The grand corridors of St. Mungo's bustled with the usual flurry of activity, but to Charlus and Arcturus, it felt as though time had momentarily paused. They moved through the halls with the quiet, assured presence of men who had seen centuries pass in the blink of an eye. The gathering of their family in one of the private rooms was not just a reunion; it was a rare moment of solace, a cherished slice of normalcy amid the chaos that so often defined their lives.
As they approached the gathering, the sight before them caused a warm, undeniable pride to swell in their chests. Dorea and Melania stood beside Sirius, who was clearly in the midst of one of his animated recountings. Harry, young but eager, was hanging on every word, his wide eyes betraying his fascination. Sirius's voice danced through the air, thick with the weight of nostalgia as he regaled his godson with tales of the Marauders—their pranks, their victories, and their inevitable run-ins with the headmaster's wrath.
Charlus's lips curved into a rare smile, though his usual composure was not entirely softened. His gaze moved to his son, Harry, his heart swelling with emotion. How quickly time passed—how much had changed, yet how much remained the same.
"Sirius is doing what he does best, I see," Charlus remarked, his deep voice like a rich, rolling thunder. He glanced at Arcturus, whose expression remained unreadable, but whose eyes glittered with the faintest amusement.
Arcturus, ever the master of restraint, simply raised an eyebrow. "It's as if the boy hasn't heard enough of those ridiculous tales already," he muttered, his tone low but unmistakably filled with a sharp edge. "Still, better tales of mischief than of the Dark Lord, I suppose."
Charlus chuckled darkly, the sound rich and deep, before turning his attention to the women. "Dorea, Melania," he greeted, his voice holding a note of warmth beneath its usual steely edge. "It's good to see them like this. It reminds me of a time long past, a time when the world wasn't quite so... turbulent."
Dorea, her silver hair streaked with the elegance of age and experience, looked up from her quiet observance. Her sharp eyes softened with affection as she gazed at the pair before her. "Indeed," she replied, her voice cool yet laced with love. "Seeing them so carefree… it's as though nothing else matters."
Melania, ever the elegant figure with her eyes as dark as midnight and her gaze as piercing as a dagger's tip, offered a soft, approving nod. "They are more than just godfather and godson," she said, her tone rich with an unmistakable warmth, "They are bound by something far more powerful than blood—a bond that will outlast even the most perilous of times."
Charlus's gaze lingered on his son and Sirius, his voice quieter now, laden with a quiet reverence. "Such bonds are rare," he murmured. "It warms my heart to see Harry surrounded by those who would protect him, no matter what."
Arcturus, standing like a looming shadow beside Charlus, folded his arms with a slow, deliberate movement. His piercing eyes flicked briefly to Dorea and Melania before returning to the scene before them. He tilted his head slightly, an almost imperceptible shift, before addressing Charlus with a sardonic edge in his voice. "Careful, Charlus," he warned dryly, his voice the perfect balance of gravitas and sarcasm. "Don't get too sentimental on me. It doesn't suit you."
Charlus's lips twisted into the smallest of smirks, an expression that, when paired with his regal bearing, could send shivers down any sensible person's spine. "I could say the same to you, Arcturus," he replied smoothly. "I seem to recall you once spending an entire week locked in a cupboard, nursing a bruised ego after a few well-aimed hexes from James."
Arcturus's eyes narrowed, the sharp, calculating look one that could freeze a lesser man in place. But there was a glint in them, something akin to approval or perhaps even a touch of amusement at Charlus's jab. "Your memory is as sharp as ever, I see," he said with a nod. "But James was always far more... impulsive than I'd have liked."
The banter continued, light but edged with the unspoken tension of years of history, of alliances forged in fire and tested in the deepest crucibles. The sounds of laughter and Sirius's loud storytelling filled the room, and yet, in the corner, Charlus and Arcturus stood, both pillars of ancient legacies, their bond unspoken but as strong as any other.
Dorea's voice, gentle but firm, brought them back to the present. "Let them enjoy their moment," she said, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "We can stand here, watching, as they make their own memories."
Charlus inclined his head slightly, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second. "You're right, Dorea. We've made our own. Now, it's their turn."
As the group continued to share laughter and stories, there was an undeniable sense of unity in the air. Despite the hardships they had all faced, despite the looming storm on the horizon, this was their family—a family bound by more than blood, by history, and by the unwavering legacy of those who had come before.
Charlus, Arcturus, Dorea, and Melania remained standing together, watching the younger generation as they laughed and shared their tales. And though the storm clouds may have gathered on the horizon, for this moment, they allowed themselves to bask in the glow of something far more enduring—the simple, quiet joy of family.
—
The air in St. Mungo's was thick with the usual mix of bustling healers, patients, and quiet whispers of magic. However, the room where Charlus, Dorea, Arcturus, and Melania stood had a different energy—a kind of stillness, as though time slowed when they entered. Even amidst the chaos of a hospital, the presence of these seasoned wizards seemed to demand a certain reverence.
Sirius, effortlessly in his element, was in the middle of spinning another tale, his voice booming with enthusiasm. Harry, standing at his side, was clearly enraptured, hanging on every word as Sirius's infectious energy carried through the room. The bond between godfather and godson was undeniable, each one finding in the other a kindred spirit—a shared sense of mischief, adventure, and the unspoken understanding of surviving the shadows that loomed over their lives.
It was in this very moment that Minerva McGonagall arrived. Her sharp eyes, always alert, flicked over the group gathered before her. A faint, yet unmistakable look of concern passed through her features, but it softened when she saw the warmth between the family. The professor, always poised and dignified, moved towards them with a grace that belied her age, her steps measured but sure.
"Good evening, Charlus, Dorea," Minerva greeted, her voice a soothing balm, filled with a genuine affection. "And Sirius, my, it's good to see you looking so well." Her eyes flicked to Harry, and her expression softened even more. "And who might this young man be?"
Sirius flashed a devilish grin, the twinkle in his eye as mischievous as ever. "Professor, this is Harry Potter, my godson," he announced proudly. "The one and only. Harry, meet Professor Minerva McGonagall. A legend in her own right."
Minerva raised an eyebrow at the comment, clearly familiar with the tone Sirius adopted when teasing. "A legend, Sirius? I do hope you haven't been telling Harry any unfortunate stories about me," she said, her voice light but laced with the typical sharpness that made her such a formidable presence. "We both know you have a unique way of remembering things."
Sirius, ever the provocateur, shrugged with a dramatic flair. "Oh, I'm only telling him the good bits. The bits where you hexed half the staff when they tried to take you down in a duel." He grinned, nudging Harry with an elbow. "Isn't that right, Professor?"
Minerva's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. "If you must remind me, I believe you were the one who nearly managed to blow up the Transfiguration classroom during your first year, Sirius," she replied dryly, with a smile that was as rare as it was deadly. "If you're going to talk about legends, I should remind you that I could still have you dusting the floors for that stunt."
Charlus, standing tall and as imposing as ever, couldn't help but join in the banter, his voice smooth and rich, like a deep velvet cloak. "Minerva, I do hope you don't let him off so easily. We all know Sirius's penchant for embellishing the truth. Half the time, I'm not even sure if he was at school or making things up as he went along."
Arcturus, looming by his brother's side, added in a voice like the rumble of thunder before a storm, "It's a miracle you survived your youth, Sirius. And by 'miracle,' I mean a combination of sheer dumb luck and the fact that McGonagall's aim is as good as her temper." His words were sharp, and his gaze, even sharper, locked onto Sirius with a knowing look that spoke volumes about their shared history.
Dorea, with her signature composed elegance, gave them both a pointed look. "Really, must you both tease him like this?" she said, her voice the perfect balance of sternness and affection. "We all know you two were far more trouble than he ever was."
Minerva, who had been watching this exchange with a raised brow, now turned her attention back to Harry. Her eyes softened, as if sensing his quiet discomfort at the weight of the conversation. "And who is this young man?" she asked, her voice gentler now, as though the teasing had all been for show. The warmth of her gaze radiated from beneath the steel of her stern features, offering Harry a quiet refuge.
Harry, who had been momentarily caught in the crossfire of all the banter, shifted nervously. He had been trying to take everything in—the faces, the names, the overwhelming warmth—and despite the charm of the group around him, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was still an outsider to this world. But when Minerva addressed him, he found himself momentarily reassured. Her voice, though authoritative, was also calming, and there was a subtle gentleness in the way she regarded him.
"Uh, hi," Harry muttered, his voice hesitant, unsure of how to act or what to say. "I'm Harry. Nice to meet you, Professor."
Sirius, sensing the tension in Harry's posture, placed a hand on his godson's shoulder. "Don't worry, Harry," he said, his tone a reassuring balm. "Minerva's one of the good ones. She'll make sure you're safe, just like she did with me all those years ago." He glanced at her with mock seriousness. "And no, she doesn't still have a broom hidden under her desk ready to hex you, even if you do deserve it."
Minerva's lips quirked into a small smile at that. "That may have been true once," she admitted, her eyes flashing with playful mischief, "But I assure you, Sirius, I've grown more discerning in my old age."
Charlus, standing like a statue of grace and power, cleared his throat dramatically. "Do take care, Minerva," he said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "Sirius's godson is a Potter by blood, so you may find yourself catching more than a few fireworks of his own making." His eyes glinted with something far more dangerous than humor. "Just don't let him convince you that his pranks are harmless. I've seen him bring down an entire corridor with a single sneeze."
Minerva chuckled, her eyes flicking to Harry. "I've heard tales of the Potters and their... creativity," she said. "But I trust that Harry will turn out to be far more responsible than Sirius ever was."
Harry met her gaze, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'll try," he said softly, his nerves starting to ease, the warmth of the room beginning to settle around him.
Sirius flashed a grin at Harry. "He's got it in him, Professor. Just wait until he learns to conjure fireworks with a single flick of his wrist."
The room was filled with laughter then, light and genuine. The weight of the world seemed a little less heavy for just a moment, as family and friends, bound by shared history and unwavering loyalty, stood together. And in that moment, Harry felt, perhaps for the first time, that he wasn't truly alone.
—
Minerva's gaze softened as it flicked between Harry and Sirius, her stern features gradually melting into something more familiar. She could feel the warmth radiating from the family, their bond palpable in the air, and it stirred something deep within her.
"Dorea, Melania," Minerva said with a glimmer of affection, moving toward them with measured steps, each one deliberate and laden with unspoken history. Her voice, though carrying its usual authority, was laced with warmth as she greeted them. "It's been far too long."
Dorea's eyes lit up with recognition, her lips curling into a smile as she stood from her chair, the elegance of her movement speaking volumes. She clasped Minerva's hands, the years of friendship apparent in the way their fingers interlaced. "Minerva, darling, I've missed you," she said with her typical sharpness softened by a genuine fondness. "How have you been keeping, dear?"
Minerva's smile reached her eyes. "Oh, you know," she replied, a small chuckle escaping her lips. "I've been very busy, but the same as ever. It seems fate has been quite... demanding lately."
Melania, her gaze cool and poised, nodded with a knowing look. Her features, carved with the same commanding beauty as always, softened when she spoke. "Indeed. Events have been more than a little... dramatic of late, wouldn't you say, Minerva?"
Minerva's lips twitched upward. "It certainly feels like the plot of a very poorly written drama, doesn't it?"
"I'm afraid so," Dorea interjected dryly, giving a glance to the other side of the room where Arcturus and Charlus sat, their conversations seemingly more intense. "But here we are, finally, seeing this situation through."
Minerva turned her head in the direction Dorea nodded toward, her gaze catching Arcturus's eye. He raised an eyebrow, lips thinning slightly. The look in his eyes said it all: A reckoning was coming, and it was only just beginning.
"Yes, indeed," Minerva murmured, before turning back to the group. Her eyes softened as she looked at Harry once more. She was keenly aware of the young man standing by Sirius's side, the one who had suffered so much, and yet, had managed to find some peace in his reunion with the family. "But I think the most important thing now is that Harry is safe and surrounded by those who love him."
Dorea placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, giving him a warm squeeze as she spoke. "It's been a long road for him, Minerva. But we'll make sure it's a much smoother one from here on out."
Melania's eyes glinted with a quiet resolve. "Harry's future isn't just in anyone's hands—it's in his family's. We've learned that the hard way."
Minerva nodded gravely. "I couldn't agree more."
Her voice softened, tinged with regret as she turned to face Dorea and Melania more fully. "I owe you both an apology. And Harry. For the part I played in... all of this."
The silence in the room thickened as the words hung heavily in the air. Minerva's shoulders sagged with the weight of her own remorse, her heart heavy. "I should have questioned Albus. I should have asked more questions about the decision to place Harry with the Dursleys, and I should have stood by Sirius when it mattered most." Her voice faltered for a moment. "I failed you both, and Harry."
Dorea's eyes hardened just slightly, but there was no mistaking the sadness that came with it. "You know, Minerva," she began, her voice uncharacteristically quiet, "You can't undo what's been done." She paused, her gaze flicking over to Harry before landing back on Minerva. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. You should have seen what we all saw. That boy… he deserved better from all of us."
Melania's words came with a slow, deliberate edge, sharp like the tip of a blade, but not without sympathy. "Dorea speaks the truth. We know the complexities, Minerva. We know you never intended for this, but in the end, intent doesn't change the reality of what was done. Not just to Harry, but to all of us."
Minerva's eyes stung with the weight of their words, the sting of regret cutting deep, but there was a quiet acceptance in her gaze. She couldn't argue with them. They were right. No matter how hard she tried to explain herself, no matter the reasons she had once believed were right, it didn't change the fact that she had been a part of the system that had let Harry down.
"I understand," Minerva whispered, her voice low, almost as if speaking to herself. "And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure Harry's future is nothing like the past that I allowed to unfold."
Sirius, sensing the tension, gave a small but approving nod. "She's not wrong," he said with a rare, serious tone. His hand rested briefly on Harry's shoulder. "None of us can undo what's been done, but we can damn well make sure Harry gets the life he deserves from here on out."
Charlus, whose deep voice had been absent until now, glanced over his shoulder from where he sat, a faint but amused smile curling at his lips. "Well, well, Minerva," he said, his tone dry and authoritative like a father offering a lecture with his usual cutting edge. "It seems even you aren't above reproach."
Minerva raised an eyebrow, about to reply with a sharp retort, but Dorea's voice interjected before it could escalate.
"Oh, Charlus, you've always been the worst kind of critic," Dorea quipped, her eyes narrowing with a playful glint. "But yes, Minerva, we accept your apology. Though, we'd expect nothing less from someone of your caliber."
Melania gave a soft smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes, though it was clear she appreciated the effort. "It's something," she said, her voice smooth, yet there was a hint of finality in her tone. "But now, let's see how much you're willing to prove."
Minerva let out a soft sigh, accepting the challenge in their words, but there was a flicker of a smile on her lips, the familiar sharpness of her wit returning. "I always have been one to take on challenges."
"Good," Dorea replied with a smirk. "Because the road ahead is going to be rather bumpy."
Minerva met her gaze with a quiet resolve. "I can handle bumpy," she said softly, her eyes meeting Harry's for a brief moment before looking back at the group. "I'll do whatever it takes to make things right."
With that, the room seemed to settle into an uneasy but tentative peace. The wounds of the past remained, but there was an understanding, a shared commitment to moving forward. For Harry, for each of them. And somehow, in that moment, it felt like a new chapter was beginning.
—
The soft hum of magic in the corridors of St. Mungo's, accompanied by the subtle clinking of metal and distant murmurs, felt as though the hospital itself carried the weight of the tragedy that had unfolded within its walls. The air was thick with the acrid smell of antiseptic and the bittersweet tang of healing potions, lingering in the space like the heavy shadow of the past.
Augusta Longbottom stood by a set of double doors, her posture rigid but weary, a woman worn thin by grief and tireless vigilance. Her once-pristine robes, now faded and worn, hung on her frame as if the years had pressed down on her more heavily than she cared to admit. The toll of caring for a son and daughter-in-law trapped in unending torment under the weight of the Cruciatus Curse was visible in the deep lines etched around her eyes. There was no escaping the horror of their suffering, and Augusta had no choice but to face it head-on—just as she had always done.
Charlus and Arcturus rounded the corner, their footsteps purposeful but unhurried, the sheer presence of the two men enough to command the air around them to shift. As they approached Augusta, a soft, unspoken understanding passed between them—this was not just another visit, but a moment of quiet solidarity, a mark of loyalty forged through years of hardship and shared loss.
Charlus, tall and imposing, his sharp features reminiscent of a predator at rest, was the first to break the silence. His voice, deep and commanding, was laced with the sort of calm authority that only years of experience in dealing with the worst that life could throw could produce. "Augusta," he greeted, his words like a warm, steady hand on her shoulder. "We've been to hell and back more times than either of us care to count. You're not facing this alone."
Augusta lifted her gaze, her eyes dark with the weight of too many sleepless nights, but they softened when they locked onto Charlus. "Thank you," she replied quietly, her voice thick with unspoken gratitude. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up, but—" She cut herself off, the raw emotion threatening to overwhelm her once more.
Arcturus, who stood beside Charlus like a looming shadow, raised an eyebrow, his expression one of barely concealed disdain. "You know," he remarked coolly, his deep, resonant voice cutting through the tension with a sardonic edge, "I always thought St. Mungo's was meant to heal the body. Funny how little it does for the soul."
Charlus gave his old friend a side-long glance, his lips quirking slightly in a rare smile. "You always did have a way of making people feel better, didn't you, Arcturus?"
Arcturus simply smirked in reply, the barest flicker of amusement lighting his aged features. "I try, but you know I leave the heavy lifting to you, Charlus."
Augusta's lips twitched, the corners of her mouth curving up in a tired, knowing smile. The two men had always been masters of sharp words, their banter cutting through the heavy air like a breath of fresh air in a suffocating room. "You're both incorrigible," she said with a soft chuckle, shaking her head at them. "But I'm grateful for it."
Sirius, who had been leaning against the wall nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, straightened at the sound of Augusta's laughter. His usual confident, brash demeanor softened slightly at the sound. He stepped forward, his broad frame towering over the others as he gave Augusta a meaningful look. "You're a bloody legend, Augusta," he said gruffly, his deep voice carrying the weight of sincere admiration. "But don't think you can do this alone. We'll see this through together. Whatever happens next, we'll face it as a family."
The words hung in the air, the gravity of their meaning settling over them like the cloak of the night. Augusta met Sirius's eyes, her gaze hardening with resolve. "I've had to fight my entire life, Sirius," she replied, her voice steady but fierce, "but it's always been worth it. For Frank, for Alice, for the future. This war may be a bloody mess, but I'll see it through until the end."
Charlus clapped a hand on Sirius's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "Just remember, boy," he said with a sly grin, "there's no shame in letting the older men handle some of the heavy lifting. You've got enough on your plate already."
Sirius shot him an amused look, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "I think I can handle my own weight, thanks."
Arcturus chuckled darkly, his long, bony fingers drumming on the back of his cane as he spoke. "Ah, youth. Always in such a rush to prove themselves. But remember, Sirius, while you're busy being a hero, there's still an awful lot of work to be done in the shadows."
Charlus nodded sagely, adding, "And trust me, Arcturus and I—" He paused, the barest hint of a smug grin crossing his face. "We've perfected the art of working in those shadows. You'd do well to learn from us."
Augusta watched them with a mixture of affection and frustration, though there was no mistaking the fondness in her eyes. "You two are insufferable," she muttered, but there was no bite to her words. "But I suppose I couldn't ask for better company."
"Good thing, too," Arcturus quipped with a smirk. "We're the only company you're getting, unless you fancy the company of the hospital's cat."
"Trust me," Augusta replied dryly, "I'd prefer the cat. At least it doesn't have opinions about my life choices."
The tension in the air began to ease, the camaraderie of shared history and unspoken understanding working its magic, as it always had. Together, they stood—Augusta, Charlus, Arcturus, and Sirius—united not just by their blood or their bonds but by the silent promise that they would carry each other through whatever storm lay ahead. Their world had been shattered more times than they cared to count, but they were still standing. And as long as they were, they would fight for what mattered, for the lives of those they loved.
It was a fight they would face together—come what may.
—
Barty Crouch Sr. sat rigidly in his dimly lit study, his sharp features cast in deep shadows by the flickering candlelight. His once-impeccable robes were uncharacteristically rumpled, the result of hours spent stewing in his own righteous indignation. His fingers drummed against the mahogany desk, a steady, impatient rhythm that betrayed the seething anger beneath his outwardly composed facade.
"Fools. The lot of them," he muttered, his thin lips curling in disdain. "Spineless, dithering fools."
His dismissal from the Ministry had been swift and public—a spectacle designed to humiliate him. After everything he had done for the wizarding world, after every sacrifice he had made in the pursuit of order, they had turned on him like a pack of feral mutts.
"Crouch, they said," he sneered, mimicking the tremulous voice of one of the Wizengamot members. "Crouch, how could you have convicted an innocent man? As if those mewling sycophants weren't clamoring for Sirius Black's head on a pike themselves."
His hands clenched into fists. There had been no trial, no deliberation. But there had been certainty—his certainty. Black had been found at the scene, wand in hand, laughing amidst the carnage. That had been enough. It should have been enough.
Yet now, with new evidence unearthed—evidence that had never even been presented to him—his judgment had been deemed flawed. Worse still, it had been deemed politically inconvenient. And so, the Ministry had discarded him like a worn-out boot, an embarrassing relic of an era they would rather forget.
A sharp knock at the door snapped him from his brooding. He exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring.
"Enter," he barked, his tone brooking no argument.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a small, trembling figure. Winky, his faithful house-elf, stood in the doorway, wringing her tea towel between her tiny hands. Her large, round eyes shimmered with concern, though they remained fixed firmly on the floor, as though afraid to meet his gaze.
"Master Barty, sir," she said hesitantly, her voice high-pitched and thick with her Midlands accent. "It—it's time for Young Master's dinner."
Barty Crouch Sr. let out a slow breath through his nose, his expression unreadable. His fingers tapped against the desk once more, this time with an air of calculated deliberation.
"Has he eaten today, Winky?" he asked, his voice cool, measured.
"Well, er, n-no, sir, not as such," Winky admitted, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. "But in Winky's defense, he did throw a plate at Winky's head last time, and Winky doesn't much fancy being concussed on a Tuesday. Again."
Barty pinched the bridge of his nose. "And did you allow him to throw a plate at you, Winky?"
Winky's ears drooped. "Well, Winky tried catching it, sir, but, er, Winky's hands were full of mashed potatoes at the time, and, well, potatoes is famously unhelpful for catching." She sighed. "But Winky cleaned up right away! Even picked out the bits of china from the soup!"
Barty pressed his fingers together, elbows resting on the desk. "He must eat. His strength must be maintained. You will see to it that he eats, Winky. No matter his... theatrics."
Winky winced. "Winky will try, Master Barty, but Young Master does get ever so cross, and Winky does like her teeth where they are."
Crouch's eyes narrowed. "He is your responsibility, Winky. I trust you will not disappoint me."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Winky swallowed hard, her large ears twitching. "Oh, no, no, never, sir! Winky would sooner iron her own hands!"
Barty inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Good. Then do not waste time standing there wringing your towel like a milkmaid."
Winky let out a squeak and scrambled backward out of the room, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. The door clicked shut behind her, and silence settled once more.
Barty Crouch Sr. leaned back in his chair, staring unseeingly at the rows of law books lining his study walls.
It was all slipping away. His career. His reputation. His control.
But he was Barty Crouch. He had built his legacy from nothing, carved it from stone with sheer force of will. He would not crumble. He would not break.
Let them try to erase him. Let them pretend his sacrifices had meant nothing.
He would weather this storm as he had all others. With resolve. With dignity. With the unshakable knowledge that he, and he alone, had always been right.
---
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