ACT4CH54 - Cornered

The room was quiet, but not peaceful.

Tension clung to the air like a hex that hadn’t quite gone off yet. The hearth crackled lowly, throwing restless shadows across the paneled walls and casting light over the circular table strewn with stacks of parchment.

Only Hedwig seemed unaffected—perched regally atop the bookshelf, preening her feathers with imperial detachment. If the weight of wizarding politics concerned her, she gave no sign.

Joshua Greengrass was the first to speak. His voice was even, but the undertone was cold steel.  “They’re keeping things quiet for now, but the signs are there. Tomorrow morning, I’d bet my wand they’ll propose a motion demanding oversight of the Azkaban Gate. That’s where they’ll strike first.”

Harry leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his expression unreadable. “Oversight? Of what exactly? The cosmic nightmare I’m keeping sealed away so they don’t wake up as half-ostrich, half-cockroach hybrids? Maybe we should put them on a rota. Gatekeeper Tuesdays.”

Andromeda Tonks shot him a look sharp enough to cut bone. “This isn’t a joke, Harry. They’re terrified. You’re not just a name in the Prophet anymore. You’re the Gatekeeper. You control something they don’t understand. That kind of power—people don’t know whether to fear it, worship it, or chain it down.”

There was weariness in her eyes, born from grief and too many battles fought alone. Andromeda, Harry noted, looked like she was burning the candle at both ends—and then some. With St. Mungo’s destroyed, she’d converted a portion of Sirius’s Grimmauld Place holdings into a makeshift hospital. Between trauma patients and staffing medi witches, she was held together by grit and spellwork alone.

Joshua, by contrast, looked composed—but only at a glance. Beneath the elegance was a predator wound tight, every motion deliberate, his gaze calculating. With Sirius missing and presumed dead, the burden of the Black-Potter-Greengrass alliance had fallen squarely on his shoulders. He bore it with polished menace.

Daphne sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm. Grounding him.

Joshua’s voice returned, clipped and precise. “They’re also convinced you’re hiding something. The Gate is wrapped in grey Death magic no one can penetrate. They think you’ve locked something unspeakable away.”

Harry’s mouth twitched.  “Well, they’re not exactly wrong.”

Across from him, Fleur Delacour arched a brow. Her voice, when it came, was low and deliberate.
 “You understand ze danger you pose to zem, non? To zeir illusions of control. You did not ask permission to become ze Gatekeeper. You did not wait for approval or council votes. You acted. And now you hold what zey cannot.”

The words fell like a gavel.

Joshua and Daphne had both protested Fleur’s presence. She was, after all, politically compromised—House Delacour’s interests were on the table. But Harry had insisted. He valued her insight. 

The decision had not stopped the glares between Daphne and Fleur. Or at him.

“It’s obvious, really,” said Tonks, arms folded across her Auror uniform. “They want you to play by their rules. Either you work for the Ministry—”

“Tool,” Daphne muttered.

Tonks didn’t acknowledge it. “—or you fade into irrelevance. They can’t handle someone who refuses both.”

“He could always become the next Dumbledore,” Daphne said dryly. “Great power. Nominal influence. A relic of potential, collecting dust.”

They were seated in Harry’s third-floor office. The protections here were layered thick—proximity wards that rejected listening charms, and Hedwig, who had a well-documented talent for eating anything too curious.

Harry uncrossed his arms. A glass of butterbeer floated into his hand, summoned without wand or word. That no one remarked on it said everything. He sipped. 

“I don’t get it. I thought I made myself clear at the ICW summit.”

“You did,” Joshua allowed. “And it was masterful. But you left a lot of things... hanging. Like the homunculus suit. Which—if I remember your words correctly—‘could be used to unlock the Azkaban Gate and unleash the treasures within.’”

“I’m pretty sure I said horrors, not treasures.”

Joshua gave a thin smile. “One man’s horror is another man’s opportunity. The point is, Harry, they don’t know what to do with you. You’ve sealed away something they can’t reach, surrounded it in a barrier no magic can touch, and refused to let them poke it with a stick. Politicians are control freaks. Hell, even I wouldn’t want a wildcard like you on the Wizengamot if I had the option.”

Daphne snorted. Andromeda didn’t look amused.

“And that confusion,” Joshua continued, “breeds fear. And fear breeds... opportunists.”

“Like her mother?” Harry asked, eyes flicking to Fleur.

Daphne shot him a withering look.

“Oui,” Fleur said, without blinking. “Like Maman.”

“The entire Azkaban event has made Wizarding Britain look dreadful,” Joshua said, his tone clipped. “The international community has never liked that we used Azkaban as a prison. Dementors have always been a global menace—unlike their distant cousins, lethifolds, which are rare and self-contained. Britain’s refusal to consider alternatives has long been a sore point, especially for the Balkan Alliance.”

He tapped a parchment stack with a knuckle. “And then there are the quieter factions—the ones that still cling to Grindelwaldian ideology. They’ve always resented Dumbledore’s influence over the ICW. Now they’ve found a common cause: curb Britain’s power, unseat Dumbledore as Supreme Mugwump, and impose enough conditions to fracture our international footing.”

“And you,” Daphne said evenly, meeting Harry’s eyes, “are a British citizen.”

Joshua offered a dry smile. “It’s a dirty game. They want to extract every advantage they can from your situation.”

“Like the Suit,” Harry muttered, scowling. Then his brow furrowed. “Wait, but... why would the ICW follow Grindelwaldian ideology? Weren’t they the ones who opposed him?”

Daphne arched an eyebrow. “You realize what you’re saying, right?”

Harry blinked.

 “...Right.”

“You’re conflating ideology with criminality,” said Joshua. “A lot of magicals—not just radicals—agree with some of Grindelwald’s core principles. The idea that we must hide from Muggles, despite being more evolved, doesn’t sit well with many. The Statute of Secrecy doesn’t protect us. It protects them. Dumbledore’s philosophy asks those with power to sacrifice for those without. A noble idea—but not everyone thinks it's just.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “So by that logic, I should’ve just stayed out of everything. Let Voldemort and Ekrizdis tear the world apart?”

Joshua gave a small sigh. “And that’s exactly why I don’t see eye to eye with Dumbledore.”

“Harry,” Daphne said, voice softer but still edged, “what you did was heroic. No one here doubts that. But humanity is tribal. It’s always ‘us versus them.’ Whether it’s magicals seeking freedom from Muggle oppression, or Muggleborns resisting pureblood bigotry, the division is always there. We are magical. They are not.”

“So we treat them as lesser?”

“No,” Daphne said. “But ask yourself—why must we, the ones attuned to the world’s deepest forces, the ones who can reshape reality, live in hiding? Is that fair?”

Harry didn’t answer. The room was quiet again.

“We’re drifting,” Tonks said finally, though her voice wasn’t sharp.

Surprisingly, both Andromeda and Fleur had remained silent throughout. Watching. Waiting.

“Not entirely,” Joshua replied. “This context matters, Harry. Because whether you like it or not, what you’ve done has enormous implications for the Statute of Secrecy.”

Harry frowned. “How?”

“Simple,” Joshua said. “Ekrizdis shattered magical equilibrium. The official British statement says his goal was to restore the ‘Age of the Gods.’ An end to the Statute of Secrecy. That’s been interpreted—rightly or wrongly—as a magical utopia. And now you, the one who stopped him, are standing in the way of that dream. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if fanatic groups now declare you their enemy, and send terrorists after you.”

“Wonderful,” said Harry. “Is it that hard to accept that their dream would just kill, or at least, horribly mutilate them?”

Joshua shrugged, maddeningly calm. “Perhaps. But why should they believe you?”

Harry exhaled sharply. “Of course.”

“That’s why the ICW is already divided against you,” Joshua continued. “You gave them access to the Suit, sure—but only after claiming you’d rendered it inert. From their perspective, you’ve given them nothing, while keeping the Gate under lock and key. They might accept it now, but sooner or later, they’ll demand more. And if you refuse? It’ll be spun as arrogance—or worse, rebellion. And whatever you do reflects directly on Britain’s global standing.”

Harry nodded slowly. “So the Wizengamot is afraid.”

Joshua chuckled. “Tip of the iceberg. Just like the ICW, the Wizengamot wants control—of the Gate, of you. If they decide you’re holding Azkaban unlawfully, they’ll invoke obscure property clauses and financial acts to tie up your fortune. If you try to buy it, they’ll bleed you dry with taxes and conditions. On the other hand, if you bow to their demands, it shows weakness. The ICW will smell blood.”

“And if I say no?” Harry asked.

“Then you stay true to your ICW stance,” Joshua said, folding his hands. “But you become an internal problem for Britain. If the Wizengamot declares you rogue, the ICW gets diplomatic clearance to act. Sanctions, political isolation—possibly even a declaration of hostility.”

Daphne leaned forward. “And there are people who’ll push for exactly that. Nott. Mulciber. Jugson. Anyone who hates what you represent, or fears what the Alliance might become.”

“And then there are people like Archibald Smith and Arabella Brown,” Joshua added, “who’ll want you to cooperate—not out of spite, but to present Britain as united and strong on the international stage.”

“And Madam Bones?”

“Amelia Bones was a formidable DMLE Director. But running an enforcement division and running a country are two different things. If the winds shift too harshly from the international side, she’ll have no choice but to make concessions.”

Harry’s fists curled at his sides. He turned to Andromeda. 

“What about the Alliance? That’s supposed to mean something.”

Andi looked visibly uncomfortable. After Sirius’s one-way trip into the Anima, she was the last true Black left in the world. Sirius had reinstated her as the Black Regent before his disappearance, giving her the authority to act on House Black’s behalf. But Andromeda was a healer, not a politician, and though she saw the board, she wasn’t trained to move the pieces.

“It’s… complicated,” she said carefully. “Sirius named you his heir, but everyone knows you don’t carry Black blood. The Alliance between Potter, Black, and Greengrass hinges on your engagement to Daphne. Without Sirius as a stabilizing presence, people are starting to wonder if the Alliance still holds—or if it’s fracturing.”

“Fracturing?” Harry frowned. “Why would they think that?”

“Because your position in British society is unstable,” Daphne answered. “The Wizengamot doesn’t know where you’ll land. If things go well tomorrow, everyone sings your praises. But if they turn sour...”

“Harry,” Andi said gently, “you’re the lynchpin. Sirius brought the houses together, but you’ve become the symbol of that unity. And without Sirius, House Black has resources, but no political anchor. If you falter, we become another relic—like the Longbottoms. Respected, but powerless.”

Daphne added, her tone calm but frank, “I’ll still marry you. But if things collapse, it’ll be seen as House Greengrass making a foolish emotional decision. The Rosiers, Haywoods, Fawleys—all our new allies—will jump ship. No one wants to be chained to a sinking alliance.”

“Or,” Fleur interjected, her voice soft but piercing, “House Greengrass could walk away, and ‘Arry would be left to fend for ‘imself. And zen... perhaps ‘E accepts the offer to join House Delacour and House Flamel in France.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Daphne said sweetly, her eyes anything but.

“Oui,” Fleur said airily, flipping her ponytail. “If I were as shallow as you think I am. But I’m not.” Her expression darkened. “My mother is a predator, and ze last thing I want for ‘Arry is for him to become prey.”

That shut Daphne up.

“We’re spiraling,” Andi said quickly, trying to cut the tension. “Yes, things are precarious. But they haven’t made a formal move against you, Harry. Not yet. That means there’s still time. Go to the session tomorrow. They expect you to posture, to be arrogant. Instead, show them poise. They expect threats—give them responsibility. Let them see you not as a weapon, but a guardian.”

“I agree with Mum,” Tonks added. “You keep saying you want to protect the world—prove it. Make them believe it.”

Harry dragged a hand through his hair. It was all too much. Even after everything—after Ekrizdis, after Sirius, after sealing the Gate—peace still eluded him.  Instead, new problems sprouted like hydra heads.

Even from here, he could feel the restless churn of the Azkaban Gate. The pressure from the other side. The ebb and pulse of the Anima where it rubbed against the edges of reality.

 He needed to understand the conjunctions—points where the Anima leaked into the world. Rifts that had always existed, but which had become more volatile since the Gate had opened. 

He was the one who had to monitor them. Because he was the Gatekeeper.

The one who stood at the threshold.  

The one who made the impossible choice—to bottleneck the Anima instead of sealing it away. To allow the world to retain its magic, without letting that magic consume it. A compromise. A balance.
 But balance had a weight. And it was crushing him.

And the Suit…

The damn homunculus suit. The ICW claimed they wanted to study it. Expand magical frontiers. Prepare for the next catastrophe. But Harry wasn’t naive. They feared him.

They feared the idea of one wizard playing god.

And maybe they were right. Because even Harry wasn’t sure if he was in control anymore.
 His magic had changed. Grown stranger. Certain spells came to him like instinct—ancient things, primal things—but his usual magic? It chafed.

Permanence, once a gift, now felt like a shackle. 

His greatest tool, Death Magic, had become heavy, absolute—sluggish and terrifying. He had to force it into shape, and once cast, it would not let go.

His enemies were growing. Voldemort was still out there, somewhere. Reduced, yes. But not gone.

 Ekrizdis had escaped. And while Harry didn’t fear him, others could learn from him. Use him. Twist his knowledge.

The ICW still wanted the suit.

And there were the Horcruxes. And Sirius.

And himself.

Whatever he was becoming. 

Whatever he had become.

 And the Wizengamot.

And Flamel.

And the... strangeness that Death was becoming.

The abyss in Harry’s heart deepened as doubt crept in. Maybe it was futile. Impossible.

No, it isn’t, he told himself, repeating his newfound mantra. You’re not allowed to give up. You’re only allowed to solve the problem.

Magic, at the end of the day, was all about using a force of creation to solve your problems. It didn’t matter if you were crafting a spell to count the number of sneezes a person made during the day, or orchestrating millions of spell flows to coordinate together and be stable inside a magical construct as large as Hogwarts. However, you couldn’t solve them all at once. There was always the larger, overarching question — the big target. But if you obsessed with the sheer enormity of it, you lost focus.

Kind of like he had been, until now.

The key was to start small. Focus on building solutions for problems he could answer. Build some dry ground to stand on. And after you have put some work in, and were lucky, then the mystery of the overarching question becomes knowable. Like stepping back from a photomontage to witness the ultimate image revealing itself.

He had to separate himself from the fear, the paranoia, and the sheer frustration and simply tackle this problem as if he were back in the lair, pondering over the list of questions he had decided to tackle and solve.

Build some dry ground to stand on.

The world would never be free of manipulative, power-hungry bastards. Just like Death and Summer, it might as well be a rule of human civilization at the very least. He wasn’t fighting Dark Lords anymore. Now, he was playing chess with people that didn’t wear masks and called themselves Death Eaters, but were just as willing to tear the world apart for their own gain.

People that would attack those he cared and loved, if they didn’t get what they wanted from him.

A shiver of fury passed through his entire body, which Daphne found alarming, given her sudden stiffness. Fleur too must have sensed it, given how her eyes suddenly felt sharper. Both knew how great a calming effect the owl form had on him, and if he was still showing this much of a visible reaction, it meant the true depth of his anger was titanic.

He clenched his fists. Looked to Joshua. “What’s the one thing we can do—right now—that swings the board in our favour?”

Joshua didn’t hesitate. “One thing? I have one. But you’re not going to like it.”

“Go on.”

“Marry my daughter.”

Harry blinked. “I was already going to.”

Joshua gave a sharp shake of his head. “No, not eventually. Now. Skip the waiting. Forget the slow engagement. Make a public statement in the Prophet—tomorrow morning. Before the Wizengamot convenes. Before they get the chance to corner you.”

“A power play,” Andi murmured. “That’s bold for a Slytherin.”

“Ravenclaw,” Joshua corrected smoothly. “And it’s not recklessness. It’s calculated momentum. This shows confidence. Control. Stability. It tells our allies that House Potter is not hesitating. It tells our enemies that you’re not afraid.”

Andromeda raised an eyebrow. “You think hard power will fix what soft power hasn’t even tried yet?”

“No,” Joshua said, with a flicker of irritation. “I think soft power relies on time and trust—neither of which Harry has the luxury of right now. This isn’t about diplomacy. It’s about drawing a line in the sand.”

“You always did believe in the hammer,” Andi said. “But some of us know that hearts aren’t won with threats.”

“And that’s why you’re beloved, Andi,” Joshua replied smoothly. “But right now, we don’t need to be loved. We need to be respected—and feared, if necessary.”

“And what if it backfires?” Fleur asked, voice low. “What if zey see it as exactly what zey fear—arrogance. Tyranny. Control?”

“Or,” Daphne said evenly, “we wait too long. They box Harry in. And then there’s no move left.”

Harry looked around the room. Allies. Family. Threats. Hope.  All staring at him, waiting for a choice.

“I don’t agree,” he said quietly.

“You don’t?” Daphne and Fleur said at once, blinking in surprise—then turned to glare at each other.

“I’m getting engaged to Daphne on the twenty-third,” Harry said firmly. “I’m not changing that because the world is insecure about its own decisions.”

“But Harry—” Joshua began.

“No.”

Harry straightened, his voice rising. “You’ve all laid out the pieces. But you’ve missed the core of it. This isn’t about strategy. It’s about what happens when power doesn’t ask permission.”

“You’re thinking of Dumbledore,” Tonks said.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “He beat Grindelwald, stood atop the world, and then went back to teaching. He never asked for influence. Never demanded respect. And what did that get him? He’s the Supreme Mugwump, but too proud to demand better terms for Britain. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, but they still let Fudge and Umbridge rot the system from the inside. People sneer at him. Mock him. Because they know—Dumbledore won’t fight them for real.”

“And you would?” Fleur asked, her voice unreadable.

Harry nodded. “I’ve finally understood why people fear Voldemort. Not just for his cruelty—but for his decisiveness. If Voldemort wanted something, no one dared stand in his way. He didn’t ask. He commanded.”

Silence.

“I’m not him,” Harry said. “But I understand him. And honestly? I’m tired of begging to be understood. Of defending myself for existing. At the start of the year, the Ministry hated me. But they didn’t touch me. Why? Because I was the boy who drained fourteen Death Eaters of their magic. They feared what I might do next.”

His voice grew cold.  “The Wizengamot has bullied others for a long time, and they think they have the right. I say they don’t.”

“Harry,” Daphne breathed. “If you go down this path, they’ll paint you as a new Dark Lord. Voldemort’s successor.”

Harry gave her a slow smile. “They already called me that. When I spoke Parseltongue. When I killed Death Eaters. If they’re so desperate for a Dark Lord…”

His eyes gleamed like emerald fire.

“…then I’ll make sure they get one.”