his voice carrying the clinical precision of someone discussing nutritional requirements that were probably covered in textbooks that didn't exist yet. "It's a neurotransmitter that occurs naturally in human brain tissue, but it's also found in significant concentrations in chocolate—specifically dark chocolate with high cocoa content."
"Chocolate," Andromeda repeated, her healer training already cataloguing this information for future treatment plans. "That's... actually quite manageable. What else?"
"Adrenaline, in controlled doses," Drakor continued, his tone taking on the matter-of-fact quality that suggested he was discussing perfectly normal dietary supplements rather than biochemical compounds that probably required special handling licenses. "The biochemical rush that accompanies fear, excitement, or physical exertion. Though I should mention, I can synthesize most of what I need from chocolate if it's provided in sufficient quantities and appropriate quality."
Ted paused in his legal note-taking to stare at Harry with the expression of someone who'd just realized that cosmic entities had surprisingly reasonable dietary requirements.
"How much chocolate are we talking about?" he asked, already calculating the financial implications of feeding an interdimensional predator with expensive taste in confectionery.
"Two to three bars of high-quality dark chocolate daily for basic maintenance," Drakor replied cheerfully. "More if we're engaging in activities that require enhanced cosmic abilities, such as breaking into maximum security prisons or having educational discussions with incompetent government officials."
"That's actually quite reasonable," Sirius said, relief evident in his voice. "I was expecting something more along the lines of 'virgin sacrifices under the full moon' or 'the still-beating hearts of my enemies.'"
"Oh, I can consume human tissue if necessary," Drakor added helpfully, his voice carrying the casual tone that suggested he was discussing backup dining options rather than something that should probably come with a warning label. "Brain matter is particularly nutritious, rich in the neurochemicals I require. Organs provide excellent nutritional variety. But chocolate is much more civilized and significantly less likely to result in awkward questions from law enforcement."
The silence that followed was the kind of profound quiet that usually preceded either great revelations or complete nervous breakdowns. In this case, it was probably both.
"Right," Andromeda said finally, her voice carrying the brisk efficiency of someone who'd decided to focus on the practical aspects of cosmic entity nutrition rather than the more disturbing implications. "Chocolate it is. I'll make sure we have a steady supply of the highest quality dark chocolate available. Anything else we should know about your dietary needs?"
"Avoid milk chocolate," Drakor said with the tone of someone providing important consumer advice. "Too much sugar, too little phenethylamine. White chocolate is essentially useless—it's not even real chocolate, it's just cocoa butter with delusions of grandeur. And please, no cheap convenience store chocolate. I have standards."
"The cosmic entity has refined taste in confectionery," Ted observed, making notes that would probably require their own special filing category. "I suppose that's reassuring in its own way."
"I've been around for millions of years," Drakor replied with dignity. "I've had time to develop sophisticated opinions about quality ingredients and proper flavor profiles. Just because I'm an interdimensional predator doesn't mean I can't appreciate the finer things in existence."
Bellatrix, who had been listening to this conversation with the fascination of someone discovering that the universe was considerably more interesting than she'd previously imagined, leaned forward with genuine curiosity.
"What happens if you don't get enough phenethylamine?" she asked, her voice carrying that precise articulation that came from expensive education mixed with scientific interest.
Harry's expression shifted as Drakor considered this question with the seriousness of someone discussing important medical information.
"Cosmic degradation," he said finally, his voice taking on a more serious tone that made the air itself seem to cool several degrees. "Without adequate nutrition, symbiotes begin to consume their hosts' neurochemicals directly. Eventually, we would be forced to feed on brain tissue, organs, whatever organic matter is available to maintain our existence."
The kitchen fell silent as everyone processed this information and its implications for Harry's long-term safety and cosmic entity management.
"But," Drakor continued cheerfully, his tone brightening like someone who'd just remembered good news, "with proper chocolate maintenance, this isn't a concern. Think of it like diabetes—manageable with appropriate dietary attention and regular monitoring."
"Cosmic diabetes," Sirius said slowly, his voice carrying the tone of someone trying to wrap his mind around the idea of interdimensional medical conditions. "Treated with high-quality chocolate."
"Essentially, yes," Drakor confirmed with satisfaction. "Though I prefer to think of it as 'sophisticated nutritional requirements that happen to align with one of humanity's greatest culinary achievements.'"
Andromeda stood up with the decisive movement of someone who'd just shifted into full medical crisis management mode, her healer instincts taking precedence over her amazement at cosmic entity dietary requirements.
"Right," she said, her voice taking on the authoritative tone that had made her one of the most respected healers in magical Britain. "First priority is a complete medical assessment for all of you. Harry, you're showing clear signs of systematic malnutrition that needs immediate attention. Sirius and Bellatrix, nine years in Azkaban will have left you with nutritional deficiencies, muscle atrophy, and probably some psychological effects that need to be addressed."
She began gathering medical supplies with practiced efficiency, her movements carrying the kind of purposeful determination that suggested she'd dealt with complicated cases before and had very strong opinions about proper patient care.
"Second priority is establishing a sustainable chocolate supply chain to maintain Drakor's health and prevent any unfortunate incidents involving involuntary brain consumption. Ted, I need you to contact Honeydukes and arrange for regular deliveries of their finest dark chocolate selections."
"On it," Ted said, already making notes that probably qualified as the most unusual grocery list in legal history.
"Third priority," Andromeda continued, her voice taking on the tone of someone who'd just figured out how to manage an impossible situation through superior organization and strategic thinking, "is preparing our documentation for the inevitable confrontation with Ministry officials who are probably going to have some very pointed questions about prison breaks and missing Dementors."
---
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore sat in his office surrounded by whirring silver instruments that monitored everything from magical disturbances to the general state of cosmic justice in the British Isles. This morning, several of them were making sounds that suggested reality was having technical difficulties and might require professional maintenance.
Dumbledore had spent the night reviewing memories in his Pensieve—specifically, memories of the night Sirius Black had been arrested, the conversations that led to Harry being placed with the Dursleys, and the uncomfortable realization that several of his decisions might have been motivated more by convenience than by justice.
The truth was uncomfortable in the way that truth often is when you've spent years building carefully constructed narratives that make your choices seem reasonable and then discover that some of those narratives might have been more fiction than fact.
"Fawkes," he said to the magnificent phoenix perched beside his desk, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized that some of his most important decisions might have been catastrophically wrong, "I fear I may have made some rather serious errors in judgment."
Fawkes trilled softly, a sound that might have been sympathy or might have been phoenix commentary on the general reliability of human decision-making under pressure. It was hard to tell with phoenixes—they tended to take the long view of things and had learned to be philosophical about human mistakes.
Dumbledore stood and began pacing behind his desk, his long robes trailing behind him as he worked through the implications of what he'd learned from the Ministry's reports about the Azkaban break.
The evidence was clear: Harry Potter had somehow acquired the resources to break Sirius Black out of prison, which suggested either that the boy had been corrupted by dark forces or that he had discovered evidence of Sirius's innocence that everyone else had missed.
Given Harry's character as Dumbledore understood it, the second option seemed considerably more likely than the first. Which meant...
Which meant that Sirius Black had spent nine years in Azkaban for crimes he hadn't committed, while his godson grew up with relatives who had clearly failed to provide the love and protection that Dumbledore had hoped for.
The Dursley placement had been a calculated risk from the beginning. Dumbledore had known that Petunia and Vernon weren't ideal guardians—had known they harbored deep prejudices against magic and everything associated with it. But the blood wards, the protection that Lily's sacrifice had provided, would only work if Harry lived with family who shared her blood.
Or so he had told himself. The truth, which he was only now allowing himself to acknowledge, was that placing Harry with the Dursleys had also been convenient. It had kept the boy away from the wizarding world, prevented him from growing up with knowledge of his fame and power, ensured that he would arrive at Hogwarts humble and grateful rather than spoiled and entitled.
It had also meant that Dumbledore could maintain control over Harry's development, could shape the boy's understanding of his role in the conflict with Voldemort, could ensure that when the time came for difficult choices, Harry would be prepared to make the sacrifices that might be necessary.
But at what cost?
Dumbledore moved to the window that overlooked the grounds of Hogwarts, staring out at the castle where Harry should have been learning magic and making friends instead of wherever he was now—probably planning cosmic justice with an interdimensional entity that had strong opinions about child welfare.
The morning reports from the Ministry painted a picture that was both inspiring and terrifying. Harry had somehow identified wrongful imprisonment, acquired the resources to correct it, and done so with a precision that suggested careful planning and moral conviction rather than childish impulsiveness.
But the methods... the methods suggested access to power that operated beyond anything in recorded magical history. Power that could reshape reality, consume Dementors, and violate the fundamental laws that governed magical society.
"I should have investigated Sirius's case more thoroughly," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just acknowledged a mistake that had cost innocent people years of their lives. "I should have insisted on a trial, should have demanded evidence, should have questioned why Peter Pettigrew's body was never found."
But the truth was, he hadn't questioned these things because questioning them would have been inconvenient. Sirius in Azkaban meant one less complication in Harry's life, one fewer person who might interfere with Dumbledore's carefully laid plans for the boy's development.
And now Harry had taken matters into his own hands, had somehow discovered the truth that all the adults in his life had failed to investigate, and was probably out there somewhere planning to hold everyone responsible for their failures.
Dumbledore couldn't even bring himself to disapprove. If Harry had indeed rescued innocent people from wrongful imprisonment while escaping abuse that the magical world had failed to prevent, then perhaps cosmic justice was exactly what their society needed.
The real question was whether Harry could be convinced to work within the system to reform it, or whether he would decide that the system was too broken to be salvaged and needed to be replaced entirely.
Given what Dumbledore knew about the Potter family's approach to injustice, he suspected it might be the latter.
"Fawkes," he said, turning back to his phoenix companion, "I believe we're about to witness either the greatest reform in wizarding history, or the most spectacular revolution. Possibly both."
Fawkes trilled again, a sound that definitely carried approval for cosmic justice and children who refused to accept abuse as their natural lot in life.
Outside his window, the Hogwarts grounds continued their peaceful morning routine, completely unaware that their most famous missing student was probably planning to revolutionize magical society while maintaining proper cosmic entity nutrition through strategic chocolate consumption.
This was definitely going to be interesting for everyone involved.
---
Back at the Tonks cottage, Andromeda had just finished the most unusual medical consultation of her career, and was beginning to understand why her husband had decided to approach this situation through creative legal maneuvering rather than conventional documentation.
"Right," she said, setting down her medical instruments with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just completed a thorough assessment and discovered that the situation was both better and worse than she'd expected. "Here's what we're dealing with."
She consulted her notes, which probably qualified as the most extraordinary medical record in the history of magical healing and definitely weren't covered in any standard textbook.
"Harry," she began, her voice taking on the professional tone that had made her one of the most respected healers in magical Britain, "you're suffering from chronic malnutrition, consistent with systematic food deprivation over several years. Your growth has been stunted, your magical development has been suppressed by physical stress, and you're showing signs of hypervigilance that suggest long-term psychological abuse."
Harry nodded with the matter-of-fact acceptance of someone who'd known his living situation wasn't normal but had never had an adult acknowledge it before. "Will I be able to grow properly now?" he asked, his small voice carrying the hope of someone who'd just discovered that maybe his problems weren't permanent.
"With proper nutrition and care, absolutely," Andromeda said firmly, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd seen worse cases recover completely with appropriate treatment. "You're still young enough that consistent care will allow you to reach your natural height and development. Though I should warn you—you're probably going to go through some dramatic growth spurts once your body realizes it's safe to grow again."
"What about Sirius and Bellatrix?" Harry asked, his concern for others taking precedence over his own relief about recovery prospects.
Andromeda turned to her cousin and sister, her expression taking on the clinical assessment that came from years of treating patients who'd been through traumatic experiences.
"Nine years in Azkaban," she said, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just documented evidence of systematic abuse by government authorities. "Both of you are suffering from malnutrition, muscle atrophy, and what I can only describe as magical depression from prolonged Dementor exposure."
"Magical depression?" Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow with the kind of aristocratic curiosity that had survived years of imprisonment and still made simple questions sound like advanced theoretical discussions.
"Dementors don't just drain happy memories," Andromeda explained, her healer training providing clinical terminology for something that was essentially systematic torture by existential horror. "They suppress the magical core's ability to generate positive emotions, which affects everything from spell casting to basic life satisfaction. You've both been living under the magical equivalent of severe clinical depression for nearly a decade."
"Will that get better?" Bellatrix asked quietly, her voice carrying the careful hope of someone who'd been magically enslaved for fifteen years and imprisoned for nine more, and was just beginning to believe that recovery might be possible.
"With time, proper nutrition, and gradual re-exposure to positive magical environments, yes," Andromeda said with the confidence of someone who'd seen similar cases recover with appropriate treatment. "Though I should warn you—the recovery process is going to involve some emotional volatility as your magical cores readjust to processing normal ranges of feeling."
"Meaning?" Sirius asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer and wasn't particularly looking forward to it.
"Meaning you're probably going to experience some rather intense mood swings as your ability to feel happiness, anger, love, and other normal emotions comes back online," Andromeda said with the clinical precision of someone explaining a medical condition that would probably require patience from everyone involved. "Think of it like magical emotional rehabilitation."
Ted looked up from his legal notes with the expression of someone who'd just realized that their case was going to involve not just legal challenges but also extensive medical documentation that might require expert testimony from healers who specialized in conditions that probably didn't have official names yet.
"How long before they're medically stable enough to appear before the Wizengamot?" he asked, his legal mind already calculating the timing they'd need for their case presentation.
"With proper care? A few weeks for basic physical recovery," Andromeda said, consulting her medical notes with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to balance optimal patient care with practical legal requirements. "Though full psychological recovery from what they've been through could take months or years."
"We don't have months," Sirius said grimly, his voice carrying the practical tone of someone who'd learned to plan around the fact that authority figures were probably looking for him with considerable enthusiasm and possibly arrest warrants. "The Ministry is going to be actively searching for us. We need to present our case before they decide to shoot first and ask questions later."
"Which brings us to the next practical consideration," Ted said, setting down his quill with the expression of someone who'd just figured out the most complex part of their legal strategy. "Where exactly are we going to conduct this case preparation without being discovered by Ministry personnel who might have uncomfortable questions about prison breaks and missing Dementors?"
It was at that moment that Harry spoke up, his ten-year-old voice carrying the kind of certainty that suggested he'd just figured out the solution to a very complex problem.
"Grimmauld Place," he said simply, his words carrying harmonics that suggested Drakor was providing information from Tom Riddle's absorbed memories. "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The ancestral Black family home. It's under a Fidelius Charm and protected by wards that would require the entire Ministry working together to breach."
Sirius blinked with the slow surprise of someone who'd just been reminded that he owned property that could solve their immediate problems. "Grimmauld Place," he repeated, his voice taking on the tone of someone who'd just remembered something important that he'd been trying to forget. "My dear mother's charming little townhouse of pure-blood supremacy and family dysfunction."
"It's perfect," Harry continued, Drakor's ancient knowledge providing strategic analysis through his young voice. "Completely secure, legally owned by Sirius as head of the Black family, and large enough to house everyone while we prepare our case. Plus, according to the memories I'm accessing, it has a library that contains legal documents dating back centuries, including records of magical marriage contracts and their historical applications."
"The library," Bellatrix said softly, her voice carrying the wistful tone of someone who'd grown up in that house and still remembered happy childhood memories of reading ancient books and learning family history. "I'd forgotten about the library. Mother used to let us read there on rainy days."
"The Black family library," Ted said, his legal mind already cataloguing the research opportunities that access to centuries of pure-blood legal documents would provide. "That could contain precedents for marriage contract nullification, wrongful imprisonment cases, and possibly even regulations about cosmic entity partnerships if any previous Black family members had similarly interesting associations."
"Knowing the Black family history," Sirius said with the kind of dark humor that had gotten him through nine years of prison, "cosmic entity partnerships would be among the less disturbing things documented in that library. We've always had a talent for finding creative ways to complicate our legal status."
Andromeda nodded thoughtfully, her healer training already considering the practical aspects of establishing a medical treatment facility in a house that had been uninhabited for over a decade.
"We'll need to clean it out first," she said, her voice taking on the brisk efficiency that came from years of organizing complicated treatment situations. "Stock it with medical supplies, proper food, and enough high-quality chocolate to maintain cosmic entity nutrition for extended periods."
"How much chocolate are we talking about?" Ted asked, already calculating the financial implications of feeding an interdimensional predator with expensive taste in confectionery for an indefinite period.
"Based on current requirements and projected case duration," Harry said, Drakor's voice emerging with the clinical precision of someone calculating nutritional needs for cosmic justice operations, "approximately fifty pounds of premium dark chocolate to establish an emergency reserve, plus regular deliveries of fresh supplies to maintain optimal performance levels."
"Fifty pounds," Sirius repeated, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just realized that cosmic entity partnerships came with grocery bills that probably qualified as luxury expenses.
"Quality matters more than quantity," Drakor added helpfully. "I'd rather have ten pounds of excellent Belgian dark chocolate than fifty pounds of cheap convenience store alternatives. Think of it as an investment in cosmic justice efficiency."
"The cosmic entity has expensive taste," Ted observed, making notes that would probably require their own special budget category. "I suppose there are worse habits for interdimensional predators to develop."
"Much worse," Drakor agreed cheerfully. "I could have developed a taste for fine wine, vintage automobiles, or original artwork. Chocolate is actually quite economical by comparison."
Andromeda stood up with the decisive movement of someone who'd just figured out how to organize the most complex patient care situation of her career while simultaneously establishing a headquarters for cosmic justice operations.
"Right then," she said, her voice taking on the authoritative tone that had made her one of the most respected healers in magical Britain. "Ted, you contact Honeydukes and arrange for chocolate deliveries. I'll gather medical supplies and coordinate with St. Mungo's for any specialized equipment we might need. Sirius, you and Bellatrix start thinking about what legal documents we'll need from the family archives."
"What about me?" Harry asked, his ten-year-old voice carrying the hope of someone who wanted to contribute to solving the problems rather than just being protected from them.
"You," Andromeda said gently, her voice taking on that warm tone that suggested she'd just remembered she was talking to a child who'd been through far too much and deserved to have adults who actually cared about his welfare, "are going to rest, eat proper meals, and let us handle the adult responsibilities for a while. You've done enough heroic problem-solving for several lifetimes. It's time to let the grown-ups take care of you for a change."
Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but Drakor's voice emerged with gentle authority that carried the weight of cosmic wisdom.
"She's right," he said, his otherworldly harmonics carrying genuine affection for his young host. "You've been carrying adult responsibilities since you were old enough to hold a dust rag. Let them handle the logistics while we focus on recovery and preparation for whatever comes next."
"Besides," Sirius added with the kind of protective warmth that suggested he was finally getting the chance to be the godfather he'd always wanted to be, "someone needs to make sure Drakor's chocolate requirements are properly met. That's a very important responsibility that requires careful attention to quality control and flavor testing."
Harry grinned with the first genuinely childlike expression he'd worn all morning, and for a moment he looked exactly like what he was—a ten-year-old boy who'd just discovered that maybe, finally, he was going to have adults in his life who actually wanted to take care of him.
"Quality control," he said solemnly, though his eyes were bright with amusement. "That's a very serious responsibility."
"The most serious," Drakor agreed with equally solemn gravity. "The fate of cosmic justice may depend on maintaining proper chocolate standards. We can't afford to compromise on quality."
Outside, the Kent countryside continued its peaceful morning routine, completely unaware that it had just witnessed the planning stages of what would probably be the most extraordinary legal case in wizarding history, involving wrongful imprisonment, cosmic entity nutrition, and strategic applications of family libraries that contained centuries of pure-blood legal precedents.
This was definitely going to be interesting for everyone involved.
---
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