The soup was good—thick and hearty, full of vegetables and tender meat that practically melted on Sirius's tongue. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything that didn't taste like despair and ash. Probably the morning of Halloween, before everything went to hell.
He ate three bowls while Wanda talked.
And what she told him was... impossible.
"So let me make sure I understand," Sirius said slowly, setting down his spoon. Harry was in his lap, playing with a piece of bread and occasionally trying to shove it in Sirius's mouth. "You're from another universe. A different reality entirely. Where magic works differently, and Harry's story—my story, all of this—it's a series of books. Children's books."
"Seven of them," Wanda confirmed. She was sitting across from him, nursing a cup of tea, looking impossibly calm for someone who'd just admitted to interdimensional travel. "Very popular. My brother and I read them as children in Sokovia."
"And in these books, I spend twelve years in Azkaban for a crime I didn't commit."
"Yes."
"And Harry grows up with his aunt and uncle—"
"Who hate him," Wanda interrupted, her eyes flashing red for a moment. "Who make him sleep in a cupboard under the stairs. Who call him a freak and starve him and try to beat the magic out of him."
Sirius felt rage kindle in his chest. "Petunia. I should have known. She always hated Lily's magic."
"It would have been worse than you're imagining," Wanda said quietly. "Trust me. I saw the future that would have been. I changed it."
"By kidnapping Harry."
"By *saving* Harry." Her voice was firm. "Dumbledore left him on that doorstep in November cold with nothing but a letter. No explanation, no warning, just... here's your dead sister's baby, good luck. The blood wards he was counting on?" She shook her head. "Not worth the cost."
Sirius looked down at Harry, who'd abandoned the bread and was now trying to grab his nose. The idea of this perfect, innocent child growing up unloved, unwanted, *abused*—it made his stomach turn.
"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "For taking him. For... for being what I couldn't be."
"You would have been if you could." Wanda's expression softened. "That's why I came for you. Harry deserves his family. All of it—his godfather, his heritage, his magic. Not the half-life Dumbledore planned for him."
"And the bit about Voldemort's soul in his scar?"
"I'm handling it." Wanda's jaw tightened. "It's contained for now. Eventually, I'll remove it completely. But I need time, need to study it, need to make absolutely sure I don't hurt Harry in the process."
Sirius nodded slowly. It was a lot to take in—interdimensional witches, soul fragments, prophecies, and futures that would never be. But the core of it made sense: Wanda had saved Harry from a terrible fate, broken Sirius out of Azkaban, and was now planning to prove his innocence.
"So what's next?" he asked. "You mentioned Peter—that you knew where he was."
"The Burrow. Home of the Weasley family." Wanda stood and began clearing dishes with casual waves of her hand, sending them floating to the sink. "In the original timeline, Peter spent the next twelve years as the family pet—a rat named Scabbers. He's probably on his way there right now, looking for his next unwitting protectors."
"The Weasleys." Sirius frowned. "Arthur Weasley works in Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Good man, bit eccentric. They have... what, five kids now?"
"Six, actually. Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron. Ginny won't be born for another year." Wanda's eyes unfocused slightly, as if reading from memory. "In the books, Ron gets Percy's hand-me-down rat. Scabbers. Peter. And the rat lives with them until Harry's third year, when the truth finally comes out."
"Third year." Sirius's hands tightened around Harry. "Three more years I would have rotted in Azkaban."
"Yes. But we're not following that timeline anymore." Wanda pulled out her new wand, and Sirius felt his magic instinctively recoil from it. Whatever that thing was made of, it wasn't normal yew and phoenix feather. "I'm going to Ottery St. Catchpole now. I'm going to catch that rat. And then I'm going to drag him to the Ministry and make him confess to everything."
"I'm coming with you."
"No."
Sirius blinked. "What? Wanda, he's my friend—my *ex*-friend. He betrayed James and Lily. He framed me. I have a right—"
"You have a right to stay here with Harry, where it's safe." Wanda's voice was gentle but immovable. "Sirius, by now the entire Auror department knows you've escaped. They'll be searching everywhere, calling in every favor, activating every ward. If you show up in public, they'll stun first and ask questions never."
"But—"
"And more importantly," Wanda continued, moving closer, "I don't trust you not to kill him."
Sirius opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Because she was right. If he saw Peter—if he came face to face with the rat who'd murdered his best friend, who'd orphaned Harry, who'd stolen twelve years of his life—he'd kill him. Wouldn't even hesitate. Would blast him into so much red mist there wouldn't be enough left to identify.
"Exactly," Wanda said, reading his expression. "We need Peter alive. Need him coherent and capable of confessing. If he's dead, you're still guilty in the eyes of the Ministry."
"I hate that you're right," Sirius muttered.
"I usually am." Wanda's lips quirked into a small smile. "Besides, you're needed here. Harry needs you. Agnes could use the help watching him. And..." She hesitated. "And I need to know someone I trust is protecting my son while I'm gone."
*My son.* The possessiveness in her voice was unmistakable. Wanda Maximoff had claimed Harry as thoroughly as if she'd given birth to him herself.
Sirius looked down at Harry, who'd tired of nose-grabbing and was now dozing against his chest, one small hand fisted in his shirt. The trust in that gesture—the immediate, unquestioning acceptance—it made Sirius's chest ache.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, I'll stay. But you promise me—*promise me*—you'll bring that rat bastard back alive."
"I promise." Wanda reached out and gently stroked Harry's hair. "I'll be back in a few hours. Maybe less. This should be simple."
"Famous last words," Sirius muttered.
Wanda laughed. "I've fought a Titan who wanted to wipe out half the universe. I've torn through the multiverse itself. I think I can handle one rat." She looked up, meeting his eyes, and Sirius's breath caught at the intensity in her gaze. "Take care of him, Sirius. Please."
"With my life," he swore.
She nodded, satisfied, and turned to Agnes. "The wards around the house will hold. No one can find this place unless I let them—not Dumbledore, not the Ministry, no one. You're completely safe."
"We'll be fine," Agnes assured her. "Go dae what ye need tae dae."
Wanda grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door. Sirius watched her go, this impossible woman who'd rewritten his fate in a single night, and felt something settle in his chest.
Hope, maybe. Or trust.
Or possibly just the beginning of something he'd examine later, when he wasn't covered in baby drool and holding his godson for the first time.
The door closed behind her, and a moment later, scarlet light flared through the windows—there and gone in an instant.
"She's somethin' else, aye?" Agnes said softly.
"You have no idea," Sirius replied.
Harry stirred in his sleep, made a small contented sound, and burrowed closer. And Sirius thought that maybe—just maybe—his life wasn't over after all.
It was just beginning.
---
**Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon**
Wanda stepped out of her portal into a small copse of trees, scarlet mist dissipating around her. The late afternoon sun painted everything gold, and the air smelled of grass and distant cooking fires. Peaceful. Idyllic.
The perfect place for a rat to hide.
She closed her eyes and extended her senses, chaos magic spreading out like invisible fingers, searching. There—hundreds of life signs in the village. Humans, mostly. Pets. Wildlife.
And one life sign that felt *wrong*. Twisted. Human consciousness trapped in an animal form, radiating fear and desperation.
*Found you.*
Wanda opened her eyes and began walking. The wrongness was coming from the east, moving slowly toward a large, oddly-shaped house that leaned at impossible angles, held up by what looked like magic and sheer stubbornness. The Burrow. It had to be.
She picked up her pace, weaving through trees and over a small stream. The rat's signature was getting closer, clearer. She could feel his panic now, his exhaustion. He'd been running since the explosion in London, probably. Had been a rat for hours, maybe longer, and the transformation was taking its toll.
*Good. Be tired. Be desperate. It'll make this easier.*
Wanda crested a small hill and froze.
There.
In the garden behind the Burrow, a small boy—five years old, maybe six, with red hair and horn-rimmed glasses—was playing with toy knights, making them march across the grass in orderly rows. Percy Weasley, her memory supplied. The third son. The rule-follower, the prefect, the one who'd eventually betray his family for Ministry approval.
But right now, he was just a child. Innocent. Unaware.
And creeping toward him through the tall grass, moving with desperate purpose, was a rat.
Not just any rat. This one was larger than normal, with a bald patch on its back and one front paw that ended too soon—a missing toe where a finger had been before Peter cut it off and faked his death.
Wanda's magic flared red around her hands.
"*Не смеј*," she hissed. *Don't you dare.*
The rat froze, sensing danger. It tried to bolt—
—and hit an invisible wall.
Scarlet magic had already surrounded it, a cage of pure energy that contracted with each breath Wanda took. The rat squealed and transformed, desperate to escape—
Peter Pettigrew materialized in the grass, naked and filthy, his hand outstretched toward Percy. Toward a child. Toward another innocent to use as a shield.
"*Enough*," Wanda snarled.
She made a yanking motion, and Peter flew through the air, tumbling end over end until he crashed at her feet in a tangle of limbs and terror. Scarlet bonds wrapped around him instantly—wrists, ankles, throat—holding him immobile.
"Please," Peter wheezed. "Please, I didn't—I wasn't going to—"
"You were going to use that child." Wanda's voice was cold. Controlled. But underneath, her rage simmered. "Going to hide behind him, let his family protect you while Sirius rotted in Azkaban for your crimes."
Peter's watery eyes widened. "You—you know—"
"I know everything, Peter Pettigrew." Wanda crouched down, her face inches from his. "I know you were the Secret Keeper. I know you betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort. I know you killed twelve Muggles and framed Sirius. I know you cut off your finger and faked your death. I. Know. *Everything*."
"It wasn't—I didn't have a choice!" Peter's voice rose to a whine. "You don't understand—the Dark Lord, he would have killed me! He was so powerful, so terrible—I had to give him something, had to prove I was loyal—"
"So you gave him a baby." Wanda's magic tightened around his throat, cutting off his excuses. "You gave him Harry. Your friend's son. The child you were supposed to help protect."
Peter made choking sounds. Wanda loosened the bonds slightly—she needed him able to speak, after all—but her rage didn't diminish.
"Here's what's going to happen," she said quietly. "I'm going to take you to the Ministry. You're going to confess. You're going to tell them everything—the betrayal, the murders, the frameup. Everything. And if you try to lie, if you try to escape, if you do *anything* except cooperate..." Her eyes flared red. "I will make you wish the Dementors had found you instead. Do you understand?"
Peter nodded frantically.
"Good." Wanda stood and waved her hand. Clothes materialized on Peter's body—prison robes, ironically, striped and humiliating. The bonds tightened, becoming visible chains that glowed with scarlet runes. "Now get up. We have people to see."
She hauled him to his feet with magic alone, leaving him dangling a few inches off the ground. Behind them, in the Burrow's garden, Percy Weasley continued playing with his knights, completely oblivious to how close he'd come to harboring a murderer.
*One less innocent dragged into this mess,* Wanda thought with satisfaction.
She opened a portal—not to the Ministry entrance, not yet. First, she needed to make a statement. Needed to ensure everyone saw this. Needed to make Peter Pettigrew's guilt so undeniable that not even the Ministry's bureaucracy could sweep it under the rug.
The portal swirled open, showing the Ministry Atrium in all its gleaming marble glory. Wednesday afternoon, so it would be busy. Lots of witnesses.
Perfect.
"Let's go introduce you to your public," Wanda said, and stepped through, dragging Peter behind her.
---
**Ministry of Magic, Atrium**
Bartemius Crouch Sr. was having quite possibly the worst day of his career.
Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban. *Escaped*. In less than twenty-four hours after being imprisoned. The media was going to have a field day, the Wizengamot would demand answers, and Dumbledore—that meddling old fool—was already making noises about proper trials and due process.
As if trials mattered when dealing with Death Eaters.
"—need every available Auror on this," Crouch was saying, his voice clipped and precise. "Black is dangerous, possibly unstable from Dementor exposure. Use any means necessary to bring him in. Stunning spells, binding curses, whatever it takes. And for Merlin's sake, check every known associate, every safe house, every—"
"Barty, for the love of Merlin, shut up."
Crouch turned to glare at Alastor Moody. The grizzled Auror was leaning against a wall, his magical eye spinning lazily while his normal one stared at Crouch with undisguised irritation.
"Excuse me?" Crouch said icily.
"You heard me. You're working yourself into a fit over Black when we don't even know how he escaped." Moody pushed off the wall, his peg leg clunking against the marble. "The Dementors are saying they felt powerful magic—magic they'd never encountered before. Not Dark, exactly, but not Light either. Something else entirely."
"What else is there?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Moody's magical eye focused on something over Crouch's shoulder. "And I have a feeling we're about to get our answer."
A commotion was building in the Atrium. Voices rising, people gasping, someone screaming.
Crouch turned—
—and stopped breathing.
A woman stood in the center of the Atrium, surrounded by scarlet mist that writhed like living smoke. She was striking—auburn hair, high cheekbones, eyes that seemed to glow from within—dressed in Muggle clothes that somehow made her more intimidating, not less.
And floating beside her, bound in chains of pure red energy, was—
"Peter Pettigrew," Crouch breathed.
"Impossible," someone whispered. "He's dead. Black killed him—"
"Doesn't look very dead to me," Moody muttered.
Peter was sobbing. Great, heaving sobs that echoed through the suddenly silent Atrium. His face was streaked with tears and dirt, his body shaking so hard the chains rattled.
The woman—whoever she was—surveyed the crowd with cold eyes. When she spoke, her voice carried effortlessly, accented but clear.
"My name is Wanda Maximoff," she said. "I am not from your world. I do not answer to your Ministry or your laws. But I believe in justice." She gestured, and Peter flew forward, crashing to his knees in front of Crouch. "This is Peter Pettigrew. Animagus. Death Eater. Traitor. Murderer."
"Lies," someone shouted. "Black killed him!"
"Sirius Black killed no one," Wanda said flatly. "Peter Pettigrew was the Potters' Secret Keeper. Peter Pettigrew betrayed them to Voldemort. Peter Pettigrew killed twelve Muggles and faked his own death. And Peter Pettigrew will now confess to all of it."
Her eyes flared red, and Peter screamed.
"Stop!" Crouch stepped forward, his wand drawn. "What are you doing to him?"
"Ensuring his honesty." Wanda's magic tightened around Peter's throat. "Tell them. Tell them everything."
"I—I was the Secret Keeper," Peter gasped. His voice was high and reedy, broken by sobs. "Sirius and James—they thought it was so clever, switch at the last minute, no one would suspect me. But the Dark Lord—he found me, he knew—"
"Keep going," Wanda commanded.
"I told him! I told him where they were! I didn't want to die, I didn't—" Peter's voice rose to a wail. "And when Sirius confronted me, when he found out, I—I blew up the street. Killed those Muggles. Cut off my finger. Transformed. Let everyone think he'd done it."
The Atrium was silent. Absolutely silent.
"He's lying," someone said weakly. "Under the Imperius Curse, or—"
"I can prove it," Wanda said. She made a gesture, and Peter transformed—there one moment, rat the next. A rat with a bald patch and a missing toe.
Then human again.
"Animagus," Moody said flatly. "Unregistered. That's a Ministry offense right there."
"That's the *least* of his offenses," Wanda said. She pulled something from her pocket—a vial filled with clear liquid. "This is Veritaserum. Your truth serum. If you doubt his confession, use it. Ask him anything. He'll tell you the truth."
She tossed the vial to Crouch, who caught it reflexively.
"Where did you get—" Crouch started.
"Does it matter?" Wanda's eyes flashed. "You have your guilty man. You have his confession. You have proof of his Animagus form. What more do you need?"
Crouch stared at the vial in his hand, then at Peter, then at the woman who'd appeared from nowhere with impossible magic and impossible claims.
"Moody," he said quietly. "Your assessment?"
Moody's magical eye fixed on Peter, spinning through every spectrum, every level of detection. "He's human. Not Imperiused, not Confunded, not Polyjuiced. That's Peter Pettigrew, or I'll eat my own eye."
"And her?"
Moody's eye swiveled to Wanda. It spun faster, faster, then gave up with what sounded distinctly like a whimper. "I have no bloody idea what she is. But whatever it is, it's powerful. Stupidly powerful. I wouldn't recommend crossing her."
Wanda smiled without humor. "Smart man."
Crouch made a decision. "Take Pettigrew into custody. Full Auror guard. I want Veritaserum administered immediately, with a registered Mind Healer as witness. And someone get Dumbledore—he'll want to hear this."
Aurors swarmed forward, wands drawn, and began transferring Peter from Wanda's scarlet chains to more conventional bindings. He didn't resist, just kept sobbing and confessing, the words tumbling out like water from a broken dam.
"What about Black?" Moody asked.
"If Pettigrew's confession holds up under Veritaserum—if he truly was the Secret Keeper and the killer—then Black is innocent." Crouch's jaw tightened. "We'll need to issue a formal pardon. Compensation. Public apology."
"That's a start," Wanda said coldly. "But it doesn't give him back the day he lost. Doesn't erase the Dementors. Doesn't fix what you broke when you threw him in prison without a trial."
"We were following wartime protocols—"
"You were following fear." Wanda moved closer, and several Aurors raised their wands. She ignored them. "You were so desperate to blame someone, to show the public you were in control, that you didn't care about guilt or innocence. You just cared about appearances."
Crouch's face darkened. "I don't have to explain myself to you."
"No," Wanda agreed. "But you will have to explain yourself to Sirius Black. And to Harry Potter, when he's old enough to understand what you did to his godfather."
"Potter?" Crouch's eyes narrowed. "Where is the Potter boy? Dumbledore says he disappeared from his relatives' home—"
"Harry is safe," Wanda said flatly. "Safer than he would have been with the Dursleys. And that's all you need to know."
"I'll need more than—"
"No." Wanda's magic flared, and every wand in the Atrium suddenly felt too hot to hold. Aurors yelped and dropped them, and the weapons clattered against marble. "You'll need nothing. Harry Potter is under my protection now. Mine and Sirius Black's. When he's old enough, when he's ready, he'll learn about your world. Until then, he stays hidden. Safe. *Loved*."
She turned, scarlet mist gathering around her.
"Wait," Moody called. "At least tell us—are you really from another world?"
Wanda paused. "Yes. A world where this—all of this—is a story. Where I know what happens, what's supposed to happen, if everything goes according to fate." She glanced back, and her eyes were impossibly sad. "I'm rewriting that story now. Making it better. And if your Ministry, or Dumbledore, or anyone else tries to interfere..." The sadness vanished, replaced by cold determination. "I'll rewrite them too."
The portal swirled open behind her.
"One more thing," she said. "The Longbottoms. Frank and Alice. They're Aurors, parents of a baby boy named Neville. In a few days, maybe a week, Death Eaters will come for them. Will torture them with the Cruciatus Curse until their minds break."
Moody went rigid. "How do you know—"
"I know everything that's supposed to happen, remember? I'm telling you now so you can stop it. Save them. Protect their son from the same fate Harry almost had." Wanda's voice softened. "Please. They're good people. They deserve better."
She stepped through the portal, and it snapped shut behind her, leaving nothing but a faint scent of cinnamon and ozone.
The Atrium erupted into chaos.
---
**Ministry Holding Cells, Two Hours Later**
Peter Pettigrew had confessed.
Under Veritaserum, with three Mind Healers and half the Wizengamot watching, he'd confessed to everything. The betrayal. The murders. The frameup. The years spent hiding as a rat, first with the Weasleys, then planning to disappear into the countryside.
He'd described, in excruciating detail, how he'd revealed the Potters' location to Voldemort. How he'd stood outside their house in Godric's Hollow and listened to Lily's screams. How he'd felt *proud* that the Dark Lord had trusted him with such an important task.
The Mind Healers confirmed it was all true. Every word.
Sirius Black was innocent.
The announcement went out within the hour. Emergency Wizengamot session. Full pardon, all charges dropped, formal apology to be issued. Compensation pending. Search called off.
In his office, Dumbledore sat very still, staring at the report in his hands.
Harry Potter was gone. Taken by a woman from another world—a woman who claimed to know the future, who had power the likes of which he'd never encountered. A woman who'd broken into Azkaban like it was nothing and dragged a dead man back to life and justice.
A woman who'd called him out by name for his plan to leave Harry with the Dursleys.
"The greater good," Dumbledore murmured to himself. "It was for the greater good."
But for the first time in a very long time, he wondered if he'd been wrong.
---
**Agnes's Cottage, Scotland**
Wanda stepped out of her portal into the small garden, exhaustion finally catching up with her. Using that much magic—the portal to Ottery St. Catchpole, the capture, the portal to the Ministry, the display of power—had taken its toll.
But it was done. Peter was in custody. Sirius was cleared.
Mission accomplished.
She opened the door to find Sirius on the couch, Harry asleep on his chest, both of them snoring softly. Agnes was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she prepared dinner.
"How'd it go?" Agnes asked quietly.
"Perfect." Wanda sank into a chair. "Peter confessed to everything. The Ministry has no choice but to clear Sirius now."
"So it's over?"
"This part is." Wanda looked at the sleeping pair on the couch—godfather and godson, finally together. "But there's still so much to do. The Horcrux. The Longbottoms. Dealing with Dumbledore eventually." She smiled tiredly. "But tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we plan."
Agnes set a cup of tea in front of her. "Ye're a guid woman, Wanda Maximoff."
"I'm trying to be," Wanda replied. "For Harry. For Sirius. For everyone who deserves better than what fate had planned for them."
She sipped her tea and watched her son sleep, safe and loved in his godfather's arms.
*This*, she thought, *this is what redemption looks like.*
Not grand gestures or cosmic battles.
Just... family. Protection. Love.
And the quiet satisfaction of knowing that, for once, she'd saved someone instead of destroying them.
Harry stirred in his sleep, made a soft sound, and Sirius's arm automatically tightened around him. Both of them settled back into peaceful dreams.
Wanda smiled.
*Yeah,* she thought. *We're going to be okay.*
All of them.
Together.
—
**Longbottom Manor, Three Days Later**
The night was cold and moonless—perfect for Dark work.
Bellatrix Lestrange stood at the edge of the wards surrounding Longbottom Manor, her wand held loosely in one hand, her other hand tracing patterns in the air as she probed for weaknesses. Behind her, three figures waited: her husband Rodolphus, his brother Rabastan, and young Barty Crouch Jr., whose eyes gleamed with fanatical devotion even in the darkness.
"The wards are strong," Rodolphus murmured. "Blood wards, I think. And detection charms—"
"Nothing we can't handle," Bellatrix interrupted, her voice high and excited. "Nothing that will stop us from finding our Lord."
"Bella," Rabastan said carefully, "are you certain the Longbottoms know anything? They were just Aurors. Competent, yes, but not inner circle—"
"They fought him!" Bellatrix whirled on him, her dark eyes wild. "They fought our Lord directly, three times! Three times they escaped him! You don't do that without knowing something, without having some advantage, some *secret*." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "They know where he is. I can feel it. They know, and they're going to tell us."
Barty stepped forward, his young face twisted with eagerness. "And when they do, we'll bring him back. We'll restore him to power. The Dark Lord will reward us—"
"The Dark Lord will reward *me*," Bellatrix corrected. "I am his most faithful. His most devoted. While the rest scattered like cowards, while Lucius and the others claimed the Imperius Curse, I stayed true." She smiled, and it was a terrible thing. "When I bring him back, when I restore him to his rightful place, he'll see. He'll know. I am his most loyal servant."
She turned back to the wards, her wand moving in complex patterns. "Now shut up and help me break through these."
The four Death Eaters worked in concert, their wands weaving dark magic against the protective barriers. It took twenty minutes—longer than Bellatrix liked—but eventually, the wards shivered and collapsed with a sound like breaking glass.
"Finally," Bellatrix breathed. "Come. Quietly now. We want them alive and conscious."
They moved across the lawn like shadows, four figures in dark robes converging on the manor. The house was large but not ostentatious—a family home, lived in and loved, with lights glowing warmly in the windows. Through one window, Bellatrix could see a nursery, painted in cheerful yellows, a mobile of dancing stars hanging above a crib.
*A baby*, she thought with contempt. *They think they can have normal lives. Think they can fight the Dark Lord and then retire to play house.*
She'd teach them better.
The front door was locked, but a whispered Alohomora took care of that. The four Death Eaters slipped inside, their footsteps silent on hardwood floors. Somewhere upstairs, she could hear voices—a man and woman talking quietly, probably getting ready for bed.
*Perfect.*
Bellatrix gestured, and the group split up. Rodolphus and Rabastan headed for the stairs. Barty stayed with her, his wand raised, his breathing quick with anticipation.
"Remember," she whispered. "We need them able to talk. Don't break them too quickly."
Barty nodded, his eyes gleaming.
They reached the top of the stairs just as a door opened. Frank Longbottom stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, his hair mussed from removing his robes. He was in shirtsleeves, looking relaxed, unguarded.
Then he saw them.
His hand flew to his wand, but Bellatrix was faster.
"*Stupefy!*"
The spell caught him square in the chest. He flew backward, crashing into the hallway wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
"Frank!" A woman's voice, high with alarm. Alice Longbottom appeared in the doorway, her wand already raised. "*Expelliarmus!* *Protego!* *Incarcerous!*"
She was good—better than good. Her spells came rapid-fire, forcing the Death Eaters to scatter. Ropes shot from her wand, trying to bind them. A shield deflected Rabastan's curse. She was already moving, backing toward the nursery, trying to protect—
"*Petrificus Totalus!*" Barty's spell caught her from the side.
Alice's body went rigid and toppled like a felled tree. She hit the floor hard, her eyes wide with terror and rage, unable to move or speak.
"Excellent!" Bellatrix clapped her hands together. "*Rennervate*," she said, pointing her wand at Frank.
He gasped back to consciousness, immediately trying to rise, but Rodolphus and Rabastan already had their wands on him.
"Don't move," Rodolphus said quietly. "Don't even breathe wrong."
Frank's eyes darted to Alice, to the nursery door behind her, back to the Death Eaters. "Whatever you want, you're not getting it. The Aurors—"
"Will arrive far too late," Bellatrix finished. She moved closer, crouching in front of him. "Hello, Frank. I'm so glad we could have this little chat."
"Lestrange." Frank's voice was steady despite the fear in his eyes. "I should have known. You're all mad, following a master who's already lost—"
"Lost?" Bellatrix's voice rose to a shriek. "He's not lost! He's just... displaced. Temporarily defeated. But I will find him, Frank. I will bring him back. And you're going to help me."
"I don't know anything—"
"Liar!" She pointed her wand at his chest. "*Crucio.*"
Frank screamed.
It was a sound of pure agony, inhuman, animal. His body convulsed, every muscle locking, every nerve firing at once. The Cruciatus Curse—one of the Unforgivables, illegal for good reason—turned pain into an art form.
Bellatrix held it for ten seconds, then released it.
Frank collapsed, gasping, his face pale and sweating.
"Where is he?" Bellatrix demanded. "Where is the Dark Lord?"
"I—I don't—" Frank managed.
"*Crucio.*"
More screaming. Alice, still petrified, made a desperate sound in her throat—the only sound she could make. Tears streamed down her frozen face.
"Please," Frank gasped when the curse lifted. "Please, we have a son, he's just a baby—"
"Then tell me what I want to know!" Bellatrix leaned closer. "You fought him three times. Three times you escaped. How? What do you know? Where is he?"
"Gone!" Frank's voice was breaking. "He's gone! Voldemort is dead—"
"DON'T SAY THAT NAME!" Bellatrix hit him with the Cruciatus again, longer this time. Frank's screams took on a desperate, broken quality. "He's not dead! He can't be dead! He's the greatest wizard who ever lived!"
From the nursery, a baby began to cry—frightened by the screaming, by the terrible sounds of torture happening just outside his door.
Barty shifted uncomfortably. "Bella, maybe we should—"
"Should what?" She rounded on him. "Should give up? Should abandon our Lord? Are you a coward like the others?"
"No!" Barty straightened. "No, I'm loyal, you know I am—"
"Then prove it." She pointed at Alice. "Release the petrifaction. Let her talk. Maybe she'll be more cooperative than her husband."
Barty waved his wand, and Alice could suddenly move again. She immediately tried to crawl toward the nursery, toward her crying son.
"*Crucio!*" Bellatrix hit her before she'd gone two feet.
Alice's screams joined Frank's in a horrific chorus.
"Tell me!" Bellatrix shrieked. "Tell me where he is!"
"We don't know!" Alice sobbed. "We don't know anything! Please, please don't hurt us—"
"Then you're useless!" Bellatrix held the curse longer. Longer. Alice's screams became inhuman, her body thrashing against the floor. "Maybe if I break you enough, the answers will fall out!"
She was so focused on her victims that she didn't notice the subtle shimmer in the air.
Didn't notice the way the shadows in the corners seemed to solidify.
Didn't notice that she'd walked into a trap.
---
Alastor Moody stood in the shadows of the Longbottoms' bedroom, his wand raised, his magical eye tracking every movement in the hallway. Beside him, six other Aurors waited, their wands trained on the Death Eaters.
They'd received the tip three days ago from that strange woman—Wanda Maximoff, who'd appeared with Peter Pettigrew and impossible magic. She'd warned them this would happen. Had given them the exact date, the exact time, even the names of the attackers.
At first, Crouch had dismissed it. Prophecy was unreliable, and trusting information from an interdimensional stranger seemed foolish.
But then Moody had pointed out: what if she was right? What if they could catch four Death Eaters in the act, prevent a tragedy, and close several cases in one night?
Crouch had reluctantly agreed. Had authorized a stakeout. Had even insisted on being present himself, despite Moody's objections.
Now they were here, invisible under Disillusionment Charms and Moody's personal wards, watching torture happen mere feet away.
Waiting for the right moment.
*Almost*, Moody thought as Bellatrix raised her wand for another curse. *Almost...*
"Now!" he roared.
Seven wands pointed as one.
"*STUPEFY!*"
The spells hit the Death Eaters from multiple angles—front, sides, above. Rodolphus went down immediately, his shield too slow. Rabastan managed to deflect one spell but took two more to the chest.
Barty and Bellatrix were faster.
Barty spun, his wand a blur. "*Protego Maxima!* *Obscuro!*" A shield snapped into place, and darkness exploded through the hallway, blinding everyone.
Bellatrix laughed—high and wild. "*Avada Kedavra!*"
Green light blazed through the darkness. An Auror screamed and fell.
"RETURN FIRE!" Moody bellowed. He didn't need his normal eye to see—his magical one pierced all illusions. "*Stupefy! Incarcerous! Petrificus Totalus!*"
The hallway became a war zone. Spells blazing, walls exploding, the very air crackling with magic. Barty fought like a demon, his curses precise and brutal despite his youth. Bellatrix fought like a berserker, all wild laughter and killing curses.
But they were outnumbered.
Barty took a stunner to the shoulder and stumbled. A second hit his knee. He went down hard, and three Aurors swarmed him, binding him with ropes that glowed with restraining charms.
Bellatrix saw him fall and shrieked. "*AVADA—*"
"*Expelliarmus!*" Moody's spell caught her wand mid-curse.
"*Stupefy!*" Another Auror hit her from behind.
Bellatrix crumpled, her laughter cutting off mid-note.
Silence fell. Broken only by Frank and Alice's whimpers and the baby's crying from the nursery.
"Get the Longbottoms to St. Mungo's," Moody ordered. "NOW. They need immediate treatment—the Cruciatus does permanent damage if you don't counteract it fast enough."
Two Aurors rushed forward, conjuring stretchers, carefully lifting the tortured couple.
Moody moved to the captured Death Eaters. Rodolphus and Rabastan were unconscious, bound and no threat. Bellatrix was the same. But Barty—
Barty Crouch Jr. stared up at him with defiant, fanatical eyes. Blood trickled from his nose, and his left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, but he was smiling.
"It doesn't matter," he said hoarsely. "You caught us, but there are others. The Dark Lord will return. We will bring him back—"
"Shut up," Moody said flatly. He looked toward the stairs. "Sir, you might want to come up here."
Heavy footsteps. Bartemius Crouch Sr. climbed the stairs slowly, his face pale, his expression carefully neutral. He'd insisted on being present for the arrest, had wanted to see justice done personally.
Now Moody understood why.
Crouch reached the top of the stairs and stopped. His eyes—so much like his son's, Moody noticed—fixed on the bound young man on the floor.
"Hello, Father," Barty said. His smile widened. "Surprised?"
Crouch said nothing. Just stared.
"You always said I'd never amount to anything," Barty continued, his voice poisonous with satisfaction. "That I was weak. Disappointing. Not worthy of the Crouch name." He laughed. "But the Dark Lord saw my worth. He saw my potential. He made me powerful—"
"You're a torturer," Crouch said. His voice was flat. Dead. "You tortured innocent people."
"They weren't innocent! They fought against the Dark Lord! They—"
"They were parents." Crouch moved closer, and for the first time, emotion cracked through his composure. "They had a child. A baby. And you tortured them while their son cried in the next room."
"For the greater good," Barty said. "For the Dark Lord's return—"
"There is no greater good that justifies what you did." Crouch's hands clenched into fists. "I dedicated my life to fighting Dark wizards. To protecting the innocent. To upholding the law. And my own son..." His voice broke. "My own son became everything I fought against."
Barty's smile finally faltered. "Father—"
"You are not my son." Crouch turned away. "Not anymore. Take him away. Take all of them. I want them in the highest security cells we have. Full guard. No visitors. No mercy."
"Sir," Moody said carefully, "given your... connection to one of the prisoners, you should probably recuse yourself from the case—"
"I know." Crouch's shoulders sagged. "I'll file the paperwork in the morning. But tonight—tonight I want to make sure they're locked up properly. That's not too much to ask, is it?"
"No, sir," Moody said quietly. "That's not too much."
He watched as Aurors levitated the four Death Eaters, prepared to transport them to the Ministry. Watched as Crouch stood in the ruined hallway, staring at nothing, his career and family both destroyed in one night.
*War does this*, Moody thought grimly. *Turns fathers against sons. Breaks families. Leaves nothing but wreckage.*
From the nursery, the baby—Neville, his name was Neville—was still crying. One of the Aurors, a young woman named Hestia Jones, had gone in to comfort him.
"Poor little thing," she said softly, rocking the boy. "Poor little thing, what you've been through tonight."
But they'd saved him, Moody thought. Saved him from growing up with broken parents. Saved the Longbottoms from complete destruction—the Mind Healers thought they could be treated, could recover, if they got to them fast enough.
All because that strange woman had warned them.
*Wanda Maximoff*, Moody thought. *Who are you? And how did you know?*
Questions for another day. Right now, he had Death Eaters to process and a crime scene to document.
"Move out," he ordered. "And someone contact Dumbledore. He'll want to know about this."
The Aurors filed out, carrying their prisoners, leaving the Longbottom home quiet except for Neville's fading sobs and the distant sound of Crouch Sr. being violently sick in the bathroom.
Another battle won in a war that wasn't quite over.
But this time—thanks to a mysterious warning from an impossible source—the good guys had won without losing everything.
This time, the baby wouldn't grow up with parents trapped in St. Mungo's, their minds destroyed beyond repair.
This time, the story had been rewritten.
And somewhere in Scotland, Moody suspected, a certain auburn-haired witch was smiling.
---
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