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The world still smelled like burnt bone, but at least the Deathbird was ash now. Harry adjusted Millicent's weight on his back, his ribs protesting with each breath—a sharp reminder that being flung about by an ancient death-creature wasn't exactly therapeutic.
"We need somewhere to rest," Harry said, watching the captain limp toward what remained of Perran. The young soldier was conscious but cradling an arm that bent in ways arms definitely shouldn't. "Somewhere defensible, preferably without any more nightmare birds lurking about."
The captain—Harry still didn't know his name, which seemed wrong somehow after they'd fought together—looked up from where he was fashioning a sling from torn cloth. His face had the hollow look of someone tired; he reminded Harry of Sirius in a way. The look of exhaustion. Seven men reduced to two.
"There's the Cathedral of Dragon Communion," the captain said, his voice rough as gravel. "What's left of it, anyway. Half a mile southeast. Has walls, at least."
"Lead the way then," Harry said, then turned to the massive wolf-warrior who was cleaning his greatsword. He didn't seem tired despite killing something that all of them together could not put down. "And... thanks. For the save, I mean. We'd be bird food without you."
Blaidd's amber eyes studied him, and Harry knew he was being evaluated. The half-wolf's muzzle—and wasn't that a sentence Harry never thought he'd think—curved into what might have been amusement.
"Such creatures should not exist," Blaidd rumbled. "Their time passed long ago."
They began walking, a ragged procession through Caelid's festering landscape. Perran needed the captain's support, leaving Harry to carry Millicent while Roddard took point, spear ready. Blaidd moved with them but slightly apart, like a shadow that had decided to be helpful.
"You alright?" Harry murmured to Millicent, feeling her shift against his back.
"Better," she whispered, pressing her face between his shoulder blades in a way that made his chest do something complicated. "Just tired. Channeling that much Rot..." She trailed off, but Harry could feel her exhaustion in how heavily she leaned against him.
The ground squelched unpleasantly under Harry's feet—Caelid had a talent for making every surface feel vaguely alive and definitely hostile. He tried not to think about what exactly he was stepping in.
"So," Harry said to Blaidd, partly to distract himself from the way Millicent's breath warmed his neck, "what exactly was that thing? The Deathbird, I mean. Never seen anything like it, and I've seen some properly weird stuff."
Blaidd's ears—actual wolf ears, which moved independently like they were taking stock of every sound—swiveled toward him. "No one knows their true origin. Legends speak of them, but legends rarely concern themselves with facts."
"Legends?" Harry prompted. After dealing with a basilisk, he'd developed a healthy respect for legends.
"They say," Blaidd continued, "that before the Erdtree claimed these lands, before Golden Order or any current power, a creature called the Twinbird made its nest in the Lands Between. The Deathbirds are its offspring—creatures of ending, feeders on flesh and final breaths."
Harry felt Millicent tense slightly against him at the mention of creatures that fed on death. He shifted his grip, trying to be reassuring without being obvious about it.
"Death makes them stronger," Blaidd added, stepping over what looked disturbingly like a ribcage. "Each kill feeds their power. You saw how it grew more vicious with every soldier that fell."
The captain made a sound that might have been agreement or just pain. Perran hadn't said anything since they'd started walking, his face gray beneath the dirt and blood.
"But there can't be many left," Harry said hopefully. "I mean, something that dangerous—"
"Queen Marika saw to their destruction herself," Blaidd said, and there was something in his tone. "Sent Lord Godfrey and his army of Tarnished warriors to hunt them to extinction. Took years, but when it was done, no Deathbird drew breath in the Lands Between."
Harry noticed Roddard's helmet turn slightly at the mention of Tarnished warriors. The knight had opinions about Tarnished, Harry knew, most of them involving the words 'filth' and 'unworthy.'
"So how'd they come back?" Harry asked, though part of him thought of Voldemort—how evil always seemed to find a way to crawl back from whatever hole it had been stuffed into.
"After the Shattering," Blaidd said, his voice dropping to something almost like a growl. "After the Night of Black Knives. They returned then, though not in their former numbers."
The way he said 'Night of Black Knives' made Harry's scar prickle, which was ridiculous since that particular curse scar was worlds away. Still, something about the phrase carried weight, like 'Chamber of Secrets' or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.'
"Some claim," Blaidd continued, "that desperate fools performed the old rites, gave their lives to bring the Deathbirds back. But I doubt it."
"Why?" Harry asked.
"Because even during Marika's thousands of years of rule, there were always fanatics who worshipped the Deathbirds. Small groups, meeting in secret, offering sacrifices." Blaidd's muzzle wrinkled in what was definitely disgust. "Yet the birds never returned. Not until the Shattering changed everything."
Harry glanced at Roddard. "Is that true?"
The knight's helmet moved in what Harry had learned to recognize as a nod. "Prince Miquella himself once encountered a Deathbird. Spoke with it, even."
That got Harry's attention. Everything seemed to loop back to this Prince Miquella—Millicent's needle, Malenia's twin, the one who'd disappeared. "What did it tell him?"
"No one knows," Roddard said. "The Prince never revealed what passed between them, save to his sister."
Malenia. Harry felt Millicent's breath catch at the mention of her mother. Without thinking, he adjusted his grip, pulling her slightly higher on his back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.
The captain suddenly spoke, his voice cutting through the contemplative mood. "Does it matter where they came from? They're here now, killing anyone unlucky enough to cross their path." He shot a look at Millicent that wasn't quite hostile but wasn't friendly either. "Just like everything else in this rotted land."
The tension that followed could've been bottled and sold as essence of awkward. Harry felt Millicent press her face harder against his back, hiding from the accusation that hadn't quite been spoken.
"The Deathbird would have killed you regardless of who was present," Blaidd said mildly. "Death never does."
Perran finally spoke, his voice thick with pain. "Least we're alive to argue about it."
It wasn't forgiveness, exactly, but it wasn't condemnation either. Harry would take it.
The Cathedral of Dragon Communion rose from the corrupted landscape like the skeleton of some massive beast, its spires clawing at Caelid's diseased sky. Harry could make out what had once been dragon statues, now broken and twisted into shapes that looked more like warnings than worship.
"Peaceful," Harry muttered, earning what might have been a snort from inside Roddard's helmet.
The Cathedral of Dragon Communion looked like it had been through a war and lost—which, Harry supposed, was exactly what had happened. Half a dragon's stone head jutted from rubble near the entrance, one eye staring accusingly at the blood-red sky. The rest of its body was presumably somewhere under the collapsed wall, though Harry tried not to think too hard about whether real dragon corpses might be buried here, too.
Two guards flanked what remained of the entrance, their armor bearing the same style as the captain's but with considerably less dents and suspicious stains. They straightened as the group approached, hands moving to weapons in that universal gesture of 'we're not threatening you yet, but we could be.'
The captain stepped forward, and Harry caught the way he rolled his shoulders back, trying to look less like someone who'd just been used as a Deathbird's chew toy. "We need shelter," the captain said, his voice carrying military authority despite the blood crusted on his face.
"Captain Aldrich?" One guard's voice pitched up in recognition, then immediately dropped as he took in the state of their group. "Marika's Tits—what happened to your unit?"
"Deathbird," the captain—Aldrich, apparently—said flatly.
Both guards stepped back involuntarily. The one who'd spoken made a gesture Harry recognized from watching Aunt Petunia's friends—warding off evil, though this looked considerably more sincere.
"And you brought them here?" the second guard said, his voice rising as he spotted first Roddard's Cleanrot armor, then Millicent's distinctive red hair where she leaned against Harry. "Are you mad? That's one of Malenia's—"
"They saved our lives," Aldrich cut in, though Harry noticed he didn't quite meet the guard's eyes. "The boy with the lightning, the knight, the girl—without them, Perran and I would be bird food."
The first guard's gaze swept over their group, lingering on Blaidd with the sort of expression Harry associated with finding an acromantula in your bedroom. "And the... wolf?"
"Killed the Deathbird," Perran spoke up, his voice tight with pain but firm. "One strike. Separated its head from its body like cutting butter."
The guards exchanged looks that held an entire conversation. Harry could practically see them weighing options—turn away the group that included Cleanrot knight and Malenia's apparent daughter, or refuse shelter to their own captain and the person who'd killed a Deathbird.
"Fine," the first guard said eventually, though he sounded about as happy as Snape giving Gryffindor points. "But any trouble—any—and we put you down. All of you."
"Understood," Aldrich said.
As they passed through the entrance, the second guard leaned close enough that Harry caught the sour smell of old sweat and fear. "Keep that red-haired plague away from the others, boy, or you'll learn what we do to Rot-bringers here."
Harry met his eyes steadily, remembering all the times Dudley's gang had threatened him. At least here he could fight back. "She's not a plague," he said quietly. "She's a person."
The guard's laugh had all the warmth of February rain. "That's what they all say. Until the Rot takes them."
The cathedral's interior stole whatever response Harry might have made. The ceiling stretched up high enough that the damaged portions let in shafts of diseased light, creating a patchwork of shadow and crimson illumination. Stone dragons decorated every surface that hadn't crumbled—wings spread in frozen flight, heads tilted in eternal roars, claws extended toward offerings that would never come.
But it was the far end that made Harry stop short. Three massive dragon statues, somehow intact despite the destruction around them, curved around what could only be described as a cauldron large enough to bathe a troll in. Their stone eyes seemed to track movement, though Harry told himself that was just clever carving and paranoia.
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed. "What is this place?"
"This was one of many churches where the Dragon Cult gathered," Roddard said, moving past Harry to examine the space. "Before the Shattering, before the madness, dragons and humans would meet here. They shared knowledge through communion—dragon hearts for power, human worship for... something. The dragons never said what they gained from the exchange."
Harry tried to imagine dragons and humans chatting over tea and failed spectacularly. "Dragons and humans were friends?"
"More than friends," Blaidd rumbled, his massive frame casting strange shadows in the firelight from other camps. "Some dragons could take human form, walk among men as equals. They attended court, formed alliances, even..." He paused, seeming to choose his words. "Even loved, on occasion."
"Dragons could turn into people?" Harry's mind immediately went to Professor McGonagall's transformations, though he suspected turning into a dragon was significantly more dramatic than becoming a cat.
"Not all," Roddard clarified. "Only the ancient ones, those who'd mastered the old magics. They say Lansseax, sister to the great Fortissax, could appear as a woman beautiful enough to make stones weep, well Lansseax was a She Dragon, so is not that surprising. Godwyn the Golden was the one who became the first friend of the dragons."
Aldrich and Perran had moved toward a corner where other soldiers rested. As they settled, Harry caught them murmuring something, heads bowed. It was a prayer, though the words were lost in the cathedral's echoes, but Harry heard one say. "May your soul and body rest in the Golden Lands Beyond, with Mother Erdtree."
"Godwyn the Golden," Millicent said softly from where Harry had helped her sit. "They're praying for him. Many soldiers do—he was beloved before he died."
"The demigod who befriended dragons," Harry said, pieces clicking together. "Miquella's older brother?"
"Half-brother," Roddard corrected. "But yes. His death started everything—the Shattering, the madness, all of it."
Harry filed that information away, though he was more concerned with immediate needs. The cathedral might be shelter, but the cold had a way of seeping through stone and armor alike. He could see other groups had small fires going, the smoke rising to escape through holes in the roof.
He held out his hand, concentrating on the warming charm that had been one of the first things they'd learned in Flitwick's class. Without a wand, it felt like trying to paint with his feet—possible, but requiring far more concentration than it should. A small flame flickered to life in his palm, dancing between his fingers like a tiny salamander.
"Useful," Blaidd observed.
Harry guided the flame to a pile of broken wood and what might have been old prayer books, coaxing it into something more substantial. The warmth was immediate and welcome, drawing a soft sigh from Millicent.
"Right then," Harry said, settling back against a relatively intact section of wall where he could keep an eye on both Millicent and the entrance. "We've got shelter, we've got warmth, and we've got guards who probably want to kill us. Feels almost like home."
"Your home sounds delightful," Roddard said dryly.
"You'd love my relatives," Harry replied. "They'd probably get along great with those guards—same general attitude toward anything they don't understand."
Around them, the cathedral settled into the quiet bustle of people trying to rest while staying alert. Other fires crackled, casting dancing shadows on the dragon statues. Someone was cooking something that smelled like meat but probably wasn't anything Harry wanted to identify. The sound of whetstones on steel provided a rhythmic backdrop to murmured conversations.
Blaidd had positioned himself where he could watch both the main entrance and a smaller door Harry hadn't noticed before. The half-wolf's stillness was unnerving—like a statue that might suddenly spring to life. Which, given everything Harry had seen today, wasn't entirely out of the question.
The fire crackled between them, casting shadows that made Blaidd's wolf features look even less human than usual. Harry watched Roddard's helmet turn slowly toward their mysterious savior.
"Enough games," Roddard said, his gauntleted hand tightening on his spear. "You didn't just happen to be wandering Caelid when that Deathbird attacked. What does Princess Ranni want with us?"
Harry felt Millicent shift beside him, her exhaustion palpable but her attention sharp.
Blaidd's ears flicked back. "Princess Ranni sent me to aid the Tarnished from the other world."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"You," Blaidd clarified, those amber eyes fixing on Harry. "Harry Potter. The one who doesn't belong."
He'd met Ranni exactly once, back in Limgrave when he was still only with Melina and the merchant, what was his name...Kale. The four-armed witch had given him—
"I have met her before, she gave me this..." Harry pulled the silver dagger from his belt.. "She gave me this and she told me it would help me return home."
Roddard leaned forward, studying the dagger with sudden interest. "What did she tell you exactly? Every word matters with the Carian royalty."
Harry tried to remember through the fog of exhaustion. "She said I need to defeat Godrick the Grafted, climb the Divine Tower of Limgrave, and then I'd know what to do with this." He turned the dagger over, searching for any clue in its unnaturally smooth surface. "Though knowing my luck, it probably opens a door to somewhere worse than here."
The look that passed between Roddard and Blaidd might have been meaningful if Harry could read expressions behind a helmet and on a wolf's face.
"You don't know what it does," Roddard said. Not a question.
"Haven't got the foggiest," Harry admitted. "But given that the last mysterious object someone handed me turned out to be a memory that tried to kill me, I'm not exactly eager to experiment."
Roddard's helmet swiveled toward Blaidd. "Why does your mistress want him protected? What's so special about one lost boy?"
The temperature around Blaidd seemed to drop, though the fire hadn't dimmed. His hackles rose slightly.
"Princess Ranni's reasons are her own," Blaidd said, each word careful as footsteps on ice. "My duty is not to question. My duty is to obey."
"How very convenient," Roddard muttered.
Blaidd ignored him, turning back to Harry. "From this moment until Princess Ranni releases me, I serve you. Your commands are mine to follow, your battles mine to fight."
Harry stared at the massive wolf-warrior, trying to process this development. "I... what? No, that's—I don't need a servant. I can barely keep myself alive, let alone order someone else around."
"Nevertheless." Blaidd reached behind his back, and Harry heard Roddard's armor creak as the knight tensed. "Princess Ranni also wished me to give you this."
The sword Blaidd produced should have been impossible to miss, yet somehow Harry hadn't noticed it until now. The pommel looked ordinary enough—leather-wrapped, functional—but the blade itself made Harry's eyes hurt to follow. It started normal, then split into two parts that spiraled around each other like DNA strands made of steel.
But then he moved. One moment Blaidd was holding out the sword, the next Roddard's spear point pressed against the wolf's throat with enough force to dimple fur.
"What are you trying to do with that cursed weapon, shadow?" Roddard's voice had gone deadly quiet, which Harry had learned was significantly worse than shouting.
Harry's hand moved instinctively to his own sword. "What's wrong with it?"
"That," Roddard said, not moving his spear a millimeter, "is the Godslayer's Greatsword. One of the few weapons capable of channeling Death Flames."
Death Flames. The memory of the Deathbird's attack rushed back, and he remembered the bird being able to use such flames, which appeared like white flames with a dark heart.
"When I trained to become a soldier," Roddard continued, his voice tight with something that might have been fear, "they taught us about the cursed weapons scattered across the Lands Between. Things that should never be touched, let alone wielded. That sword would drive you mad, boy. If it didn't burn you from the inside out first."
"The same flames the Deathbird used?" Harry asked.
Roddard's helmet dipped in acknowledgment. "The very same. That blade is powerful enough to harm demigods, but the cost of using it..." He trailed off, letting Harry's imagination fill in the gaps.
Blaidd hadn't moved despite the spear at his throat, patient as stone. "Princess Ranni said the boy would be immune. His resistance to Scarlet Rot suggests he's not like others."
"The Death Flames burn through Scarlet Rot," Roddard snapped. "They burn through everything. This weapon would be especially dangerous for him."
Harry looked at the sword, its twisted blade, it looked normal, yet, he could almost feel the power behind it. Power radiated from it like heat from a forge, promising strength enough to face any enemy, to never be helpless again. He could defeat Godrick easily with this, could protect Millicent from anyone who threatened her, and could carve his way home through sheer force.
The whisper in his mind sounded different this time, not the Rot's seductive corruption, but something older, colder. Use me, it seemed to say. Be Powerful.
"Harry."
Millicent's voice cut through the weapon's pull like sunlight through curtains. She'd been quiet through the confrontation, but now her golden eye fixed on him.
"You refused to eat another dragon heart," she reminded him softly. "You said you were afraid of losing yourself, of becoming something that wasn't Harry Potter anymore."
Harry remembered that moment—standing over the dead dragon, power coursing through him, the hunger for more gnawing at his bones. He'd made a choice then to stay himself rather than become stronger.
"This is the same choice," Millicent continued. "That sword might make you powerful enough to face anything in the Lands Between. But what would be left of you after?"
Harry thought of Ron and Hermione, of the way they'd recognize him no matter how long he'd been gone. Would they know him if he came back changed by Death Flames? Would he even remember why he'd wanted to return?
"I appreciate the gesture," Harry said carefully, meeting Blaidd's amber eyes. "And I mean no disrespect to Princess Ranni. But I can't use this."
Something flickered in the wolf's expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. "You refuse a gift from royalty?"
"I refuse to stop being myself," Harry corrected. "I've got people waiting for me back home. They're expecting Harry Potter to return, not some Death Flame-wielding stranger wearing his face."
Roddard's spear slowly lowered, though the knight kept it ready. "First wise thing you've said since I met you, boy."
"Day's still young," Harry replied, managing a tired grin. "I'm sure I'll do something spectacularly stupid before it's over."
Blaidd studied him for a long moment, then carefully returned the sword to his back where it vanished into whatever impossible space he kept it. "Princess Ranni said you might refuse. She also said that would tell her what she needed to know."
"Which was?"
"That remains between my Princess and the stars she reads." Blaidd settled back on his haunches, somehow managing to look both relaxed and ready for violence. "But she was correct about one thing—you are unusual, Harry Potter."
Sirius Black
Sirius Black's footsteps echoed through the corridors of Hogwarts like drumbeats of dread. Three weeks. Three bloody weeks since Harry had disappeared in a burst of golden light, and they were no closer to finding him than they'd been on that horrific night. The corridors seemed darker now, the portraits whispering behind their frames as he passed. Even the ghosts gave him a wide berth.
He pushed open the door to Dumbledore's office without knocking.
"Ah, Sirius," Dumbledore said from behind his desk. "Please, sit."
The circular office was more crowded than usual. McGonagall sat rigidly in a high-backed chair, her lips pressed into a line so thin they'd nearly disappeared. Remus looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. Remus never said it, but Sirius knew the man blamed himself for what happened to Harry. Moody stood by the window, his magical eye spinning constantly. Kingsley Shacklebolt leaned against a bookshelf, his usually calm demeanor cracked with worry. And in the corner, like a particularly unpleasant shadow...
"Black," Snape drawled, his voice dripping with its usual venom. "How refreshing to see you've managed to return empty-handed. Again."
Sirius's wand was in his hand before he'd consciously decided to draw it. "Say that again, Snivellus, and they'll be searching for two missing people."
"Gentlemen," Dumbledore said softly, giving Snape a look. "We are all concerned for Harry's welfare. Fighting amongst ourselves serves no purpose."
"Does it not?" Snape's black eyes glittered dangerously. "Perhaps if Black had been a more competent guardian, Potter wouldn't have vanished into thin air. First James, now his son—quite the pattern."
The room erupted. McGonagall's sharp "Severus!" overlapped with Remus's "That's enough!" while Moody's growl of disapproval rumbled beneath it all. But it was Kingsley who moved, placing himself between Sirius and Snape before curses could fly.
"We're all tired," Kingsley said calmly. "We're all worried. But Severus Snape, keep it quite."
Sirius's knuckles were white around his wand. The urge to hex Snape into next week—no, into next century—was almost overwhelming. Only the thought of Harry, of what his godson would say about such behavior, kept him from acting on it.
"Report," he said through gritted teeth, forcing himself to look at Dumbledore rather than Snape's smug face. "Please tell me someone found something. Anything."
McGonagall spoke first, her Scottish accent thicker with exhaustion. "I've been to every magical school in Europe. None of them have seen or heard anything about a boy matching Harry's description. The Durmstrang headmaster was particularly unhelpful, though that's hardly surprising."
"The Ministry's been useless," Moody growled. "Fudge keeps insisting the boy's run off, playing hero somewhere. Doesn't want to admit that something this impossible could happen on his watch."
"I've consulted with curse-breakers in Egypt," Kingsley added. "There are ancient magics that could cause someone to vanish, but none that match what Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley described. Golden light, transformation into particles... it's unlike anything in the records."
Remus ran a hand through his prematurely grey hair. "The werewolf communities know nothing. I've even reached out to some of the less... savory contacts from my years away. No one's seen him."
"And you, Severus?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "Your contacts in the darker circles?"
Snape's lip curled. "If Potter had been taken by Death Eaters or their sympathizers, I would know. He hasn't. He's simply... gone. Perhaps finally succumbing to his father's arrogance led him somewhere even his fame can't protect him."
This time, Sirius did lunge. It took both Remus and Kingsley to hold him back, his muscles straining against their grip as he snarled at his childhood enemy.
"Harry is thirteen years old!" Sirius roared. "A child! And you sit there making your petty jokes while he could be hurt, or scared, or—"
"Or dead," Snape said coldly.
McGonagall moved.
It happened so fast that even Moody's magical eye seemed to miss the initial motion. One moment she was sitting rigidly in her chair, the next her wand was out and slashing through the air.
"Diffindo!"
A line of red appeared across Snape's right cheek, running from his jaw nearly to his eye. Blood immediately began to well from the cut, dripping onto his black robes. Snape's hand flew to his face, his eyes wide with shock.
"If you ever," McGonagall said, her voice deadly quiet and her wand still pointed at Snape's face, "speak so callously about that boy again, the next one will take your tongue. Harry Potter has endured more in his thirteen years than you could comprehend, and I will not sit here and listen to you wish death upon him for your petty grudges against his father."
The room was frozen. Even Dumbledore seemed stunned by the usually composed Deputy Headmistress's violent outburst. Snape's free hand had moved toward his wand, but Moody's growl stopped him.
"I wouldn't, laddie," the ex-Auror warned. "Minerva's got the right of it, and you know it."
"Minerva," Dumbledore finally said, though his voice lacked its usual authority. "That was—"
"Necessary," she interrupted, not lowering her wand an inch. "I've held my tongue for years, Albus, watching him torment that child. But suggesting Harry is dead? When we all know he's out there somewhere, probably frightened and alone?" Her Scottish accent had thickened with rage. "I'll not stand for it."
Blood continued to drip from Snape's face, but he made no move to heal it, his black eyes fixed on McGonagall with an expression somewhere between shock and rage.
"He's not dead," Sirius said, his voice dropping to something dangerous, finding his voice after the shock of seeing McGonagall attack Snape. "I'd know. I'd feel it. He's my godson, the closest thing to family I have left. He's not dead."
"The monitoring charms on Privet Drive haven't triggered," Dumbledore said, clearly trying to defuse the tension while McGonagall finally, slowly, lowered her wand. "Young Harry hasn't returned there. I've also consulted with the Department of Mysteries. They're... concerned about the nature of his disappearance."
"Concerned?" McGonagall's voice could have cut glass, her wand hand still twitching as if she wanted to hex Snape again. "Albus, the boy transformed into light and vanished. I'd say 'concerned' is rather understating things."
Snape finally pulled out his wand to heal his face, but the motion was slow, careful, as if he didn't want to provoke McGonagall further. The cut closed, but a thin dark/red scar remained—McGonagall had put enough power behind the curse to leave a permanent mark.
"The Unspeakables believe it might have been a form of magical transportation," Dumbledore continued, his eyes moving between McGonagall and Snape warily. "But not one from our world."
Sirius's head snapped up. "What do you mean, not from our world?"
"I mean," Dumbledore said carefully, "that the magic signature left behind doesn't match anything in our records. It's... foreign."
"You're saying something from another world took Harry?" Remus asked incredulously, though he kept glancing at McGonagall as if seeing her for the first time.
"I'm saying we must consider all options," Dumbledore replied. "I've reached out to magical communities worldwide. The ICW has been notified. Every available resource is being utilized."
"Fat lot of good it's doing," Sirius muttered, slumping in his chair. The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving only exhaustion and despair. "Three weeks, Albus. What if he's hurt? What if he needs help and we're just sitting here talking?"
"We're doing everything we can," McGonagall said gently, and Sirius was surprised to see tears glistening in her stern eyes, though her jaw was still clenched with anger. "Harry is... special to all of us."
"Even to those who refuse to admit it," Remus said, shooting a pointed look at Snape, who was gingerly touching his new scar.
"I need to go," Sirius said suddenly, standing. "I can't just sit here. I'll go back to France, check the areas I might have missed—"
"Sirius," Dumbledore's voice was kind but firm. "You've been searching non-stop for two weeks. You need rest."
"I need to find my godson!"
"What Harry needs," Dumbledore said, "is for you to be healthy and whole when we do find him. And we will find him, Sirius. I promise you that."
Sirius wanted to argue, wanted to rage against the unfairness of it all. Harry had just learned the truth, had just been offered a real home, a real family. They'd had minutes—minutes!—of happiness before everything went wrong. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.
"Fine," he said finally. "I'll go rest. But tomorrow I'm going back out."
No one argued. They all knew it was pointless.
The journey to Grimmauld Place was a blur. Sirius Apparated to the square, his childhood home looming before him like a bad memory made manifest. He hated this place, had sworn never to return. But it was safe, hidden, and right now, it was all he had.
The door creaked open at his touch—the house recognized the blood of the Blacks, even if he was a disgrace to the name. The entrance hall was dark, musty, and thoroughly unpleasant. Perfect for his mood.
He was halfway to the kitchen, thinking about whether he could stomach food or just go straight for the Firewhisky, when he heard it. A cough. Small, polite, but definitely there.
Sirius's wand was out instantly, his exhaustion forgotten. Someone was in his house. His family's ancient wards should have kept out everyone except—
"Who's there?" he called, his voice echoing in the empty hall. "Show yourself!"
A figure stepped from the shadows of the parlor, and Sirius's wand arm tensed. The man was tall, wearing robes of deep purple. His hair was white as snow, despite his face appearing no older than forty. His eyes were an unsettling shade of violet, and he was quite handsome.
"Who are you?" Sirius demanded, his wand trained on the stranger's heart. "How did you get in here? The wards—"
"Your wards are impressive," the man said, his voice carrying an accent Sirius couldn't place. "But they were designed to keep out wizards. I am... something else."
"Start talking or start bleeding," Sirius growled. "I'm not in the mood for riddles."
The stranger chuckled. "So protective. He spoke of you, you know. Said you'd offered him a home. His first real home."
Sirius's heart stopped. "He? You mean—"
"Harry Potter," the stranger confirmed, violet eyes twinkling with what might have been kindness. "Yes, Mr. Black. I know where your godson is."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Sirius's wand hand shook, but he didn't lower it.
"Where?" The word came out as barely a whisper. "Where is he? Is he safe? Is he—"
The stranger raised a hand, and Sirius felt his questions die in his throat—not from magic, but from the sheer presence the man exuded.
"That," the stranger said with a mysterious smile, "is a rather complicated question. But if you're willing to listen—truly listen—I can give you answers. Though I warn you, Mr. Black... you may not like what you hear."
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