# Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - The Gates
**October 29th, 1985 - 10:47 AM**
The wrought-iron gates of Hogwarts stood as they had for a thousand years—tall, imposing, topped with winged boars that seemed to watch visitors with eternal vigilance. Beyond them, the long path wound up toward the castle, which rose against the Scottish sky like something from a fever dream: impossible towers, moving staircases visible through windows, magic radiating from every stone.
Charlus Potter and Arcturus Black appeared at the gates with the sharp *crack* of Apparition, their arrival announced by the wards that monitored the school's boundaries. They wore formal robes—Charlus in deep burgundy with the Potter crest embroidered in gold, Arcturus in midnight black with silver Black family symbols that seemed to shimmer and shift in the light.
"I hate this place," Arcturus muttered, staring up at the castle. "Always have. Too many children. Too much noise. Too many people thinking they know better than everyone else."
"You attended here for seven years," Charlus pointed out.
"Seven years too many," Arcturus replied. "I learned more useful magic in the first month with the Legion than in my entire Hogwarts career. Though I suppose it was good for networking. Met Melania here, after all."
"And what a disaster that's been for your peace of mind," Charlus said with a slight smile.
Before Arcturus could respond, the gates swung open with a groan of ancient hinges. A massive figure emerged from the groundskeeper's hut—half-giant, all beard and bulk, with eyes that were surprisingly gentle despite his intimidating appearance.
"Lord Potter! Lord Black!" Rubeus Hagrid's voice boomed across the grounds. "Headmaster said yeh'd be coming. Sent me down ter escort yeh up to the castle."
"Hagrid," Charlus said, inclining his head. "Thank you. Though I suspect we could find our way—we both attended here."
"Aye, but protocol's protocol," Hagrid said cheerfully. "Can't have visitors wanderin' about unsupervised. Not with the students in classes and all. This way, if yeh please."
They fell into step beside the half-giant, who set a surprisingly brisk pace despite his size. The path wound through carefully tended grounds—the vegetable patches Hagrid maintained, the Quidditch pitch in the distance, the Forbidden Forest looming dark and mysterious on the horizon.
"How's the boy?" Hagrid asked suddenly, his voice dropping to something more gentle. "Harry. Read in the Prophet what them Muggles did to him. Terrible business, that. Dumbledore said the boy'd be safe there."
"Dumbledore," Charlus said, his voice very controlled, "was wrong about many things."
"Aye, well." Hagrid shifted uncomfortably. "Dumbledore's a great man. Best man I ever knew. But even great men make mistakes sometimes, I suppose."
"Sometimes?" Arcturus's voice carried an edge. "Hagrid, Dumbledore left my great-nephew rotting in a cupboard for five years. That's not 'sometimes making mistakes.' That's a catastrophic failure of judgment."
"Now see here—" Hagrid began, his massive face flushing.
"We're not here to debate Dumbledore's character," Charlus interrupted smoothly. "We're here to collect property that belongs to House Potter. The Invisibility Cloak that belonged to my son. Dumbledore has it. We want it back."
Hagrid's expression shuttered. "That's between you an' the Headmaster, I reckon. Not my place ter comment."
They continued in tense silence, climbing the wide stone steps to the castle's entrance. The great oak doors were already open—waiting for them, clearly.
But as they crossed the threshold into the Entrance Hall, a sharp voice called out from the marble staircase:
"Charlus Potter. Arcturus Black."
They turned.
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood on the landing, her tartan robes crisp despite the early hour, her dark hair pulled back in its signature severe bun, her expression carved from Scottish granite. She was in her fifties now—still striking, still formidable, still carrying herself with the rigid propriety that had made her legendary among students and staff alike.
And still, after all these years, looking at Dorea's best friend felt like looking at a ghost.
"Minerva," Charlus said carefully. His voice was neutral, giving nothing away.
"I saw the wards alert when you arrived," Minerva said, descending the stairs with precise, measured steps. "I thought I should... that is, I felt it appropriate to speak with you before you see Albus."
"Speak, then," Arcturus said coldly. "Though I can't imagine what you have to say that we'd want to hear."
Minerva's jaw tightened, but she continued with the kind of stubborn determination that had made her Gryffindor's Head of House. "I want to discuss the attacks on Albus. The articles. The public condemnation. It's gone too far. He's made mistakes, yes, but he's also the greatest wizard of our age. The man who defeated Grindelwald. The—"
"The man who left my grandson in a cupboard," Charlus interrupted, his voice going deadly quiet. "The man who imprisoned Sirius without trial. The man who apparently forgot that basic human decency matters more than grand strategies."
"He was trying to protect Harry—"
"By placing him with abusers?" Arcturus's voice cracked like a whip. "By never checking on his welfare? By prioritizing theoretical blood wards over the child's actual safety? That's protection, Minerva? That's the action of 'the greatest wizard of our age'?"
Minerva's expression hardened. "You weren't there. You don't understand the context. The war had just ended. Voldemort's followers were still dangerous. Albus made the best decision he could with the information available—"
"He made the *easiest* decision," Charlus corrected. "The decision that required the least effort, the least oversight, the least personal involvement. He handed Harry to Muggles who hated magic and convinced himself everything would be fine. That's not wisdom. That's willful negligence."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Minerva said, her Scottish accent thickening with emotion. "Albus has spent his entire life protecting people. He's sacrificed everything for the greater good—"
"There it is," Arcturus said softly, dangerously. "The greater good. Tell me, Minerva, where did Albus learn that particular phrase? Who taught him that individual suffering was acceptable if it served a larger purpose?"
Minerva blinked. "I... what?"
"You don't know, do you?" Arcturus smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You've defended Albus for decades. Believed in him absolutely. Trusted his judgment without question. And you never once asked where his philosophy came from. Who shaped his thinking. What influenced his decisions."
"Albus's philosophy is his own," Minerva said stiffly. "Developed through years of study and reflection—"
"And through his relationship with Gellert Grindelwald," Charlus finished quietly.
The silence that fell was profound.
Minerva stared at them, her face going pale. "What?"
"Oh, this is delicious," Arcturus said, though his voice carried no pleasure. "She doesn't know. Decades of absolute loyalty, and she doesn't even know about Gellert."
"I know about Grindelwald," Minerva said, her voice shaking slightly. "Everyone knows. Albus defeated him in 1945. It's why he's considered the greatest wizard—"
"Before that," Charlus interrupted gently, almost kindly. "Before the defeat. When they were young. When they were..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Friends."
"Albus and Grindelwald were never friends," Minerva said, but there was uncertainty creeping into her voice now. "They were enemies. Dark and Light. Good and evil."
"They were best friends," Arcturus corrected. "More than friends, actually. They met in Godric's Hollow in 1899, when Albus was eighteen and Grindelwald was seventeen. Spent that summer inseparable. Planning. Dreaming. Developing a philosophy about wizarding superiority and the need to control Muggles 'for the greater good.'"
Minerva's face had gone from pale to white. "That's... that's not true. Albus would never—"
"It's absolutely true," Charlus said. "They even made a blood pact together. A magical oath binding them so neither could move against the other. That's why Albus didn't stop Grindelwald earlier—why he let Gellert terrorize Europe for decades before finally facing him. He was magically bound by an oath made when he was young and foolish and in love."
"In love," Minerva repeated faintly. "You're saying Albus and Grindelwald were..."
"Involved, yes," Arcturus confirmed. "Romantically, ideologically, magically. They were partners in every sense until Grindelwald's plans became too dark even for Albus to stomach. Until Ariana died and everything fell apart."
"I don't believe you," Minerva said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Don't believe us, then," Charlus said. "Ask Albus yourself. Ask him about the summer of 1899. Ask him about the blood pact. Ask him where the phrase 'for the greater good' came from and why Grindelwald carved it above the entrance to Nurmengard."
"He wouldn't lie to me," Minerva said. "We've worked together for decades. He would have told me something that important—"
"Would he?" Arcturus asked. "Has Albus ever volunteered information that makes him look less than perfect? Has he ever admitted to mistakes without being forced to? Has he ever shown you his true self, Minerva, or just the grandfatherly mask he wears for everyone?"
Minerva opened her mouth, then closed it. Her hands were trembling slightly.
"You're doing this on purpose," she said finally. "You're trying to undermine my faith in Albus. To turn me against him. Because you want custody of Harry and Albus is in your way—"
"Albus has already withdrawn his custody petition," Charlus interrupted. "He conceded. Admitted he was wrong. We received formal notice yesterday. So no, Minerva, we're not trying to manipulate you for political gain. We're trying to open your eyes to the fact that the man you've spent forty years defending is not who you think he is."
"He's a good man," Minerva said, but it came out desperate now. "He defeated Grindelwald. He's protected Hogwarts. He's saved countless lives—"
"He's done good things," Arcturus agreed. "No one's denying that. But he's also done terrible things. And the fact that you can't hold both truths in your mind simultaneously is exactly the problem. You've made Albus into an idol, Minerva. And idols don't make mistakes. They don't have complicated pasts. They don't form blood pacts with future Dark Lords or leave children in cupboards or imprison innocent men without trial."
"Stop it," Minerva said, her voice cracking. "Just stop. I don't want to hear this."
"Because it's easier not to know," Charlus said gently. "Because if you acknowledge that Albus has feet of clay, you have to question every decision you've supported, every choice you've defended, every time you told someone 'Albus knows best' when maybe he didn't."
Minerva's hands clenched at her sides. "You have no right—"
"We have every right," Arcturus interrupted coldly. "We're here to collect property that belongs to House Potter. Property that Albus had no right to keep. Just like he had no right to place Harry with abusers. Just like he had no right to imprison Sirius without trial. Just like he's had no right to do half the things he's done while everyone—including you—stood by and let him because he's 'the greatest wizard of our age.'"
"Get out," Minerva said. Her voice was shaking now, with fury or grief or some combination of both. "Get out of my sight. Both of you."
"We're not going anywhere until we have that cloak," Charlus said firmly. "But Minerva?" His voice softened slightly. "When you're ready to hear the truth—the full truth, not the sanitized version Albus has been feeding you for forty years—talk to Dorea. She'd take your call. Despite everything."
Minerva flinched at Dorea's name. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't bring her into this."
"She's already in it," Arcturus said. "She's been in it since you blamed her for Henry's death. Since you decided that taking a sick child to American Healers was somehow worse than watching him die here. Since you cut her off completely rather than supporting her through the worst moment of her life."
"I was his godmother," Minerva said, and now the tears were coming, tracking down her severe face. "I should have been there. I should have—"
"You should have been there for Dorea afterward," Charlus said quietly. "When she came home broken. When she needed her best friend. Instead, you abandoned her. Just like Albus abandoned Harry. And you've spent thirty years telling yourself you were right to do it."
"You don't understand—"
"We understand perfectly," Arcturus said. "We understand that loyalty to Albus Dumbledore has cost you the most important friendship of your life. We understand that you've chosen a flawed man's approval over your own integrity. We understand that you're standing here defending someone who left a child in a cupboard because admitting he was wrong would mean admitting you were wrong to support him."
"That's not—I'm not—" Minerva stopped, her face crumpling. "I don't know what I am anymore."
The admission hung in the air.
"Then figure it out," Charlus said, not unkindly. "Talk to Albus. Ask him the hard questions. Demand actual answers instead of platitudes. And when you're done—when you've seen who he really is—decide whether that's someone worth defending."
He moved past her toward the staircase leading to the Headmaster's office. Arcturus followed.
Minerva stood frozen on the landing, tears streaming down her face, her entire worldview cracking like glass under pressure.
"Charlus," she called after them, her voice small. "Is it true? About Grindelwald? About the blood pact?"
Charlus paused, looking back at her. "Yes. Every word. Ask Albus. He'll confirm it if you push hard enough. He's in a confessing mood these days."
"And Dorea?" Minerva's voice broke. "Would she really... after everything I said to her... would she really take my call?"
"Only one way to find out," Charlus said gently. "But Minerva? You'd need to actually apologize. Actually admit you were wrong. No justifications. No excuses. Just 'I'm sorry I abandoned you when you needed me most.'"
"I don't know if I can do that."
"Then you're not ready," Arcturus said bluntly. "And you don't deserve Dorea's forgiveness. But when you are ready—if you ever are—she'll be waiting. That's the kind of person she is. The kind who forgives even when she shouldn't."
They continued up the stairs, leaving Minerva alone with her shattered certainties.
Behind them, they heard a soft sob, quickly stifled.
"That was cruel," Charlus said quietly as they climbed.
"That was necessary," Arcturus corrected. "She's spent forty years in Dumbledore's shadow, believing every word he says without question. Someone needed to shake her awake."
"I hope she survives it."
"She's Scottish," Arcturus said. "She'll survive. Whether she thrives afterward depends entirely on her."
They reached the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office.
"Lemon Drop," Charlus said, remembering the password from the last time he'd visited—decades ago, when James had gotten into trouble for hexing Severus Snape in the corridors.
The gargoyle sprang aside, revealing a spiral staircase that began to rise automatically.
"Ready?" Arcturus asked.
"No," Charlus admitted. "But we're doing this anyway."
"That's the Potter spirit," Arcturus said with grim approval.
They stepped onto the moving staircase and began their ascent toward a confrontation decades in the making.
---
# Headmaster's Office - Hogwarts
The office was exactly as Charlus remembered—circular, filled with delicate silver instruments that whirred and emitted puffs of smoke, portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses lining the walls (most currently pretending to sleep but obviously listening), and Fawkes the phoenix perched on his golden stand, regarding them with ancient, knowing eyes.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking older than Charlus had ever seen him. The twinkling in his blue eyes was notably absent. His hands were folded on the desk, his half-moon spectacles slightly askew.
"Charlus. Arcturus," he said quietly. "Welcome to Hogwarts. Please, sit."
"We'll stand," Arcturus said coldly.
"As you wish." Dumbledore didn't seem surprised. "I assume you've come for James's Invisibility Cloak."
"Among other things," Charlus said. "But yes, primarily the cloak. It belongs to House Potter. It should never have left our possession."
"I agree," Dumbledore said simply. He pulled open a drawer and removed a silvery fabric that seemed to flow like water. The Invisibility Cloak—legendary in the Potter family, passed down for generations, supposedly one of the three Deathly Hallows themselves.
"James lent it to me," Dumbledore explained, "shortly before he went into hiding. He wanted me to study its properties, to see if there was anything about it that might help protect him and his family. I never returned it after..." He trailed off painfully. "After Godric's Hollow. That was wrong of me. It belongs with Harry now. With his family."
He held out the cloak.
Charlus took it carefully, folding it with reverent hands. The fabric was impossibly light, impossibly smooth, and when he held it up to the light, he could see straight through it as if it wasn't there at all.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick.
"It's not a gift," Dumbledore said quietly. "It's returning what should never have been kept. I've done enough harm to your family, Charlus. The least I can do is return James's possessions."
"Speaking of harm," Arcturus said, his voice sharp, "we just had an enlightening conversation with Minerva. She was defending you. Again. Still. Despite everything."
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly. "Minerva has always been loyal."
"Loyal to a fault," Arcturus agreed. "We told her about Gellert. About the summer of 1899. About the blood pact and 'the greater good' and all the things you've conveniently forgotten to mention in forty years of working together."
Dumbledore's face went very still. "That was cruel."
"That was honest," Charlus corrected. "Minerva deserved to know who she's been defending. Who she's given forty years of unquestioning loyalty to."
"She didn't need to know about Gellert," Dumbledore said, and there was an edge to his voice now. "That's ancient history. Irrelevant to current circumstances."
"Is it?" Arcturus asked. "Because it seems to me that your relationship with Grindelwald explains quite a lot about your current choices. About your willingness to sacrifice individuals for the 'greater good.' About your certainty that you know what's best for everyone. About your inability to admit when you're wrong until forced to by overwhelming evidence."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dumbledore said.
"Don't we?" Charlus leaned forward, his hands on the desk. "Albus, you spent a summer planning wizarding domination with the man who would become the most dangerous Dark Lord of the twentieth century. You made a blood pact with him. You loved him. And then, when his plans became too dark even for you, when Ariana died and everything fell apart, you didn't stop him. You let him terrorize Europe for decades because you were magically bound and emotionally compromised."
"I defeated him eventually—"
"Eventually," Arcturus repeated. "In 1945. After millions had died. After he'd conquered half of Europe. After—" His voice went very quiet. "After I begged you to step in earlier. After I brought you evidence of what he was doing. After the Black Dragon Legion spent years bleeding to hold the line while you sat in your tower and did *nothing*."
Dumbledore stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I was bound by the blood pact! I couldn't move against him directly—"
"You could have helped us," Charlus said coldly. "You could have provided intelligence, resources, and support. You could have done a dozen things that didn't require direct confrontation. Instead, you hid behind that pact and let others fight your war for you."
"It wasn't my war—"
"It was ALWAYS your war!" Arcturus's voice cracked like thunder. "Gellert was YOUR mistake! YOUR friend! YOUR lover! And we paid for it! We paid in blood while you agonized over whether you could bear to face him! Do you have any idea how many people died because you were too emotionally compromised to act?"
Dumbledore sank back into his chair, suddenly looking every one of his 105 years. "I know," he whispered. "Merlin, I know. I've lived with that guilt for forty years."
"And yet you learned nothing from it," Charlus said. "Because here you are again, making unilateral decisions that hurt innocent people. Leaving children with abusers because you're certain you know what's best. Imprisoning men without trial because the evidence seems clear. Repeating the same patterns that cost so many lives during the Grindelwald years."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" Arcturus laughed bitterly. "You want to talk about fair? Let's talk about Sirius Black spending four years in Azkaban while you did nothing. Let's talk about Harry Potter sleeping in a cupboard while you congratulated yourself on the strength of your blood wards. Let's talk about Minerva McGonagall defending you for decades without knowing the first thing about who you really are!"
"Minerva knows me—"
"Minerva knows the mask you show her," Charlus interrupted. "The wise headmaster. The defeater of Grindelwald. The man who always knows best. She doesn't know about the blood pact. She doesn't know about your plans for wizarding domination. She doesn't know that 'for the greater good' wasn't your philosophy—it was Gellert's, and you adopted it wholesale."
"I rejected that philosophy—"
"Did you?" Arcturus asked softly. "Because from where I'm sitting, you still believe in it. You just convinced yourself you were working for the 'right' greater good instead of Gellert's version. But the fundamental principle is the same: individual suffering is acceptable if it serves a larger purpose. Harry in a cupboard is acceptable if it keeps him safe from Death Eaters. Sirius in Azkaban is acceptable if it maintains order after the war. My sister suffering for nine years is acceptable if it means you don't have to admit the Healers might have been wrong about their condition being permanent."
"I never wanted Dorea to suffer—"
"But you didn't try very hard to wake us, did you?" Charlus's voice was deadly quiet. "You consulted Healers, you said. But you can't remember their names. Can't produce documentation. Can't provide evidence that you actually made a serious effort rather than just accepting their initial assessment and moving on."
Dumbledore was silent.
"How many Healers?" Arcturus pressed. "How many curse-breakers? How much gold did you spend trying to wake them? Because I spent a fortune. I brought in specialists from four countries. I had the best minds in Europe examining them. And somehow, despite all my resources and motivation, I couldn't wake them. But you—with all your power and influence—you just... accepted it? Moved on? Found other things to worry about?"
"I believed they would wake when they were ready—"
"You believed what was convenient," Charlus said flatly. "Because if you'd woken us earlier—if you'd actually tried instead of just accepting failure—we would have demanded custody of Harry. Would have questioned your placement decision. Would have interfered with your plans. So you let us sleep. Let us remain conveniently incapacitated while you did whatever you wanted."
"That's not true," Dumbledore said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.
"Isn't it?" Arcturus asked. "Then prove it. Show us the records. Show us the Healers' names, the attempts made, the galleons spent trying to wake them. Show us evidence that you actually cared about getting them back rather than just filing them away as an unfortunate casualty of war."
Dumbledore opened his mouth. Closed it. "I... I don't have those records readily available."
"How convenient," Arcturus said coldly.
The silence that fell was broken only by the soft ticking of the silver instruments and Fawkes's occasional trill.
"I came here," Dumbledore said finally, his voice heavy, "hoping we could have a civilized conversation. That we could discuss Harry's welfare like reasonable people. That perhaps we could find common ground."
"There is no common ground," Charlus said. "You left my grandson in a cupboard. You imprisoned my nephew without trial. You let my wife sleep for nine years while you convinced yourself it was inevitable. There's no common ground between that and anything resembling acceptable behavior."
"I made mistakes—"
"You made choices," Arcturus corrected. "Deliberate choices based on the belief that you knew better than everyone else. That your judgment was superior. That the ends justified the means. The same philosophy that led Gellert to Nurmengard, Albus. The same certainty. The same arrogance."
"I am nothing like Gellert—"
"You're exactly like him," Charlus said quietly. "Just on the opposite side. He wanted to dominate Muggles. You want to protect them. He believed in wizarding supremacy. You believe in integration and equality. But the fundamental approach is the same: you both believe you know what's best for the world, and you're both willing to sacrifice individuals to achieve it."
Dumbledore stood again, his hands trembling. "Get out."
"Gladly," Arcturus said. "We got what we came for."
They turned toward the door.
"One more thing," Charlus said, pausing. "When Minerva asks you about Gellert—and she will, now that we've planted the seed—tell her the truth. All of it. She's given you forty years of loyalty. She deserves honesty in return."
"What I shared with Gellert is private—"
"What you shared with Gellert shaped the twentieth century," Arcturus interrupted. "Shaped the war that killed millions. Shaped the decisions you've made for eighty years. It's not private anymore, Albus. It's history. And people deserve to know their history, even when it's ugly."
"You had no right to tell her," Dumbledore said, his voice shaking with rage or grief or both.
"We had every right," Charlus said. "Because she was defending you. Defending your choices regarding Harry. And she deserved to know who she was defending. What philosophy informed those choices. Where your certainty about 'the greater good' actually came from."
"You've destroyed her faith in me," Dumbledore said.
"We've given her the truth," Arcturus corrected. "What she does with it is her choice. But yes, her faith in you will probably not survive contact with reality. That's what happens when you build relationships on incomplete information and convenient omissions."
They left without looking back, the Invisibility Cloak safely tucked under Charlus's arm.
Behind them, Albus Dumbledore stood alone in his office, surrounded by the portraits of previous Headmasters who were definitely awake now and staring at him with expressions ranging from sympathy to condemnation.
"Well," Phineas Nigellus Black said from his frame, his voice dripping with disdain, "that could have gone better."
"Shut up, Phineas," Dumbledore said tiredly.
"I'm just saying, keeping secrets from your Deputy for forty years generally doesn't end well—"
"I said shut up."
The portrait subsided into offended silence.
Dumbledore walked to the window, looking out over the Hogwarts grounds. Students were moving between classes, tiny figures laughing and talking and living their lives in blissful ignorance of the conversations happening in his office.
Minerva would come soon. Would demand answers. Would ask about Gellert and the summer of 1899 and the blood pact and every other secret he'd buried.
And he would have to tell her.
Have to watch her faith crumble.
Have to lose one of the few people who still believed in him without question.
"I'm sorry, Gellert," he whispered to the glass. "I'm sorry it ended this way. Sorry I couldn't save you. Sorry I have to let everyone know what we were. What I was."
The window didn't answer.
But somewhere in Nurmengard prison, Gellert Grindelwald sat in his cell and smiled, as if he could hear Albus's words across the distance.
As if he'd been waiting for this moment for forty years.
As if watching Albus finally face consequences was its own form of victory.
---
# The Grounds - Moments Later
Charlus and Arcturus walked in silence until they reached the gates, the Invisibility Cloak a comforting weight under Charlus's arm.
"That went about as well as expected," Arcturus observed.
"Better, actually," Charlus said. "I thought he'd put up more of a fight about the cloak."
"He's broken," Arcturus said. "Did you see his hands shaking? His voice cracking? Albus Dumbledore is finally realizing that power without accountability leads to ruin. Bit late for the realization, but there it is."
"Do you think Minerva will confront him?"
"Absolutely," Arcturus said with certainty. "We gave her information she can't ignore. Questions she can't suppress. She'll demand answers, and Albus will give them because he's in this peculiar mood where he thinks honesty will redeem him."
"And then?"
"And then either she'll forgive him—accept that people are complicated and flawed and still worthy of loyalty—or she'll finally see him clearly and walk away. Either way, she'll never trust him blindly again. Which is, frankly, what everyone needs."
They passed through the gates, which closed behind them with a soft clang.
"Dorea will want to see this," Charlus said, holding up the cloak.
"Dorea will cry," Arcturus predicted. "It was James's. She'll hold it and remember him as a child, sneaking around the manor thinking he was invisible."
"He usually was invisible," Charlus said with a sad smile. "That cloak is remarkably effective."
"One of the Deathly Hallows," Arcturus mused. "If the legends are true. True invisibility, functioning indefinitely, unable to be summoned or damaged. Rather fitting that it ended up with the Potters."
"James never knew what it was," Charlus said quietly. "Just thought it was a really good family heirloom. Never knew about the Hallows legend, about Death and the three brothers, about any of it."
"Probably for the best," Arcturus said. "If he'd known, he might have gone looking for the other two. And that way lies madness."
They prepared to Apparate, the Black family wards already pulling at them, calling them home.
"One more thing," Charlus said. "Did you mean what you said? About Dorea taking Minerva's call?"
"Of course," Arcturus said. "Dorea's spent thirty years wanting her best friend back. Wanting someone to apologize. Wanting closure. If Minerva actually humbles herself enough to ask for forgiveness..." He shrugged. "Dorea will give it. That's who she is."
"Even after everything?"
"Even after everything," Arcturus confirmed. "That's what makes her better than the rest of us. She actually forgives. Actually lets go of grudges. I'd carry that betrayal to my grave. Your sister? She'll cry, forgive, and move on like it never happened."
"I love her for that," Charlus said.
"So do I," Arcturus agreed. "Even when it's inconvenient."
They Disapparated together, leaving Hogwarts behind—and leaving Minerva McGonagall to face the consequences of forty years of unquestioning faith.
---
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