The ripple of magic spread from their arrival point, setting the ancient chandelier at the end of the narrow corridor of the old Black family Manor to creaking ominously on its chain. Its light flickered erratically, casting shadows across the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling.
Harry blinked hard, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the dimness of Sirius's house after the bright morning sunlight of Privet Drive.
But before his vision could fully adapt, before he could even get his feet properly, a figure barreled straight into him with surprising force and locked both arms tightly around his neck in a fierce embrace.
"Oh, Harry, you're here—thank goodness you're safe! How are you? We've all heard what happened at your aunt and uncle's house. Did they hurt you? Did the Aurors harm you in any way? The Ministry has gone too far this time, it's completely irregular and illegal—they didn't present a single piece of evidence to anyone. It's all just political talk and lies!"
Harry listened to Hermione's breathless outpouring of words, barely pausing for breath, and felt a warmth spread through the cold that had settled deep in his chest ever since the Minister of Magic had publicly denounced him as a murder suspect to the entire wizarding world.
"All right, let him go—you'll strangle him to death, Hermione," Ron said with forced lightness.
He stepped out from the group gathered in the corridor. He was holding himself together reasonably well, maintaining his composure, though his face had gone completely pale.
The narrow corridor was not occupied by only two people waiting for Harry's arrival. Besides Mr. Weasley and the two eldest sons Bill and Charlie, the entire Weasley family had gathered there in the gloom to greet him.
Every single one of them was watching Harry with visible worry etched on their faces—especially Ginny, whose expression could only be described as heartache, her eyes were shining with tears.
"You're all here already?" Bryan asked with some surprise, looking to the Weasley children in the corridor.
"Well, after you left yesterday evening for the Dursleys', I had a serious word with Arthur," Mrs. Weasley explained, stepping forward.
"Since there are only a few days left before the summer holiday begins and the end-of-year exams are all finished, I thought it best to bring them all here. Sirius has also been hoping the house would have a bit more life and energy in it—he's been rather lonely rattling around in this old place by himself."
After Hermione finally released Harry from her crushing embrace, Mrs. Weasley stepped quickly forward and pulled him into a warm hug of her own.
"We were in the middle of eating breakfast when Arthur suddenly sent an urgent Patronus message that the Minister had just announced publicly that he was dispatching Aurors to bring you in for questioning. The Ministry is absolutely out of order—nothing like this has ever happened before! Arresting a child without charges!"
She cupped Harry's face gently in her soft hands, her eyes were full of tenderness and concern as she studied his face for signs of harm.
"I'll bet you were frightened out of your wits, weren't you, dear?"
"Well—" Harry finally had a moment to speak for himself.
He smiled at the gathered faces surrounding him, trying to reassure them despite everything.
"It was fine, really—I was never in any real danger."
But no one in the corridor believed him for a moment.
The authority of the Ministry of Magic ran deep in wizarding society, ingrained from childhood, and the idea of an underage wizard being hunted down by a full squad of Aurors—how could anyone not be frightened by that?
And besides, Harry was not entirely out of danger yet. He still faced an official hearing before the Wizengamot in just over twenty days.
"Harry, why are you barefoot?" Ginny noticed that Harry's feet were completely bare against the cold stone floor, and said so with concern in her voice.
"The Aurors came so suddenly this morning—"
With a room full of people staring at his bare feet, Harry shifted his toes awkwardly against the cold stone.
"I didn't have time to put on shoes or anything—Sirius and the others will send my luggage over shortly."
"Well, standing around in bare feet on cold stone floors is no good at all for your health—" Mrs. Weasley gave Harry an affectionate pat on the head.
"I'll bet you haven't had any breakfast either, have you, dear? I'll fix you something hot and filling right away. Your room is on the third floor with Ron—you can wait there comfortably on the bed until your things arrive from Surrey."
She then turned to look at the quietly smiling Bryan standing beside Harry.
"Dumbledore is waiting for you in the kitchen downstairs, Bryan. I must say—I have never, in all my years of knowing him, seen him quite so angry as he looked when he arrived."
"Thank you for the warning, Molly," Bryan said politely giving a small nod. "I'll go to him now."
With that, he stepped away from Harry's side and moved off down the narrow corridor toward the stone staircase that led to the kitchen below. The Weasley children shuffled hastily aside to let him pass, pressing themselves against the peeling wallpaper.
Fred jabbed an elbow quietly into George's ribs, his eyes directing his twin's attention toward Professor Watson's retreating back.
"Like I needed you to tell me—" George muttered back under his breath, staring with awe at their Professor's retreating figure as it disappeared down into the dark stairwell.
"You lot, go with Harry upstairs right now!" Mrs. Weasley shot the twins a sharp, warning look.
"And don't you dare say anything to frighten him! He's been through enough for one morning!"
"Now that's entirely unfair, Mum," Fred said, grinning broadly.
"We were just going to rough him up a bit for what he and Viktor pulled on us during the tasks!!"
Mrs. Weasley gave Fred a warning glance, then swept away down the corridor and walked into the kitchen below.
"Come on, Harry—I'll take you to our room," Ron said, gesturing toward the stairs.
Harry had visited Sirius's ancestral Manor once before during the last year, and Sirius had given him a thorough tour at the time, so there was little that was unfamiliar about the layout.
The group moved noisily up the creaking wooden stairs to the third floor, and along the way Hermione briefed Harry on the current sleeping arrangements.
"Ginny and I are on the second floor in a room together. Amelia is on that floor too. You and Ron are on the third-floor sharing. Fred and George and Mrs. Weasley are on the fourth floor. There are also two additional bedrooms on the fourth floor reserved for Remus and Professor Watson—Sirius himself is on the fifth floor, though he's up there all alone and has been thinking about moving down since he finds it a bit lonely being so isolated."
"Professor Watson is staying here for the summer as well?" Harry asked, blinking in surprise. He was taken aback by this news.
"Apparently so," Ron said, pushing open the bedroom door with his shoulder.
"No one's ever dared touch the room since he last used it, so it's just stayed his by default."
The two-person bedroom Sirius had arranged for Harry and Ron was reasonably spacious by most standards, with high ceilings and tall windows. But with two beds and six people crowding into it all at once, it quickly felt rather cramped and close.
Hermione and Ginny kicked off their slippers and settled themselves cross-legged on the bed that was meant for Harry, claiming it without asking. Fred and George shamelessly claimed Ron's bed with equal presumption, sprawling across it. Ron, with surprising speed managed to seize the room's single battered armchair before anyone else could.
All of them fixed Harry with expectant stares—as he stood there in the middle of the room, still barefoot on the carpet, with nowhere to sit.
"What do you want to know?" Harry rolled his eyes, recognizing the setup. He had nowhere to sit and everyone was waiting for him to explain.
"Don't play dumb with us, Harry!" Ron said, his voice was tight with suppressed worry. "You know exactly what we want to ask about!"
"Did Professor Watson get into a fight with the Aurors?" Hermione's voice was strained with tension. "And what was all that blood on his hands?"
"Did he actually kill someone?" George asked with rather too much enthusiasm for the subject matter.
Harry gave in to this inevitable interrogation.
"The Auror's name was Dawlish," he said slowly, leaning back against the closed door and beginning his account.
And the moment those words left his mouth; the entire room fell into complete silence. Everyone stared at Harry, wide-eyed and stunned into stillness. Hermione pressed a hand over her mouth.
"He didn't kill anyone—Dawlish is still alive—" Harry added quickly, seeing their expressions. "Here's what actually happened—"
Meanwhile, in the kitchen below:
"Molly says she's never seen you so angry—" Bryan observed calmly.
Bryan pulled out a chair across from Dumbledore—who sat at the head of the kitchen table with his traveling cloak still around his shoulders and settled himself into it with calm.
The kitchen below ground level had little ventilation, making the air close and stale. In the low, flickering light cast by a few candles, Dumbledore's silver beard stirred faintly in some unfelt current. His deeply wrinkled face was unreadable.
Bryan looked at him with the same calm composure and asked directly,
"Is it Fudge you're angry with—or is it me?"
Mrs. Weasley had not been entirely wrong in her assessment.
Though Dumbledore wore no obvious expression on his face, Bryan could feel the fury roiling beneath the surface like magma beneath a volcano—a fury held in check only by Dumbledore's formidable self-control earned over more than a century of life.
It appeared that events had, in the end, unfolded beyond even Dumbledore's calculations and expectations.
Dumbledore said nothing at first. He simply looked at Bryan across the wooden table, his gaze was sharp and piercing behind the half-moon spectacles, enough to make Bryan narrow his eyes slightly.
Mrs. Weasley entered from the corridor. She had been intending to exchange a few pleasant words with the two men, to ease the tension, but one glance at the pair facing each other across the table like opposing generals drained the color from her face.
She slipped quietly past Bryan, moving to the stone countertop, and set about preparing Harry's breakfast.
The clatter and ring of pots and pans filled the heavy silence—yet she did not stop watching out of the corner of her eye, stealing glances toward the table every time she turned to reach for something. Her eyes were full of unease.
The weight of Dumbledore's presence shifted, just barely.
Bryan moved his fingers in a small gesture.
The sound of the room stopped carrying beyond their vicinity.
"Did the dead Muggle truly exist, Bryan?" Dumbledore asked at last.
His gaze remained sharp and penetrating, but his ordinarily warm, grandfatherly voice had taken on a raw, rough tone.
"He did," Bryan said simply. He inclined his head, his answer was spare and direct without embellishment.
At that confirmation, Dumbledore looked like a man who had gone without sleep for several nights running—suddenly hollowed out, exhausted, and aged beyond his years.
He opened his mouth as though to ask a second question, then closed it again without speaking.
Something appeared and flickered in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or disappointment.
But Dumbledore had weathered a lifetime of storms and betrayals and losses, and he steadied himself quickly. His breath came slightly uneven for a moment before he controlled it.
"Was it Cornelius—or Harry?"
Bryan's lips pressed together in a thin line. He offered no evasion, no deflection. His answer was direct and instant.
"Cornelius Fudge."
Beneath his traveling cloak, the old man's hands clenched suddenly into fists—then released. They emerged from the folds of cloth and came to rest on the scarred table surface, fingers laced together.
The uncertainty in Dumbledore's eyes turned into something more complex.
"You witnessed it yourself," he said at last—pausing—"Or did you learn of it afterward, Bryan?"
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