The Wizengamot Chamber was a grand, circular hall of ancient, dark stone, filled with tiered seats that overlooked the centre of the room. The seats were occupied by lords and ladies, their robes a vivid plum colour. Benches filled the lower tiers, for those who weren't part of the court.
Torches lined the high walls, flickering with enchanted blue fire, casting long shadows over the proceedings. The air buzzed with political tension, as witches and wizards murmured among themselves, waiting for the meeting to begin.
At the highest platform, Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, stood resplendent in his elaborate midnight-blue robes woven with silver stars. His piercing blue eyes swept across the chamber as he raised his hands, calling for order.
"Welcome, my esteemed colleagues, to the final Wizengamot session of 1994," Dumbledore's voice carried through the chamber, amplified by magic.
There was a respectful silence, though a few whispered conversations continued.
"As per tradition," Dumbledore continued, "before we begin our agenda, we must first ask: Are there any who wish to declare their houses and claim their seats in this session today?"
He said it as a formality, fully expecting silence.
And indeed, for a long moment, there was nothing—no movement, no response.
Dumbledore nodded, prepared to move on.
"Yes, I would."
The words cut through the chamber like a blade, clear and unwavering.
A ripple of confusion spread across the lords and ladies, heads whipping toward the voice.
At the far side of the chamber, an impossibly young figure sat casually on an empty bench.
He was dressed in black, his robes lined with golden embroidery, shimmering faintly under the torchlight. His emerald-green eyes, free of glasses, filled with confidence and amusement, swept over the room as he rose to his feet with effortless grace.
There was a stunned silence as Harry James Potter stepped forward.
Then, pandemonium erupted.
"Potter!?" came the outraged voice of Lucius Malfoy, who had been sitting smugly in the front row, his pale face tightening with shock and fury.
"What is the meaning of this?" snapped Minister Cornelius Fudge, his plump face paling, clutching his bowler hat as if trying to find stability in the madness.
The chamber exploded with shouts—questions, disbelief, and outright rage filled the hall.
At the centre of it all, Harry stood unmoved, his posture calm, his expression unreadable.
On the high platform, Dumbledore's usually serene face twisted into something darker, his blue eyes burned with controlled fury, his jaw tight.
"Harry, what do you think you are doing?" he demanded, voice low but dangerous.
"I believe I'm declaring my Houses, as is my right, Chief Warlock."
Dumbledore's hand clenched around the edge of his podium.
"There is no possible way for you to claim your houses," he snapped, losing the grandfatherly mask. "You are not of age and you are not emancipated."
The room hushed, waiting for Harry's response.
He let a small smirk creep onto his lips.
"Oh, but I am," he said. "On October 31st of this year, Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, both verbally emancipated me."
A collective gasp filled the room.
Madame Amelia Bones, Director of the DMLE, who had been watching silently, suddenly straightened, her sharp gaze fixing on Dumbledore, Crouch was nowhere to be seen.
Fudge floundered, face red with panic. "T-This is ridiculous! The Ministry of Magic does not recognise—"
"Oh?" Harry cut in smoothly, turning his gaze to Fudge with measured intensity.
He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a leather-bound book—the official Triwizard Tournament Handbook.
Lifting it up, he began to read aloud:
"A Champion's Magical Guardian has twenty-four hours after their selection to withdraw their name from the Tournament, as participation in the Triwizard Tournament is strictly limited to wizards of age. Amendment made by the British Ministry of Magic, 17th February 1993."
A cold silence followed.
Harry snapped the book shut with a crisp sound, his gaze flickering to Dumbledore, who had failed to remove him from the tournament.
"So tell me, Minister," Harry said pleasantly, though his voice carried iron beneath it, "how exactly does the Ministry of Magic plan to argue against my emancipation, when its own laws state that I must be of age to participate?"
Fudge's mouth opened and closed, no words escaping.
Somewhere in the chamber, a Lord coughed loudly, but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"Furthermore," Harry continued, his gaze sweeping the room, "none in this chamber can deny my claim, because…"
He lifted his right hand, where four rings glowed faintly under the torchlight.
"I have already been accepted by my Lord Rings."
A second shocked silence filled the room.
And then, uproar.
"Impossible!" barked Lord Nott, Theo's father, his face twisted in outrage.
"You stole them!" snarled another lord, but Harry only raised a brow.
"Magic does not lie," Harry reminded them, his voice commanding. "And if the Ministry thinks it has any say over this, they are mistaken."
Shouts erupted again, but this time a loud, firm voice cut through the chaos.
"Silence!"
Madame Bones had risen to her feet, her sharp grey eyes gleaming with intrigue and intensity.
Her voice rang with authority.
"Lord Potter, I believe I speak for many when I say—declare your Houses now."
The chamber hushed, every pair of eyes locked onto Harry Potter.
Harry stepped forward, lifting his chin, standing in the centre of the room like he had been born for it.
With absolute clarity, his voice echoed through the hall.
"I, Harrison James Potter-Black, by right of magic and blood do declare my houses before the magic of the Wizengamot. As Lord of the houses Potter, Black, Slytherin and Peverell, I claim all seats before this court."
A deep, resonating chime echoed throughout the chamber, its sound ancient and absolute. The very walls of the Wizengamot Hall hummed with power, responding to the declaration that had just been made.
Before the shocked eyes of the gathered Lords and Ladies, an ornate chair materialised in an empty space among the neutral faction.
It was carved from dark ironwood, its arms and backrest adorned with four distinct crests—the dragon head of House Potter, the elegant striding grim of House Black, the mysterious symbol of House Peverell, and the coiled serpent of House Slytherin.
The magic in the air shifted, acknowledging the new Lord.
From his position at the High Table, Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes locked onto him, and for the first time, Harry saw his greed clearly.
It was quickly masked, but Harry had witnessed the slip.
For years, Harry had been reading and researching, and it was painfully obvious that the Peverell's had always been a subject of fascination for Dumbledore. Whether it was because of the legend of the Deathly Hallows or something else, Harry wasn't sure.
Before Harry could fully enjoy his victory, an enraged shout echoed across the chamber.
"This is an outrage!"
Harry turned just in time to see Lucius Malfoy, his pale face twisted in fury, rising from his seat. His elegant cane trembled in his grip, barely suppressing his rage.
"The House of Black already has an heir! My son, Draco, was to inherit the Black lordship when he came of age!"
"No, he wasn't."
Lucius flinched visibly, taken aback by Harry's casual dismissal.
Harry tilted his head, enjoying this far too much.
"I'm afraid you were severely misinformed, Lord Malfoy." His voice was smooth, controlled—the tone of a lord addressing a lesser.
Lucius bristled, his fingers tightening around the silver snake-head of his cane.
"The Black Lordship was always meant to pass to a worthy heir," Harry continued, his emerald eyes gleaming with amusement. "And your son was never even in the running for it."
The chamber fell into a stunned silence.
Harry pressed forward, "Arcturus Black, former Lord Black, declared me his heir long before his passing."
Lucius staggered, his sharp features paling, his rage momentarily replaced by pure shock.
"Lies," he hissed, though his voice lacked its usual smooth arrogance.
Harry merely lifted his hand, where the Black Lord's ring gleamed under the torchlight, its dark onyx stone absorbing the glow.
The ancient Black magic did not lie.
A murmur of shock and hushed whispers rippled through the gathered nobles. Even some of the more neutral lords seemed taken aback by the revelation.
Lucius' mouth opened, then snapped shut, his mind scrambling for a way to recover.
Harry smiled pleasantly.
"Magic does not lie, Lord Malfoy."
Lucius' jaw clenched, but after a long, tense moment, he slowly lowered himself back into his seat, looking like he had swallowed a lemon whole.
Harry turned his attention back to Dumbledore, who had—by now—regained his calm mask, though there was still an edge to his expression.
"Shall we continue, Chief Warlock?" Harry asked smoothly.
For a fraction of a second, Dumbledore's lips pressed into a thin line before he schooled his expression into polite neutrality.
"Indeed. Welcome, Lord Potter-Black-Peverell-Slytherin, to the Hall of the Wizengamot."
"Lord Potter-Black, will suffice."
There was a general murmur of reluctant acceptance, and Harry took great pleasure in the fact that Dumbledore had been forced to acknowledge him.
The chaos slowly settled, and the chamber moved on to the scheduled agenda.
The first item on the agenda was a diplomatic issue regarding the Triwizard Tournament and the Romanian Dragon Preserve.
Harry, still reclining in his seat, immediately noticed how many eyes flickered toward him.
Oh, here we go.
Minister Fudge, who had visibly regained his confidence, cleared his throat and stood up with exaggerated importance.
"As the esteemed members of the Wizengamot are aware," Fudge began in his pompous drawl, "the Triwizard Tournament has unfortunately experienced some... complications due to the actions of a certain competitor."
Harry kept his face blank, watching as Fudge's beady eyes flicked toward him.
"Namely," Fudge continued, "the unlawful release of a Hungarian Horntail—a highly dangerous magical creature—that has, regrettably, caused diplomatic tensions with the Romanian Dragon Preserve."
A few members began muttering among themselves, some nodding in agreement.
Harry remained silent, his emerald gaze assessing, waiting.
Fudge straightened his lime-green robes with a flourish.
"As such, considering the fact that Mr. Potter was the one who released the creature," Fudge said, voice smooth, "it is only fitting that he should be held responsible for the damage. The Ministry suggests a heavy fine be levied against him, to compensate—"
"That will not be happening."
The statement was sharp, unyielding, and cut through the room like a blade.
The Wizengamot stilled, eyes darting back to Harry, who had finally sat up properly in his seat.
Fudge blinked, as if unable to comprehend being interrupted.
Harry's voice remained calm, but steely.
"Firstly, Minister," he said, annunciating the title with deliberate care, "it is Lord Potter-Black, and I would appreciate it if you remembered that."
Fudge flushed slightly, but Harry continued before he could respond.
"Secondly," Harry leaned back in his chair, "the Ministry of Magic already paid a hefty sum for the use of the dragons in the Triwizard Tournament."
Murmurs spread throughout the chamber.
Harry's gaze sharpened.
"The Romanian Dragon Preserve entered into a contract with the British Ministry of Magic. That contract specifically covered all damages, risks, and liabilities that might arise from the event. The event, in which it was stated that all participants were to collect the egg by any means necessary. I found it necessary to follow the dragons wishes of freedom in exchange for the egg."
Fudge puffed up, clearly about to protest, but Harry didn't stop.
"I also have it on good authority," he continued smoothly, "that the dragon reserve is currently conducting its own investigation into certain members and shareholders regarding the illegal sale of dragon eggs and other assets." Thank you, Charlie, he thought.
Fudge froze.
Harry gave him a knowing smile.
"So, instead of falsely placing blame on me," Harry finished, his voice mild but his expression razor-sharp, "perhaps it would be wiser to remind the Preserve that the contract has already been fulfilled, and they have no legal grounds for compensation."
A heavy silence followed, and low chuckle came from Madame Bones, who looked impressed.
"Well said, Lord Potter-Black," she remarked, casting a pointed glance at Fudge, who had turned an interesting shade of purple.
Harry gave her a polite nod.
Fudge, clearly struggling for a rebuttal, opened his mouth. Only for Dumbledore to cut in smoothly.
"I believe Lord Potter has made his stance quite clear," he said pleasantly. "Shall we move on to the next order of business?"
Fudge, left with no choice, gritted his teeth and gave a tight nod.
Harry relaxed back into his seat, feeling the weight of multiple eyes on him.
Let them watch.
He was just getting started.
~
The session dragged on, discussion shifting to petty legislative matters—taxes, small policy changes, and tedious debates that made half the chamber look ready to doze off.
Harry pretended to listen, keeping his expression neutral, but his mind was already on what was coming next.
"Are there any final matters to be brought before the Wizengamot?"
Dumbledore's calm, measured voice echoed through the chamber.
A long pause followed.
Silence stretched, filling the grand hall before a wand lit up, and Harry stood.
Excited murmurs spread rapidly as the realisation set in—Lord Potter-Black was once again claiming the floor.
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.
"The floor recognises Lord Potter-Black," he said, reluctantly.
Harry took a breath, casting his emerald gaze over the assembled Lords and Ladies, preparing himself for what he needed to say.
"This body," Harry began, his voice strong and steady, "has participated in a grave injustice."
The chamber stilled, silence suffocating the room like a heavy fog.
"I am speaking, of course," he continued, "of the events that occurred on the night of October 31st, 1981—the night my parents were murdered."
Murmurs became a low roar as Lords and Ladies turned to each other, eyes wide with intrigue and speculation.
Dumbledore's face remained impassive, but Harry could feel the magic around him, echoing something like a warning.
Fudge cleared his throat loudly, puffing up his chest in mock outrage.
"Now see here, Lord Potter, surely this isn't an appropriate matter for—"
Harry didn't let him finish.
"Lord Potter-Black. And it is entirely appropriate, Minister," Harry cut in smoothly, his gaze sharp as a blade. "It concerns the integrity of this very court."
That shut Fudge up.
Harry continued, voice measured, deliberate.
"For thirteen years, this chamber and the British Ministry of Magic have operated under the belief that Sirius Black betrayed the Potters to Voldemort—"
A chorus of gasps and flinches followed the name.
"—and then killed Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles in a cowardly attempt to escape justice."
Harry met the rooms gazes, unyielding.
"But it was all a lie."
The uproar was immediate.
Shouts erupted from all sides, arguments overlapping in a chaotic storm of voices.
Dumbledore stood, raising a hand. "Order! ORDER!"
The chamber gradually settled.
Dumbledore turned to Harry with a measured expression, but his tone was slightly warning.
"Lord Potter-Black," he said smoothly, "you are making a rather extraordinary claim."
Harry's jaw clenched.
He wasn't going to let Dumbledore derail this.
"Sirius Black was never the Potters' Secret Keeper."
So, he kept going.
"Peter Pettigrew was."
Not a single person spoke.
Harry took another step forward, voice strong and unwavering.
"The Fidelius Charm protecting my parents never rested with Sirius Black," he declared. "It was Peter Pettigrew who held their lives in his hands. And when Voldemort came knocking, he handed them over."
Shocked whispers filled the room.
"This is preposterous," Lucius Malfoy sneered, though his voice was less confident than before.
Harry's gaze snapped to him, piercing, unrelenting.
"I was there when Pettigrew admitted it," he said coldly. "Can you say the same?"
Lucius visibly tensed, and Harry turned away before he could form a response.
"Sirius Black," Harry continued, "was framed. After finding my parents dead, he did the only thing he could—he went after Pettigrew."
His gaze swept across the chamber, taking in every stunned face.
"Pettigrew staged the entire thing."
"LIES!"
Fudge's voice rang out, high-pitched with panic.
"This is nothing but wild speculation! Where is your proof?"
Harry gave him a small, knowing smile.
"I'm so glad you asked, Minister."
Harry lifted his chin, his voice resolute.
"As Head of House Black, I demand a trial for one of my own."
Silence.
A voice hesitantly spoke up from the rows of Wizengamot members.
"Do you mean... a retrial, Lord Potter-Black?"
Harry turned to them, a slow smirk curling his lips.
"No," he said smoothly. "Because Sirius Black never had a trial."
The chamber—which had already been loud—erupted into absolute chaos.
Shouts of outrage and accusations rang through the air.
Dumbledore was on his feet again, voice firm and commanding.
"ORDER!"
The noise slowly died down.
"Yes, you all heard me correctly," he said, letting the shock settle over them. "Sirius Black was thrown into Azkaban without so much as a single day in court. He has been remanded in custody all these years, therefore is innocent until proven guilty by way of trial."
The reaction was swift and fierce.
"How can this be?" one of the older Lords demanded, his voice outraged.
"The Ministry does not imprison wizards without trial—"
"And yet they did." Harry's voice cut through the noise, sharp as steel.
"Not once did Sirius Black stand before this body, nor any other legal court," Harry continued. "Not once was he given the opportunity to defend himself."
His voice dropped, becoming dangerously quiet.
"He was sentenced to a fate worse than death, without evidence, without a confession—without anything but words said in grief."
All eyes turned to Fudge, who had gone rigid and pale, as though he had just realised the weight of this revelation.
Even Dumbledore was unnervingly silent.
Harry pressed on.
"You all swore an oath to uphold justice," he said, gazing around at the assembled Lords and Ladies. "Yet, for thirteen years, an innocent man rotted in Azkaban, and none of you lifted a finger. This story has already been told to your Minister and Chief Warlock last year. What was it you said Minister? That we had been confounded? No investigation at all, straight to the dementors wasn't it?"
The accusation rang through the chamber like a thunderclap.
Madame Bones was the first to recover, her expression grave.
"This is... a serious charge, Lord Potter-Black."
Harry met her gaze.
"Which is why I'm not finished."
Another wave of murmurs.
Harry's hand slipped into his robes, and he pulled out a small, rune-covered box—the very same one he had been guarding for months.
He lifted it for all to see.
"You asked for proof, Minister. I have in my possession," he said, clear and confident, "the true culprit—Peter Pettigrew himself."
The entire Wizengamot stared at the small, rune-covered box in Harry's hands, their expressions ranging from confusion to suspicion to outright dread.
Fudge looked like he had swallowed a lemon, his beady eyes darting nervously between Harry and the box.
Dumbledore, however, remained calm, though Harry did not miss the sharp glint in his eyes—the look of a man desperately trying to regain control of a situation slipping through his fingers.
With a single flick of his wand, the rune-locked box clicked open.
A moment later, a rat tumbled out onto the floor.
Gasps echoed through the chamber as the small, trembling creature scuttled forward, its whiskers twitching in fear and confusion.
For a second, no one spoke.
"That's just a rat!" Fudge blustered, throwing his hands in the air. "Is this some sort of joke, Potter?"
Harry ignored him, keeping his focus locked onto the trembling rodent.
Lifting his wand, he flicked it sharply, casting a precise Reversal Transfiguration Spell.
The reaction was instantaneous. The rat convulsed, limbs stretching unnaturally, fur receding into pale skin as its form twisted and grew.
A moment later, a short, balding man with watery blue eyes and a missing finger collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath.
Shouts of horror echoed through the chamber as Wizengamot members stumbled to their feet, craning their necks to get a better look. The press were jumping over each other to take photos of the man.
Fudge's face drained of colour and Dumbledore's expression remained eerily blank.
Augusta Longbottom, however, was the first to recover.
"Merlin's beard..." she whispered, her sharp eyes narrowing at the trembling man before them.
Fudge's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"But—but this is—this has to be some kind of trick!" he spluttered, his forehead glistening with sweat. "This is—an imposter! A lie! A smear campaign against my administration!"
She turned her gaze to Fudge, her wrinkled face hardening in anger.
"Minister, I suggest you keep your campaign worries to yourself. This is no place for political games."
"Enough!"
Amelia Bones, head of the DMLE, rose to her feet, her expression grim and unyielding.
"This is clearly Peter Pettigrew," she declared, her piercing gaze sweeping over the chamber. "I am calling for Aurors to restrain him immediately."
A squad of Aurors descended upon Pettigrew in an instant, their movements swift and efficient.
Within seconds, Pettigrew was bound in heavy enchanted chains and forced into the interrogation chair at the centre of the hall, his body trembling violently.
The chair's magic flared, its enchanted chains glowing as they locked tightly around him, ensuring that he would not escape.
Harry stepped forward.
"I demand that Pettigrew be questioned under Veritaserum," he stated, his voice ringing with authority.
A fresh wave of murmurs swept through the chamber, but before anyone could protest, Fudge jumped in.
"This is absurd! The Ministry does not perform interrogations on the basis of a child's fanciful accusations!"
Harry's lips curled into a smirk.
"The Ministry?" he repeated smoothly. "I was under the impression this was the Wizengamot—the highest judicial authority in Magical Britain."
Most of the older members nodded approvingly, while others exchanged cautious glances.
Harry pressed forward.
"As Lord Black, I demand this right for the slight against my House," he said firmly. "You threw my newly named heir into Azkaban without a trial. Now that I'm here to rectify this injustice, you want to bury the truth?"
There was no missing the approving looks some of the Lords and Ladies were now sending him.
A few of the more neutral members were leaning in, interest growing.
Dumbledore intervened, his voice gentle yet firm.
"Harry, my dear boy, I do not think this is necessary—"
Harry turned on him sharply.
"It is Lord Potter-Black, Chief Warlock."
Dumbledore went silent.
Murmurs of approval rippled through the room.
Harry pressed on.
"If the British Ministry refuses to try him, I will happily take my wealth and businesses abroad and have the International Confederation of Wizards conduct the investigation."
This startled many of the Lords and Ladies.
Fudge's face turned a sickly shade of pale.
The ICW had zero tolerance for corruption. If Britain's Ministry refused to act, the ICW could step in and that would lead to a full-scale political disaster for Fudge.
Not only that, but if Harry withdrew funding, it could cripple the British economy.
The Black wealth funded St. Mungo's, contributed to numerous businesses, and supported various Ministry programs.
Pulling out of Britain entirely?
The country would collapse.
A tense silence followed.
"As head of the DMLE, I approve the use of Veritaserum," Amelia Bones said firmly, cutting through the chaos.
Dumbledore's eyes flashed, and Fudge let out a high-pitched noise of protest, but neither could stop her.
"Shacklebolt, administer the serum."
Shacklebolt nodded sharply, stepping forward and uncorking a vial of clear liquid.
Harry watched carefully as three drops of Veritaserum were placed on Pettigrew's tongue.
A moment later, his pupils dilated, his body slackening against the enchanted chair.
The interrogation was about to begin.
Madame Bones stepped forward, her face set like stone.
"State your full name," she ordered.
Pettigrew's lips moved slowly, his voice monotone and vacant.
"Peter Pettigrew."
A few members of the Wizengamot flinched visibly, but Amelia's expression didn't change.
"Did you betray the Potters to Voldemort?" she asked, her voice flat, emotionless.
"Yes."
A collective gasp rang through the chamber.
Some members looked horrified, others pale and shaken. Even a few known death eaters looked shocked.
Amelia continued.
"Did Sirius Black betray the Potters?"
"No."
Madame Bones' voice hardened.
"Did you fake your own death and frame him for murder?"
"Yes."
This time, the uproar was deafening.
Harry barely contained his smirk as he watched Fudge pale even further.
There was no escaping this now.
He stood tall, gaze sweeping across the chamber as they grappled with the truth.
He lifted his wand. Its tip lit up, glowing brightly in the dim chamber.
"Lord Potter-Black has the floor," the enchanted walls of the chamber intoned, demanding silence.
Instantly, all voices died down.
Harry's pulse pounded in his ears, but he forced himself to remain calm.
This was his moment—the moment to bring everything to light.
Taking a breath, he stepped forward.
"Who cast the Fidelius Charm for my parents?"
A sharp intake of breath echoed across the chamber.
Even Madame Bones paused, her brows furrowing as she turned to Pettigrew, waiting for his answer.
Pettigrew's watery eyes flickered, and he shuddered violently.
Then, in a voice thick with the compulsion of Veritaserum, he answered.
"Albus Dumbledore."
"What?!"
Shouts erupted from all sides.
Several members of the Wizengamot stumbled to their feet, outrage contorting their features.
Dumbledore's calm façade cracked. His eyes widened in genuine alarm, his hand tightening on his staff.
Harry, however, was watching him closely, waiting—watching for any sign of denial, any attempt to salvage himself.
Dumbledore did not disappoint.
"This is preposterous!" he thundered, rising to his full height, his blue robes billowing slightly as his voice carried over the uproar. "I would have remembered casting such a spell—surely, there must be a mistake!"
Harry's eyes flashed dangerously.
"So you claim you were obliviated of the knowledge?" he asked, voice cool and controlled.
Dumbledore hesitated and Harry pounced.
"Then you can swear on your magic, that you had no knowledge of casting the spell before today."
Dumbledore's head snapped toward him, and the Wizengamot members stilled, their gazes bouncing between Harry and Dumbledore like spectators in a high-stakes duel.
Dumbledore's lips parted slightly, as if to speak—but no words came out.
"What's wrong, Chief Warlock?" he pressed, his tone mocking. "Surely, a wizard of your stature would have no trouble swearing on his magic if he's telling the truth?"
Dumbledore's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
Harry felt a surge of victory, but he wasn't done.
He turned toward Madame Bones.
"As Head of the DMLE, do you believe a sworn oath on magic is sufficient proof of honesty, Madame Bones?"
Her sharp gaze narrowed on Dumbledore before she nodded stiffly.
"Yes."
Harry turned back to Dumbledore.
"So?"
Dumbledore grimaced.
"I will not be coerced into making magical oaths," he said finally, his voice measured. "My word should be proof enough—"
"And yet, it isn't," Harry interrupted smoothly.
Gasps rippled through the room. That a fourteen year old would o obviously call out the strongest wizard in Britain.
"He let an innocent man rot in Azkaban for twelve years!"
A furious voice shouted from the upper benches.
"He knew the truth and said nothing!" Another shouted.
"Dumbledore, how could you?!" Augusta Longbottom demanded, her voice fierce with righteous anger.
Dumbledore was losing control and the more he tried to regain it, the worse he looked.
Madame Bones raised her own gavel and banged it sharply against the podium.
"ORDER!" she commanded.
The chamber quieted, but the tension was thick.
She turned back to Pettigrew, her expression thunderous.
"Peter Pettigrew, by your own admission, you framed Sirius Black, betrayed James and Lily Potter, and aligned yourself with the Dark Lord."
Pettigrew let out a whimper.
"Do you understand the charges against you?"
"Yes." His voice was barely a whisper.
Madame Bones looked toward the Wizengamot.
"As Head of the DMLE, I hereby declare Peter Pettigrew guilty of treason, mass murder, and conspiracy."
The enchanted chains tightened around Pettigrew, locking him in place permanently.
"His sentence will be carried out immediately."
Harry barely had time to process his victory before the Minister shot to his feet.
"But what of Black?!" Fudge demanded, his face red and blotchy. "Even if he was innocent of this crime, he still escaped Azkaban, and that is a crime punishable by—"
Harry turned to him, his smirk razor-sharp.
"Tell me, Minister—"
Fudge froze at the calm steel in Harry's voice.
"—what exactly was Sirius Black convicted of?"
The chamber fell into silence once more.
Fudge floundered.
"Well—he—he was—"
Harry's smile grew wider.
"Ah, that's right," he said casually, his voice mocking. "Sirius Black was never given a trial—because he was never convicted of a crime."
Fudge staggered slightly, as if he had been struck.
Harry turned to Madame Bones.
"As such, I demand that my chosen heir, Sirius Black be declared innocent of all wrongdoings and that his record be expunged immediately."
Madame Bones nodded sharply.
"I approve the motion," she said without hesitation. "Sirius Black is to be granted full legal exoneration."
It was done.
Sirius was free.
But Harry wasn't finished yet.
He turned to Fudge.
"Now, about the matter of compensation."
Fudge stared at him in shock.
"Excuse me?"
Harry's expression darkened.
"Sirius Black was imprisoned for twelve years in Azkaban—without a trial, without conviction, and in violation of basic magical rights."
Fudge sputtered.
"The Ministry does not—"
"The Ministry is responsible," Harry cut in coldly. "And I demand compensation on behalf of House Black."
Fudge opened his mouth, but before he could protest, several Lords and Ladies nodded in agreement.
"The boy is right," said Lord Greengrass smoothly. "The Ministry owes restitution."
"And if you refuse," Harry added, his voice dripping with mock politeness, "I'll be happy to take this case to the ICW."
Fudge's face twitched violently.
But in the end—
He had no choice.
"The Ministry," he said stiffly, voice full of reluctance, "will provide appropriate restitution to House Black."
Harry smiled.
"How generous of you, Minister."
With that, he turned back to his seat and settled in gracefully, as if he hadn't just upended the entire political landscape of Britain.
~
The chamber was still vibrating from the aftershocks of everything that had just transpired. Sirius Black's exoneration, Peter Pettigrew's exposure, and Albus Dumbledore's crumbling authority had turned the Yule Wizengamot Session into the most scandalous and historic meeting in decades.
And now, Harry was about to deliver the final blow.
Sitting in his newly claimed seat, Harry lounged, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest. He could feel the press snapping enchanted photographs, quills scribbling furiously as the reporters tried to keep up with the whiplash pace of the session.
At the podium, Amelia Bones, her usual stoic mask barely holding, took a deep breath before speaking.
"Lord Potter-Black," she said, her voice dry, "is there anything else you'd like to throw out there before the session adjourns?"
A ripple of chuckles echoed through the chamber.
Harry smirked.
"As a matter of fact—yes."
The laughter stopped instantly.
The Wizengamot, the press, the audience in the stands—all turned to him again, their eyes eager.
Harry rose to his feet, deliberately slow, letting the silence stretch until the tension was thick enough to cut with a cursed blade.
"When I first became aware of my magical status," Harry began, his voice even and calm, "I went to Gringotts for an inheritance test."
He continued.
"It was there," he said, his voice sharpening, "that I found out that Albus Dumbledore had taken it upon himself to declare himself my magical guardian through his position as Chief Warlock."
The whispers turned into an uproar.
Gasps and shouts filled the hall.
"Impossible!" one wizard exclaimed.
"Nonsense!" cried another.
He locked eyes with Dumbledore.
A muscle twitched in the old man's jaw, and his fingers curled imperceptibly around the edges of his chair.
Harry let the tension simmer before speaking again.
"I had never seen nor heard of Albus Dumbledore before the Sorting Feast in my first year at Hogwarts."
A sharp intake of breath from multiple members of the Wizengamot.
"You mean to say—"
"Yes," Harry cut in, his emerald eyes blazing with cold fury, "that for eleven years, I had no idea I was a wizard. No idea that I was part of a magical world."
"NEGLECT!" someone shouted.
"WHAT KIND OF GUARDIAN—"
"A MUGGLE HOUSEHOLD?!"
He glanced at Dumbledore, whose face was carefully neutral, but Harry could see the tightness in his shoulders, the slight clench of his jaw.
Good.
That was nothing compared to what came next.
Harry continued, his voice strong and unwavering.
"But that wasn't the worst of it."
The chamber fell into a hush again, as if bracing for what he was about to say.
Harry let out a mockingly thoughtful sigh.
"You see, once I learned about magic, I did the logical thing and visited Gringotts—where I found out just how deep the corruption went."
He took out a stack of parchment, meticulously prepared with Grimbok's help.
"In front of magic and the Wizengamot," Harry announced, letting his voice carry through the hall, "I now present proof of the Chief Warlock's financial misconduct, fraud, and theft."
Dumbledore stiffened.
He slammed the documents onto the podium, his magic flaring with righteous fury, and sent a wave of parchment flying through the chamber—each member catching a copy in their hands.
Lords and Ladies flipped through the documents, their faces twisting in disgust as they saw the transactions, the theft, the blatant abuse of power.
"This—this can't be real—"
"250,000 Galleons?!"
"Where did all this money go?!"
Harry answered calmly.
"To the personal accounts of Albus Dumbledore," he said, his voice like a blade, "and several of his—associates."
Harry let his magic thrum through the hall before listing off the names.
"Arabella Figg."
"Dedalus Diggle."
Harry's gaze landed on the Minister.
"And several unnamed members of the Ministry of Magic."
The colour drained from Fudge's face.
"Lies!" Fudge spluttered, his face red with panic. "The boy is lying! He must be—"
"Then prove me wrong, Minister."
Fudge froze.
The uproar grew to unbearable levels.
"THIEF!"
"ABUSER OF POWER!"
"REMOVE HIM FROM HIS POSITION!"
Lords and Ladies stood up, screaming for Dumbledore's resignation.
Madame Bones hammered the gavel furiously, trying to restore order.
Harry crossed his arms and watched the old man's empire crumble around him.
He had waited for this moment—planned for it meticulously.
And now, it was all crashing down.
Dumbledore's carefully built façade of wisdom and benevolence had shattered, his allies were silent in horror, and the press was frantically scribbling down every word.
And yet, Harry was not finished.
He waited until the uproar had settled slightly, then stood tall, letting his magic pulse through the hall.
Then, with an air of calm authority, he delivered the final blow.
"As we speak," Harry said, his voice carrying through the chamber, "the Goblins of Gringotts are doing me the honour of collecting all stolen artifacts and heirlooms that were taken from my vaults."
A hush fell over the Wizengamot.
Even the Dark Lords and Ladies—who had been watching the spectacle with barely concealed glee—sat straighter.
Dumbledore, who had been trying to compose himself, suddenly froze.
His blue eyes widened in pure horror.
"NO!"
The roar that escaped Dumbledore's mouth was unlike anything they had ever heard from him before.
The calm, wise Chief Warlock of Britain had vanished, leaving behind a man stripped bare of all pretence.
"NO! YOU CAN'T TAKE THEM!" Dumbledore screamed, his voice cracking. "THEY BELONG TO HOGWARTS! TO ME! TO THE LIGHT!"
Gasps erupted through the chamber.
Pure, shocked silence as everyone stared at the man who had always spoken about the greater good.
Dumbledore's entire body was trembling, his hands clawing at the edge of his podium, his gaze wild and desperate.
The press scrambled over one another to get his reaction down.
Harry had never seen him lose control this spectacularly before.
And he relished it.
A sudden pop echoed in the air.
A golden parchment appeared out of thin air, hovering in front of Harry.
The room stiffened in anticipation as Harry caught it between his fingers, opening it with a flick.
His eyes scanned the note, and he smiled.
It was the kind of smile that promised destruction.
Harry lifted his gaze to Dumbledore's panicked face, tilting his head in mock curiosity.
"It is already done," Harry announced, his green eyes gleaming with triumph.
Shouts, arguments, cheers—chaos reigned.
Dumbledore looked like a man unhinged, his hands shaking, his usually serene expression replaced with undisguised panic.
Harry took a step forward, watching as Dumbledore recoiled, as if he could already see the noose tightening around his neck.
"Is this the kind of man you want representing our country?"
His voice cut through the noise like a blade.
He looked at each of them—neutral, light, dark, it didn't matter.
Harry let the moment stretch, let the weight of his words sink into their bones, before delivering the final strike.
"I call for a vote of no confidence to be declared against Chief Warlock, Albus Dumbledore," Harry said, his voice ringing with command.
A roar of approval erupted.
Even the dark factions—who had long despised Dumbledore but had never been able to touch him—cheered for the motion.
Dumbledore looked around desperately, his breath shallow, his eyes filled with disbelief and terror.
"NO! This is a mistake!" he cried. "I am the Leader of the Light! I have guided you all for decades!"
Madame Bones stood, her expression unreadable as she called the chamber to order.
"The motion has been made," she declared. "A vote of no confidence has been called against Albus Dumbledore in his capacity as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
"The votes shall now be cast," she continued, her voice firm. "All in favour of the removal of Albus Dumbledore as Chief Warlock, raise your wands."
A wave of wands lifted into the air.
Harry watched, expression impassive, as nearly two-thirds of the Wizengamot raised their wands in support.
Even Lucius Malfoy, who clearly despised Harry, lifted his wand—his pureblood pride unwilling to let Dumbledore's blatant theft and manipulation slide.
Dumbledore was shaking, his lips pressing into a thin line as he watched his power slip through his fingers.
Bones nodded once before stating, "All those opposed?"
A scattering of wands went up—mostly from Dumbledore's die-hard loyalists. Harry made note of all their faces.
It wasn't even close.
Amelia's lips twitched slightly, as if in approval, before she turned to face the old man directly.
"The motion is passed. Albus Dumbledore is hereby removed as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."
Dumbledore swayed, gripping the desk in front of him as if he might collapse.
He turned to Fudge, eyes burning with desperation, but the Minister—who had been so eager to protect his own reputation—refused to meet his gaze.
It was over.
Harry's eyes never left Dumbledore, watching as the old man forced himself to remain calm.
Then Bones spoke again.
"Albus Dumbledore, due to your decades of service, the Wizengamot will place you on probation until the conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament. Your position as headmaster will be reviewed in the summer session of the next year."
Harry's jaw tightened in irritation.
Probation.
The old man wasn't completely out of power yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Amelia continued, "During this time, you are to have no interaction with Lord Potter-Black unless it is directly related to the Triwizard Tournament. Any schooling matters will be handled by his Head of House and the Deputy Headmistress."
Dumbledore's teeth clenched audibly, his entire face contorting with frustration.
Harry smirked internally.
That meant no more private meetings. No more manipulations disguised as grandfatherly advice.
Dumbledore's voice cracked as he finally spoke.
"This is madness."
"No," Amelia said coldly, "it's justice."
She banged her gavel, signalling the end of the session.
The chamber erupted into noise once more, but Harry had no interest in staying.
Lords and Ladies rushed toward him, eager to shake his hand, to align themselves with the boy who had just toppled a legend.
But Harry wasn't here to gloat.
He gave a solemn nod, his expression unreadable, before turning sharply on his heel and walking out of the chamber.
The press scrambled after him, Rita Skeeter shouting, "Lord Potter-Black! A word for the Prophet—"
Harry didn't spare her a glance.
He moved silently, stepping into the shadows of the Wizengamot halls, and vanished in a swirl of darkness towards the floo network, leaving everyone behind him to search desperately.
~
Harry stumbled slightly as he landed through to the cottage.
Before he could steady himself, a voice rang out.
"Pup!"
Harry barely had time to brace himself before he was crashed into by a blur of black hair.
Sirius wrapped him in a crushing hug, arms shaking, his grip almost painful.
"Thank you." His voice was raw, broken. "Merlin, Harry, thank you."
Harry's entire body sagged in relief.
He let go of the Lord persona, the carefully cultivated mask of confidence falling away as his hands shook uncontrollably.
"I—" His voice hitched slightly, and he forced himself to breathe. "I can't believe I just did that."
Sirius pulled back, gripping Harry's shoulders, searching his face.
"You were brilliant," he whispered fiercely. "My pup—I was going crazy until tilly reported back with the verdict, I can't believe—"
Sirius choked on his words, his eyes wet, and Harry felt something deep in his chest break free.
He had done it.
Sirius was free.
A warm, gruff voice interrupted.
"You did well, Lord Potter-Black."
Harry turned to see Grimbok, his expression proud.
Harry straightened, meeting the goblin's gaze seriously.
He took a deep breath, and then—
"Grimbok of Clan Stonefoot," Harry began, his voice clear and formal, "you have done me and my Houses a great service. More than your role as account manager dictates."
Grimbok's brow lifted slightly.
Then—to his shock—Harry bowed deeply.
Sirius' mouth fell open.
Even Grimbok looked momentarily stunned before regaining his composure.
"You have my eternal gratitude," Harry said firmly, straightening. "The Houses of Potter, Black, Peverell, and Slytherin will always offer aid and protection to you and your family."
For a long moment, Grimbok said nothing.
Then, he gave a slow, approving nod.
"A rare thing, to have a wizard declare a debt so openly." His eyes gleamed with something akin to respect. "I shall remember this, Lord Potter-Black."
~
~The Great Hall – That Evening~
The atmosphere was like every other evening at Hogwarts, students laughing, eating, gossiping.
Then a loud screech echoed through the air as hundreds of owls descended, dropping the Evening Prophet onto every table. Startling nearly all of the students and teachers.
A single glance at the front page sent the Hall into uproar.
There—in full colour—was a striking image of Harry Potter.
Casually lounging in his Wizengamot chair, his lord rings gleaming on his fingers, his emerald eyes burning with cold fire.
Below the picture, the headline screamed:
SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT! PETER PETTIGREW CAPTURED!
LORD POTTER-BLACK TOPPLES DUMBLEDORE!
FRAUD! THEFT! FALSE IMPRISONMENT! THE TRUTH FINALLY REVEALED!
Gasps rang out as students frantically flipped through the article, reading every damning detail. Luna and the others were sat at the Ravenclaw table, smiling to each other at Harrys success, before being bombarded with questions.
At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George's faces had gone ashen as they read about their mother and brother stealing from Harry.
Fred turned to Ron, his voice deadly quiet.
"You stole from Harry?"
Ron blanched. "I—It's not like that—"
"Mum, too?" George whispered, looking horrified.
All across the Hall, students whispered and shouted.
The truth was out.
And Hogwarts would never be the same again.
~
By the time Harry stepped into the chamber, the others were already waiting for him.
Luna was the first to break the silence, her soft, dreamy voice cutting through the air.
"You did it, Harry. I knew you would."
Harry let out a tired chuckle, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, I did."
Theo smirked. "You brought down the Chief Warlock, freed your godfather, exposed Dumbledore's corruption, and made Lucius Malfoy look like a fool—all in one sitting." He leaned back, folding his arms. "Not bad for a day's work."
Blaise laughed, shaking his head. "Merlin, mate, I don't know whether to be terrified or impressed. You played that meeting like a bloody maestro."
Neville grinned, "We prepared for it, but that? That was something else."
Harry felt a warmth spread through his chest at their words.
"I wouldn't have pulled it off without you lot," he admitted. "Everything you taught me about lordships, politics, and pureblood traditions—it all came into play tonight. I owe you all for that."
Theo rolled his eyes. "Don't get all sentimental, Potter. You're Lord Potter-Black now—act like it."
Harry snorted. "Right, right. No emotions. Just cold, ruthless efficiency."
Luna, who had been watching Harry closely, gave him a knowing smile. "You're relieved, but you're still waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Harry met her shimmering blue gaze and sighed. "It's not over, Luna. He's still here. He's still watching."
"Then let him watch," Luna said simply. "The Phoenix has fallen, and the Dragon has risen. No matter how he struggles, he cannot stop what is coming."
The fire crackled in the silence that followed, as if echoing her words.
The next morning, Harry entered the Great Hall with his friends as a unit, their presence commanding attention.
Conversations hushed as students turned to stare, their eyes flickering between Harry and the empty Headmaster's seat.
Whispers filled the air—
"Is it true? Did Potter really do all that?"
"He got rid of Dumbledore!"
"He freed Sirius Black!"
"Merlin, he even made Malfoy shut up!"
Harry ignored them, keeping his head high as he approached the Ravenclaw table.
To his surprise, Petar hesitantly approached, looking uncertain.
Harry caught his eye and smiled reassuringly, motioning for him to sit.
Petar visibly relaxed, taking the seat beside him.
"You are… alright?" Petar asked cautiously, his accent thick.
Harry nodded. "Better than I expected. It's been a long time coming."
Petar studied him before grinning. "So, do I call you Lord Potter-Black now?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "You can call me Harry."
Petar smirked, giving him an exaggerated bow. "As you wish, my lord."
Harry laughed, shaking his head.
For a moment, he allowed himself to just enjoy breakfast.
But, of course, peace never lasted long.
"POTTER!"
Harry barely suppressed a groan as Draco Malfoy stormed toward him, his face twisted in fury.
"You stole my birthright!" Draco screeched. "The Black Lordship belongs to ME!"
Harry slowly turned to face him, his expression unreadable.
"Draco, you were never in line for the Lordship."
The entire Great Hall went silent.
Draco's pale complexion paled further, and Harry continued, his voice cold and cutting.
"The previous Lord Black, Arcturus, found you and your fathers line inadequate."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Draco staggered back, as if struck.
Harry pressed on, mercilessly.
"And after what Lucius Malfoy did—his crimes, his alliances—I will ensure that none of your bloodline will ever be able to claim the Black name again."
Draco's eyes widened in horror.
"You can't—"
"I already have."
There was a beat of silence before Draco turned red with rage.
"My father will hear about this!"
Blaise, who had been enjoying the show, smirked and drawled lazily.
"What's he going to do, Draco? Bribe his way out of this one too? Oh, wait—he's already done that before."
Laughter exploded from the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, while Draco sputtered angrily before storming away.
Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. "Well, that was exhausting."
Theo chuckled, leaning in. "You enjoy putting him in his place. Admit it."
Harry smirked. "Maybe just a little."
Petar, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, nudged Harry with his elbow.
"You are full of surprises, Harry Potter."
Harry simply grinned.
The good mood didn't last though. That evening another emergency prophet was delivered. This time detailing the escape of Death Eater, Peter Pettigrew.
~
(Dumbledore's POV 26th December)
The green flames roared to life as Dumbledore stumbled out of the Floo, his face twisted in unbridled fury. His usually calm and grandfatherly demeanour was shattered, his robes dishevelled, his hands shaking with rage.
His sanctuary, the heart of his power, had been violated.
With wild eyes, he whirled around the room, his breath coming in short, furious bursts. His long fingers trembled as he tore open cabinets, yanking out drawers with so much force that they splintered and cracked, sending ancient parchments and artifacts crashing to the floor.
His Pensieve—gone.
His enchanted instruments—shattered.
His hidden vault of artifacts—completely emptied.
The Potter family tomes and grimoires—stolen away like a thief in the night.
Gone.
Everything was gone.
"NO!"
Dumbledore swept his arm across his desk, sending stacks of parchment, delicate silver instruments, and books crashing to the ground. The ancient oak desk cracked, and the portraits on the walls gasped in silent horror as the great Albus Dumbledore lost control.
A piercing cry of alarm came from Fawkes, his brilliant red-and-gold plumage ruffling in distress.
Dumbledore whirled, his expression one of pure madness as he lashed out.
The air crackled, and a shockwave of uncontrolled magic burst from his wand, slamming into Fawkes.
The phoenix let out a wounded, agonised screech, flames sputtering as his body crashed into the wall, sliding to the floor in a heap of dull feathers.
For a long moment, the only sound in the office was Dumbledore's heavy, ragged breathing.
His aged, wrinkled hand clenched around his wand so tightly it shook. His nails bit into his palm, but he barely noticed the pain.
His shoulders heaved, his mind spiralling as he replayed the events of the past day.
Where did it all go wrong?
How had the boy slipped through his fingers?
Dumbledore gritted his teeth, his lips curling in disgust as he thought of Figg.
That useless Squib had assured him that Harry remained ignorant, isolated, and desperate for approval.
She had never once mentioned that the boy was defying his conditioning, that he was carving his own path in the shadows.
The Dursleys, those insignificant, pitiful Muggles, should have beaten the boy down until he was malleable. Until he was compliant.
Instead, Harry had thrived.
Harry had rebelled.
Dumbledore's teeth ground together audibly, his mind racing through all the carefully laid plans that had now crumbled to dust.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his skin, but the pain was nothing compared to the humiliation burning in his chest.
And then he remembered that Harry was Lord Peverell.
Dumbledore froze, his breath catching in his throat.
A slow, chilling smile crept across his face.
Yes. Yes, he had suspected it for years.
But now? Now, it was confirmed.
Harry Potter was the true heir of the Peverell line.
Which meant—
Dumbledore's fingers trembled as he reached for an old, tattered tome, his eyes glinting with excitement.
He had spent years chasing shadows, decades searching for clues, and now—now the key had fallen right into his hands.
If Harry was the true heir, then the final piece of the puzzle was within reach.
Yes, the boy had gained independence.
But he wasn't out of reach yet.
No.
Dumbledore would give the boy this small victory.
Let him have his moment in the sun.
Let him bask in his illusion of freedom.
But when the time came—
When Voldemort rose to power once more, when Harry was pushed to his limits—
The boy would crawl back to him.
Begging.
Pleading for his guidance, his wisdom, his protection.
And if that failed?
Dumbledore's smile darkened as he reached for a parchment on his desk.
A contract written years ago and signed before his emancipation, one that would bind Harry, ensuring that no matter how far the boy strayed, he would always return.
Yes, this was his failsafe.
Harry had until his sixteenth birthday to submit.
And if he didn't? Then he will be married and under control once more.
Dumbledore leaned back, his fury fading as a new sense of control settled over him.
He had underestimated the boy, but that was his mistake to bear.
His blue eyes gleamed with renewed purpose as he stared at the contract in his hands.
In the meantime, there were still loyal pieces left on the board.
What better way to regain access to Harry's life than to send him someone from his past?
A familiar, trustworthy face.
A man burdened by guilt, desperate to atone, desperate to be accepted again.
A loyal dog.
Yes…Lupin would be the perfect pawn.
~
The morning post arrived with the usual flurry of owls swooping down over the Great Hall, dropping letters and parcels into eager hands. The Hogwarts gossip mill was still running wild after the events of the Wizengamot meeting, but over the past month, things had settled into a tense status quo.
Dumbledore had kept his distance, though he had taken to casting Harry long, disappointed stares as if they alone would be enough to change his mind.
McGonagall had gone cold—her disappointment practically radiating off of her in every Transfiguration lesson. And Snape? Snape had only gotten worse, his sharp tongue finding every excuse to insult Harry in Potions.
The school was divided in their reactions to Harry's actions.
Some applauded his bravery, calling him a true Lord, a force to be reckoned with. Others—mostly those in Slytherin and Gryffindor—whispered bitterly about his arrogance, the way he had humiliated the great Albus Dumbledore.
Still, Harry couldn't bring himself to care. He was determined to carry on with his life. Unfortunately, the tournament was still in play. So, Harry continued his training with Petar.
The Bulgarian student was an excellent teacher, pushing Harry to new physical limits. What started as basic flexibility and agility training quickly escalated into fluid combat movement, hand-to-hand sparring, and even dagger training.
Harry absorbed it all eagerly, feeling himself becoming stronger, faster, and more controlled.
But there was something else growing too.
Petar had always been flirty, but since the Yule Ball it had been hard to see it as just playful. Despite Petar saying that he didn't want to lead him on, he seemed to have a hard time not showing his affection to Harry.
The way he looked at him was more intense.
The brushing of hands, the subtle adjustments to Harry's stance—it was all becoming something more.
And Harry felt guilty.
Because Petar was engaged—locked in a contract he never asked for.
Harry had been holding his ground though. He made a mistake when Petar's birthday came around though and Harry gifted him a basilisk fang carved into a dagger.
If Petar had looked at him with affection before, now he looked at Harry like he had hung the stars themselves.
Harry had unknowingly made things worse.
Petar clutched the dagger tightly, his brown eyes warm and full of emotion. "You… you did not have to do this."
Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just—I wanted to repay you for all your training. And it's your birthday."
Petar exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before stepping closer. "You are… impossible, Harry Potter."
Harry froze as Petar grazed his fingers against his wrist, his touch gentle yet searing.
For a moment, just a moment—Harry let himself bask in the warmth of it.
And then he stepped away.
"I—uh, I should go," Harry said quickly.
Petar sighed, sheathing the dagger at his hip. "Yes… before I do something I will not regret."
Harry's breath caught, but he turned and walked away before he could break something neither of them could fix. Trying to remember Luna's words. Do not mistake longing for love.
~
With the second task only weeks away, Viktor finally told Harry what to do with the golden egg.
"Take a bath," Viktor had said simply. "It is Mermish."
Harry had blinked. "That's it?"
Viktor shrugged. "It vill help."
Luna, nearby, laughed suddenly. "I told you that weeks ago!"
Harry frowned. "What? No, you didn't."
Luna just smiled.
A memory resurfaced.
A random afternoon, Luna had blurted out a strange sentence, something about "water and riddles" before skipping away.
Harry groaned. "Oh, bloody hell. You did."
Luna patted his shoulder. "It's okay. You're quite dense sometimes."
Neville, in an act of pure brilliance, handed Harry a small slimy ball of gillyweed.
"Take this," he said. "We should go practice in the lake. With your water elemental, this should be easy."
Harry nodded, determination setting in as they made their way to the lake.
The cold embrace of the Black Lake swallowed Harry whole, but the moment the gillyweed took effect, his body adjusted seamlessly. He inhaled deeply, the gills on his neck fluttering as he took in his first breath of water. It was strange but exhilarating.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark depths, he let his magic spread out around him, reaching into the currents of the lake like invisible tendrils. The moment he did, it was like an entirely new world unfolded before him.
Everything glowed, from the tall, swaying forests of kelp-like plants to the schools of luminescent fish darting through the water. Harry spun slowly, taking it all in.
A dark shape loomed behind him, and before he could react, a massive tentacle wrapped around his waist.
Harry barely had time to panic before he was yanked backward into the giant squid's embrace.
For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he was about to be eaten—until the squid began to spin him playfully, tentacles curling and uncurling around him like a friendly hug.
Harry laughed, the sound bubbling through the water, and he reached out, pressing a hand to the squid's warm, rubbery skin. "Alright, alright, you overgrown calamari. You win."
The squid wiggled happily, then gently released him, its massive eyes blinking at him in what Harry swore was amusement before it drifted away lazily into the depths.
Still grinning, Harry turned his attention back to the lake floor.
Harry reached down, running his fingers over a nearby cluster of blue-green fronds that shimmered like liquid silver.
Stargrass, he realised, recalling one of Neville's herbology books. A rare water plant that could be used in soothing potions.
He used his dagger to cleanly cut a handful of the fronds, tucking them into his enchanted satchel before moving on.
Further ahead, he spotted twisting vines with bright violet bulbs—Crescent Lilies, often used in dreamless sleep potions. He carefully harvested a few of the bulbs, ensuring that the roots stayed intact so they could be propagated later.
Deeper still, ghostly white mushrooms clung to an underwater rock formation, their caps pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
Harry plucked one, watching as it released a cloud of glowing spores into the water. Mooncap Mushrooms—rare and rumoured to have light-repelling properties.
Neville was going to lose his mind when he saw these.
As he reached for one last plant, a sharp, distressed shriek cut through the water—
Harry froze, his magic flaring outward instinctively.
He sensed them before he saw them—a swarm of Grindylows, their sharp claws flashing as they darted around something trapped.
Something small and alive.
Harry propelled himself forward, his movements effortless as his magic guided him through the water.
The Grindylows were snarling, their webbed fingers clutching at the struggling form of a young mer-child, who was caught in what looked like a metal snare wedged between two jagged rocks.
The mer-child was hissing and flailing, his tail lashing violently as the Grindylows clawed at his scales, trying to drag him further into the darkness.
Harry didn't hesitate.
He thrust his hand outward, channelling his water elemental magic, and suddenly, dozens of bubbles formed around each Grindylow, trapping them in floating spheres of air.
The Grindylows screeched, their sharp teeth gnashing as they thrashed helplessly.
Harry didn't wait to see if they recovered—he swam down to the mer-child, who was hissing wildly, his sharp webbed fingers clawing the water in defence.
"Easy," Harry murmured, lowering his wand and raising both hands in a peaceful gesture.
The mer-child narrowed his eyes, his gills flaring as he hissed something sharp and guttural in Mermish.
Harry winced.
He didn't speak Mermish but he could understand tone, and that sounded like an insult.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Harry said softly. He pointed at the trap, then at his dagger, then back at the mer-child, miming a cutting motion.
The mer-child hesitated, his dark green eyes flickering between Harry and the trap.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Harry moved carefully, using his dagger to slice through the thick kelp wrapped around the mer-child's tail before working on the metal snare. It took some effort, but with a final snap, the trap fell apart.
The mer-child bolted away, only to wince as he tried to swim injured.
Before he could struggle further, Harry caught him gently, wrapping one arm around him while the mer-child twitched nervously.
Harry spread his magic outward, searching for the mer-colony.
A strong pulse of energy guided him northward, and he gestured in that direction.
The mer-child perked up immediately, his tail flicking excitedly.
Harry nodded, sending a gentle wave of healing magic through the mer-child's tail as he kicked off, speeding toward the colony with the mer-child in tow.
The first sign of the merfolk village was the stone structures, rising up from the lake floor like ruins.
The moment Harry approached the outskirts, shadowy figures emerged from the depths, their spears pointed at him.
The mer-warriors were tall, their pale green skin covered in barnacle-like armour, their webbed hands gripping razor-sharp tridents.
Harry slowed, keeping his movements calm and deliberate.
The mer-child swam forward, chirping excitedly as he darted into the arms of a larger merman, who looked both relieved and furious at the same time.
Harry let out a quiet sigh of relief, and bowed his head to the guards.
The merfolk murmured among themselves, their gazes cautious but no longer hostile, then the probable father of the mer-child returned the gesture.
Feeling his time running out, Harry straightened, gave them one last nod, and then he let his water magic surge outward, propelling him upward like a rocket just as his gillyweed wore off.
Harry broke through the water, gasping as his lungs adjusted to air again.
The sky was getting dark, the sun getting low on the horizon.
Only two figures stood at the shoreline—Neville and Luna.
Harry took a deep breath, then lifted his hand.
The water beneath him swelled, lifting him like a small tidal wave, carrying him gracefully to the shore.
As he stepped onto solid ground, water still dripping from his clothes, Luna beamed at him.
Neville, however, just stared.
"You just walked on water," Neville said, his voice blank with disbelief.
Harry grinned, shaking his hair out like a wet dog. "Yeah, but do you want to see the plants I got?"
Neville groaned, muttering something about priorities, while Luna just laughed brightly.