The doors opened on iron hinges. Three Muggles shuffled through under Auror wands, wrists bound in charmed chains that tightened when they pulled. Vernon's neck flushed the colour of boiled ham as his small eyes swept the tiers. Robes and wood sticks. The man on the dais looked down with still grey eyes that did not blink. Vernon met that gaze and knew the ledger had come due.
Leviticus 20:27 beat in his skull like a drum. He clung to it. They were wrong and he was right. Unnatural men and women playing at judge and king. If he had his way he would have cleared them from the earth and slept like a baby afterward.
Petunia kept her chin high until the light struck the gold in the ceiling and threw back a memory. A little girl on a swing. Red hair. Laughing. The same moment she learned Lily could do things she could not. The jealousy began then, in time it turned to hate. Neat and precise, and she had fed it all her life. The boy in the cupboard had been the bill Lily left behind. That was how she made it square. She told herself so and believed it. Even now, with chains biting her wrists, she found no flaw in the arithmetic.
Marjorie sniffed as if the place smelled of wet dog. She noted fabrics, cuts, the odd hats, like a judge at a kennel show. These people dressed to be tripped. Ripper would have had them squealing in five minutes. She would remember faces. She would remember voices. She would make a list.
The chains drew them to the centre. Benches on three sides, packed tight. On the dais, Arcturus Black watched from the Minister's chair, hands light on the arms, attention like a knife laid on a table. To his right, Frank Longbottom sat at the Warlock's seat, gavel resting under his palm. Amelia Bones stepped forward with a folder under her arm.
"Vernon Dursley. Petunia Dursley. Marjorie Dursley." She set the folder on the lectern and lifted the first sheet. "You are charged with:"
She turned a page. "Vernon Dursley. You are charged under the Protection of Magical Children Act with willful starvation of a magical minor, unlawful imprisonment, assault causing bodily harm and solicitation of others to commit the same including your son. Further, you are charged with fraud by misrepresentation to Muggle authorities and with threatening a magical child with death."
A murmur ran the Traditionalist benches. Wands twitched in old hands. Two Lords rose on instinct. Aurors were faster this time. Shields snapped tall between tiers and the floor. The Lords sat again, faces like cut marble.
Amelia faced Marjorie. "Marjorie Dursley. You are charged with assault of a magical minor, incitement to cruelty, and the use of a mundane animal as a weapon against a magical child."
Marjorie drew breath for a performance. The breath ended in a squeak when her chain tightened. One of the Aurors turned and scoffed as he twisted his wand a bit more. She glared at him as if at a stable boy who had dropped a lead.
Amelia turned the last page. "Petunia Dursley. You are charged with betrayal of kin, willful starvation, unlawful imprisonment, assault, and conspiracy to conceal a magical child from his lawful guardians and the Ministry." She lifted her eyes. "How do you plead?"
Silence held. Then Vernon found his voice.
"What right," he roared, face purple, "what right have you to drag God fearing normal people into this circus. Kidnapping! Witchcraft! Freaks! All of you freaks!" His eyes swept the tiers and stuck there, wild and hateful. "What right do you have?" He roared and tried to move towards Amelia.
Two red flashes took him in the back. He sagged under a Stunner. A third spell hooked him by the ankle and turned him upside down in the air. He hung there, jacket falling over his head, buttons clicking against the chain.
Marjorie shrieked. Another pair of spells cut the sound and lifted her to match her brother, skirts tumbling, shoes kicking air. She twisted like a speared fish.
Petunia did not scream. She stared at Vernon hanging like a carcass, then at the wands levelled around her, then at the Minister. "No," she whispered. "No. No. No."
Two Aurors approached. One took her wrists and steadied her. The other tipped a vial to her lips. "A calming draught. Half dose." She tried to turn away. He held her jaw with careful fingers until she swallowed. The draught took her in a slow wave. The panic drained. What remained was cold and sharp.
Amelia kept her voice even. "Mrs Dursley, you knew of magic. You knew the child was magical. Tell this chamber why you did what you did and why you allowed other Muggles to do the same."
Petunia met her eyes. There was no tremor in her voice now. "I never wanted that thing in my house."
"Harry James Potter," Amelia corrected, the cold easing from her eyes.
"The freak." She lifted her chin a fraction. "He should have died with that whore and her layabout husband."
The sound that came from the Traditionalist tiers was not a murmur. It was a growl. Three Lords stood in one movement. Two Ladies rose behind them. Wands touched palms. A fourth stood in the Neutrals, eyes bright with a fury he did not bother to hide.
"Aurors," Frank said, no more than that. Lines of shields flared along the rail. The first rank of Aurors stepped into the aisle, wands high but pointing to the dome. The chamber breathed again.
Amelia did not look away from Petunia. "You felt no guilt."
"For what." Petunia's lip curled. "We fed our son. We kept a clean home. We did our duty in church. We did not owe that thing a bed or a place at our table. We did not want any of your freakishness in our home. Her mouth curved, mean and sure. "Vernon knew well what happens when you let the devil in.""
Amelia took a deep breath, centering herself. She was representing law and justice. "You lied about his parents."
"If he had been normal, it would have been wrong." She did not blink. "He is not."
Amelia's mouth tightened. "Chief Warlock." She did not turn her head. "Director Bones," Frank prompted.
Amelia glanced to the dais. "I request a mind healer examine the accused for intrusion or influence. This hatred is extreme even by Muggle prejudice. I want the record to show whether it is purely their own."
Arcturus leaned forward. The room went quiet again without being told. His gaze moved from the hanging bodies to Petunia's steady eyes, then to Amelia. He gave a single short nod.
"Granted," he said. "Summon a mind healer."
--
Sirius kept to the shadow of the visitors' gallery, jaw tight, eyes on Alice Longbottom. She dabbed at her cheek with a square of linen that had already lost its crisp fold. He stepped down a row and stopped beside her elbow.
"Alice." The name came rough. He did not trust his throat for more.
Her hand found his sleeve. She did not look away from the floor. Tears traced clean lines through the powder on her face.
"I thought he was with you," Sirius managed. Heat rose behind his eyes. "I never imagined Albus would leave him with Petunia. Lily wrote it in the will. Never her sister. Never that house."
A nod from Alice. No recrimination. That stung more than any curse. "I am sorry," he said, and again, because there was nothing else worth saying.
On the floor below, the mind healer closed his eyes, lowered his wand and stepped away from the Muggles. He looked disturbed to say the least. He turned and faced the dais. Petunia stood between two Aurors behind him. Her eyes were cold as old glass. Vernon and Marjorie hung upside down under pale levicorpus tethers, faces turning a mottled shade of purple, yet no one seemed to notice or be bothered by it.
"There is a faint external encouragement," the healer reported, voice steady. "It nudged toward verbal and physical abuse of anything magical. The base hatred, however, is theirs. Fear of the unknown curdled over years." He glanced at his notes. "I believe the general run of Muggles would fear as they do. I cannot tell however if their reaction can be considered a standard or hatred towards magicals across their kind is thought. I do not have expertise on their kind and culture."
A scoff cut across the Traditionalist benches. Lord Yaxley rose just enough for his voice to carry. "You cannot tell, is it," he drawled. "Try stakes and fire."
"Hear, hear," rolled in answer from Traditionalists and Neutrals. A few thin voices in the Progressive rows joined, then fell quiet under Amelia's stare.
She faced the healer again. "Can they be held responsible for their acts?" Her tone stayed professional, but her fingers had gone white on the edge of her folder.
"They definitely can." He lifted his chin, eyes grim. "The fat Muggle hates all things that are not 'normal,' magicals included. His sister is cut from the same cloth and sick in her mind from what I see her doing with those dogs." He grimaced and shook his head as if trying to get rid of whatever he saw in Marjorie's mind. "This one," he pointed to Petunia. "Is eaten by jealousy of her witch sister. In conclusion, if not the first year, then the second. If not the cupboard, then the yard. The end would be the same."
Spells kept the Dursleys silent while the words settled. Petunia's chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm; the calm draught was still at work. Her hatred leaked through, thin and sharp at the edges of her mouth.
Amelia turned to the dais. "Minister. The Department has no further questions."
Frank Longbottom bent over a sheaf of parchment. He wore the same look he had used to read charge sheets for Death Eaters in his days as an Auror. "Our laws bind wizardkind," he said after a moment. "They do not bind Muggles. The revisions of the last two decades are plain." He tapped the margin. "The code directs Obliviation and release."
Shouts welled up at once. Wands lifted. An Auror line formed between the benches and the prisoners, boots set, shoulders square. Frank's gavel struck twice. The noise dulled, but anger still pulsed like heat off stone.
Arcturus rose without hurry. One hand lifted and the chamber folded into silence. "Those revisions," he said, looking down at Frank, "were cut into law by a dark wizard." His gaze went to the three Muggles. "Our ancestors had a term, 'Muggle Hunting'. As I look upon you, I can see how some reached for that answer." A small breath. "The saddest truth is, I do not believe you three are the worst of your kind."
He faced the chamber. "They will not walk out of this hall with what they did to a magical child. They will be sent to Azkaban."
The word moved along the rows and came back as a low growl of approval. Petunia blinked, uncomprehending the meaning.
A Progressive lord sprang up two benches over from Dumbledore's empty seat. "They will die," he called, voice high with outrage. "They cannot survive even the lowest levels."
Arcturus inclined his head. "Thank you for the reminder. The guards of the high security ward will make sure they learn the meaning of punishment as long as they live, however long that may be. Dementors, compared to these Muggles, are less hateful, and magical beings after all."
That settled it. Quills scratched. A clerk reached for the warrant form. Amelia signed without flourish and slid the parchment back. The seal flared and cooled.
Sirius stood very still. Alice's hand had left his sleeve, but he felt the imprint. "We will do better by him," he said under his breath. It was not a promise to Alice so much as an oath to the boy he had failed.
Two Aurors moved in step. Vernon and Marjorie stayed inverted, clothes flopping over their faces. Their cheeks had gone an ugly plum. Petunia walked between another pair, shoulders straight, eyes oddly placid from the draught. Behind that calm a thin terror woke and looked out.
They passed beneath the visitors' gallery. Petunia's eyes met Sirius's. He bared his teeth. "You deserve worse."
The heavy doors swung. Iron hinges groaned. The trio went through without ceremony and the doors shut on them with a final weight that rang in the stone.
Frank set the gavel down. Amelia closed her folder. The chamber breathed as one and reached for the next reckoning.
--
Snow pressed close to the stone in a white hush. The castle stood where the Austrian Alps shouldered the sky, a black dagger stabbed to the mountains. Over the iron doors, the motto cut deep and clean: For the Greater Good. The wind worried the letters and lost.
The outer ward held two dozen figures in winter cloaks. ICW badges glinted on a few shoulders. Austrian Aurors formed the front line in dark uniforms trimmed with silver.
A senior Auror stepped forward. A scroll in his gloved hand. He broke the seal and read, voice flat. "By order of the Ministry of Magic of Wizarding Austria all ICW jurisdiction, personnel, and operations within borders of Austria are suspended until an audit is complete. ICW staff will vacate Nurmengard and proceed to the designated locations in Steyr, Villach and Wels."
An ICW marshal shifted his weight. "Nurmengard falls under Confederation custody by long standing resolution."
The Austrian lifted the parchment. "Countermanded by Vienna for the duration of the inquiry. Sign to acknowledge the receipt please." He offered a quill and a copy of the missive. The marshal stared at the ink as if it might bite, then signed with a stiff hand. Others followed, mutters kept behind teeth. Control of the wards changed hand silently. The fortress had new masters for the foreseeable future.
Inside, the halls ran narrow and cold. Torches guttered. The last cell lay at the end of a long corridor. Silence heavier there than anywhere else in the castle. Gellert Grindelwald lay on the pallet with his hands behind his head. The ceiling had a crack like a river on a map. He had counted the branches more times than he cared to admit.
Boots. Three sets, measured and sure. He sat up. The viewing slot scraped open. A strip of light cut his face. An Auror waited on the other side, cap shadowing his brow. "My Lord." No flourish. Only the smallest inclination.
Parchments slid through the slot. Thick paper. Official seals. Gellert took them and let the weight tell him the story before the ink did. He did not look down yet. He looked up and met the man's eyes.
The Auror did not flinch. He let his Occlumency shields lower, his breath slow, his posture loosened. Gellert's own focus thinned to a needle point. The wall between two minds softened.
Memories opened like drawers.
A chamber in London lit by floating globes. Arcturus Black on the dais, the room bristling like a pack of wolves. Amelia Bones steady as a butcher. The killing curse, emerald and hungry. Benches shielded, a young man with the eyes of a predator stepping aside, lightning breaking the floor, the phoenix falling like a coal into ash. Albus following a breath later. Wands raised. The old order split down to the grain within moments.
More drawers. Orders carried to border posts. Stamps. Seals. The word suspension repeated in cold language. ICW envoys turned from gates as if from private homes. Vinda in Durmstrang, Grigori in Moscow. Posts filled before the ink dried on the resignations. A map of Europe with pins sliding.
Gellert withdrew from the Auror's mind. His own breath misted the air in front of him.
He unfolded the first report. Audit notices. A list of jurisdictions severed pending review. Names of custodians replaced by names he knew from other, brighter years. The Alliance. Not a roar yet, but a hum. He read the second sheet. Press clippings shrunk to summaries. "Britain Declares ICW Rogue." "Scandinavia Suspends Confederation." "Eastern Conclaves Close Doors." He could hear the printers even here, fast and angry.
On the third page a brief. Vienna cedes operational control of Nurmengard to the Austrian DMLE for sixty days. The time frame may be extended based on the audit procedure. ICW personnel to hand over control of the wards, effective immediately. Custody conditions unchanged. Access logs to be duplicated and sealed.
Gellert let the parchment rest for a while. The stone under him held the night's chill. He looked through the slit at the man in the corridor.
The Auror's mouth tightened, not quite a smile. His right fist went to his heart and he nodded.
Gellert closed his eyes for a count of three. Albus, trussed before the herd he had shepherded for so long. A neat symmetry. There was mercy in it, of a strange sort. He wondered whether the other man had felt the chain of his own making bite. He doubted it. Believers rarely notice the teeth of their creeds until bone shows.
The slot stayed open. The corridor breathed quietly. Snow hissed against the arrow slit at the corner. The mountain pressed its weight around them both.
He gathered the parchments and tapped them square. "Very well." Fingers slid the bundle back across the stone. The Auror took it and checked the seals with a practised glance. His eyes met Gellert's one last time. From the slot at the bottom of the metal door, a tray of potions slid in. Gellert smiled and took it.
The metal lid moved on its rails. The strip of light narrowed to a finger, then to a blade. The hinge clicked home.
"For the Greater Good."