ACT5CH9 - THE THEFT OF NAMES

Whispers echoed across the courtroom, as Nott made his accusations.

It was to be expected, given the gravity of the supposed crime, on several levels.

Harry was surprised. He didn’t think that Nott would dig things to this degree, just to defeat him. 

Still, there was something about an enemy that didn’t do things halfway. Just like Theodore Nott had decided to drop his father’s politics and chosen to side with House Potter, it seemed the elder Nott had truly set himself as Harry’s primary nemesis — at least on the political field.

Usurpation of Lineal Arts was more than just the Class-three felony that Mulciber informed everyone. It was an accusation that preyed upon the fears of the purebloods — the terrifying thought that someone could steal their magic from them. It was the foundation stone behind the anti-muggleborn stance of the Pureblood extremists — who wholeheartedly believed that muggleborns stole their magic, and why ancestry tests were made as expensive as they were.

And there in that courtroom, Nott had voiced the biggest fear of them all — the fear of Family Magic being stolen.

Really, it was like every time he thought he had seen the worst that the Wizarding World had to offer, it took that as a personal challenge and sunk even lower.

“Quiet!” Dumbledore shouted, trying to regain order to the room, banging his gavel several times. “This isn’t a criminal trial, but a session to determine oversight.”

“True,” said Mulciber. “But since Lord Potter has preemptively cast the Fidelius upon the site involved, and like Regent Greengrass claimed, we cannot afford to set such a dangerous precedent that trespasses the prerogatives and entitlements of Ancient and Noble Houses, it is necessary to strip Mr. Potter of those protections and reveal him for what he is!”

Harry felt the tension in the chamber twist, coil tighter — a serpent ready to strike.

They weren’t just pressing him now. They were turning him into the monster they needed.

He watched Mulciber’s thin mouth curve in that oily, satisfied way, watched Nott’s cold eyes flick between the benches, gauging where the momentum was tipping. 

They weren’t stupid. They knew they were pushing an accusation too thin for hard law — but the law wasn’t what mattered anymore. 

It was fear. 

It was the whisper of if he can steal from Black, what stops him stealing from us? 

It was the old, deep paranoia of every pureblood line that held its magic close like a dragon hoarding treasure — that someone, someday, would take it.

Harry exhaled slowly.

 Joshua stirred beside him, as if to rise, but Harry reached out, lightly brushing his fingers against the man’s sleeve.

“Let me,” Harry murmured.

Joshua hesitated. Then, with the barest flicker of his eyes, nodded once.

“Reveal me for what I am,” Harry said softly, his voice carrying in a room gone breathless.

Mulciber flinched — just slightly — as if the boy’s calm had cut sharper than any rebuke.

Harry tilted his head. “Say it plainly, Lord Mulciber. Say what you want them to believe.”

He let his eyes sweep the chamber — meeting the gaze of Macmillan, of Fawley, Smith, Bones, and Dumbledore.

“Say it,” Harry repeated, quieter now, almost gentle. “That I’m the thief you fear. That I have some dark power to rip magic from bloodlines, to pull down your old names, to steal the things you hold sacred.”

His lips curved faintly, but there was no humor in it. “Say I’m your nightmare.”

The room was frozen — because to say it aloud was to give it shape, to make it real, to turn rumor into declaration. 

Harry exhaled again, slow, steady. “The truth, Lord Mulciber, is this: I didn’t take the Black magic. It came to me because its master chose me.”

His voice hardened just slightly. “Sirius Black chose me as his heir. He made me his family. By law, by rite, by magic.”

“You do not have —”

“TOUJOURS PUR!” exclaimed Harry, stopping the man in his tracks. “It is true that the law protects the theft of proprietary magics. But it is also true that the only reason the Wizengamot reinterpreted Proprietary magic to include Family Magic in its definition because the Wizengamot, and all its members, had inexplicably failed to bring forth any new Family Magics over the last seven hundred years.”

He smiled. “Of course, that didn’t stop the egoistic fanatics to blame their own incompetencies upon hapless muggleborn that were only rediscovering their heritage and returning to the world and legacies of their forefathers.”

“Your disdainful comments about the Wizengamot aside,” spat Mulciber. “Does this have a point?”

“Oh yes,” said Harry, smiling peacefully through his eyes, ignoring the mutterings in the crowd all around. “The thing is, Family Magic cannot be limited or forced to act in certain ways just to soothe your inadequacies, Lord Mulciber. Family Magic has been described as ‘Providence of Gods’, and Gods, Lord Mulciber, do not obey petty legislations voted by cowards that would rather put their ego before their own progress.”

He looked around. “Sirius Black, my godfather, was a true Black, in blood, in oath, in magic, and in mental fortitude. And a true Lord is capable of changing or resisting an order passed down the Family Charter, at the expense of being judged by the Family Magic.”

A proud smile tore through his lips.

“Sirius Black did it. He stood firm against the Black Family Magic, and altered the Family Charter, welcoming me — a halfblood — into the Black Family. By blood, by oath, and by magic. Which means — I AM THE HEIR OF HOUSE BLACK, AND BY THE PERMISSION AND COMMAND OF SIRIUS ORION, I WIELD TEZCATLIPOCA AS MY OWN!”

There was a shudder through the chamber — the ripple of something ancient passing through the room, an acknowledgment that went far beyond law, deep into legend.

Tezcatlipoca’s shadow rose again — not summoned, not called, but rising, because the Black Magic itself had heard its name and answered. 

The jaguar’s form spilled from the dark, its starlit body curling low beside Harry, molten eyes like volcanic glass, its tail flicking lazily as the chamber froze under its gaze.

Only, Harry wasn’t finished yet.

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to live with it. Know it. Fear it, that just like the Black Family Magic, I am the rightful bearer of the Peverell thestral, and its dominion over Death.”

From the space above, drifting down like something between smoke and starlight, came the great winged shadow of the Peverell thestral — a creature of bone and void, its wings stretched wide, casting flickering arcs of ethereal silver light, its hollow eyes glowing softly as it circled once, slow and majestic, before folding itself beside Harry’s other side. 

Where Tezcatlipoca was jaguar-feral, the thestral was death-serene, a reminder not of wild hunt, but of inevitability, of the quiet finality that no law or council could outvote.

“And just like them, I owe my origins to Euphemia Potter nee Greengrass, and through her, I claim the Greengrass Magic of Summer, claim the Bison as my own!”

The floor beneath Harry cracked faintly, the runes below trembling as the Greengrass bison emerged — a massive, earth-shod beast, its hide shimmering with deep emerald magic, its horns etched with old druidic glyphs, the embodiment of land-bound strength, of the rooted power of earth and bloodlines that endured beyond even war and death.

Not one. 

Not two.

Three ancient Houses, three ancient magics, now circling one fifteen-year-old boy — as their chosen bearer.

Harry didn’t need to speak.

The chamber spoke for him — in gasps, in the faint shuffle of feet drawing back, in the sudden, choking realization that no accusation, no motion, no paper or vote or law could touch what stood before them now.

Joshua simply sat back, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if to say — checkmate.

Even Dumbledore had stilled, his fingers resting lightly on the gavel, his blue eyes watching not Harry, but the power gathered around him, measuring it with the gravity of a man who understood how close they all stood to the edge.

Harry let his gaze sweep the room once more. “So before you even so much as whisper that I am laying claim to that which isn’t mine, let me assure you —

I. AM. ENOUGH!”

His voice resonated with the power of all three totems, as the jaguar, the thestral, the bison roared.

For a long, long moment, no one moved.

The jaguar’s molten gaze swept the chamber, its starlit hide rippling like ink and constellation, and where its shadow passed, Lords and Ladies shrank back in their seats. 

The thestral’s hollow eyes flicked toward the upper tiers — and even there, where Nott sat, the man’s lips thinned, his jaw clenched, his hands white-knuckled on the bench. 

The bison stood planted, unyielding, its emerald horns faintly humming with runic light, each breath sending a faint tremor through the marble beneath Harry’s feet.

And Harry — Harry stood at the center of them all, still, quiet, his hands loose at his sides, his heart hammering in his chest but his face calm.

He could feel it — the way magic thickened in the air, the way old bloodline wards across the room flickered as if trying to adjust to a new center of gravity,  the way the balance of power had tilted, not by vote, not by argument — but by presence.

The whispers were gone now.

No one whispered in the face of the gods.

Joshua exhaled slowly beside him, folding his hands behind his back, a small satisfied smile playing at his lips. Harry didn’t have to look to know that his future father-in-law was already mapping the next moves, already weighing which votes had been broken by this display, which alliances would hold, which ones would crumble.

Albus Dumbledore sat very still in the Chief Warlock’s seat, his blue eyes sharp, thoughtful — not fearful, not even chastising, but… measuring. As though even he, with all his years, hadn’t expected Harry to pull this far ahead.

Amelia Bones had gone pale — pale enough that Harry saw her fingers tighten faintly on the rail before her, her lips pressed into a line. Not in hatred or disgust, but in the kind of grim realization that comes when you understand a storm has broken across your country, and no law or badge can stop it.

And across the aisle — Mulciber was frozen. Nott had gone still, his clever eyes darting, calculating, trying to salvage a play that had just been blown to dust. Even Jugson, who only minutes ago had sneered at Harry, now sat with his mouth faintly open, his gaze flicking not at Harry’s face, but at thestral, the bison, the jaguar — at the forces that had answered a fifteen-year-old boy.

Harry’s mouth tugged, faintly, at one corner.

You wanted a monster, didn’t you? Well — here I am.

He exhaled softly, closing his eyes. And one by one, the totems receded.

The jaguar melted back into his shadow, its molten gaze meeting Harry’s for a heartbeat before dissolving.  The thestral folded its wings, vanishing like mist, rejoining his cloak. The bison lowered its great horned head once, a flicker of emerald runes dancing over its form, before fading into a pulse of light that sank back into Harry’s body.

The chamber breathed — a collective, unsteady exhale, like the room itself had been holding its breath.

Harry opened his eyes, the faint golden glint fading, his pupils returning to their normal round shape.

“Do you still want to challenge the legitimacy of my name, Lord Mulciber?”

Mulciber’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, but no words came out.

It was Joshua who broke the silence, his voice like silk sliding over steel. “I believe the defense rests, Chief Warlock.”

Dumbledore stirred, lifting the gavel.  His gaze swept the room once — steady, commanding. And then —BANG. 

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

“We have heard both sides of the argument. It is clear that Harry James Potter, is indeed the rightful heir and wielder to the Black, Potter and Greengrass names, Family magics and entitled benefits. All charges related to Usurpation of Lineal Arts are hereby dismissed.”

The tension didn’t break at the call. Instead, it heightened, tight as Hecate’s coils, as whispered conversations sparked in frantic undercurrents.

Then Minister Bones stood up.

“We have heard and speculated on a lot of things today,” said the war-hardened Minister. “Suspension of the rights of House Potter and Black; Denigration of Wizengamot norms, laws and traditions; the preemptive actions made by the Department of Mysteries; the casting of the Fidelius and the legalities involved; dangerous precedents involving the prerogatives of Nobility, and potential breach of law falling under Usurpation of Lineal Arts. And yet, I find we have merely danced around the main issue without actively pursuing it — the need for oversight on the site currently under the Fidelius, and our foreign policy.”

The courtroom had fallen silent again.

“With the recent whirlwind of destruction we have suffered, Wizarding Britain is in dire straits. It’s not nice or easy to acknowledge it, but it’s the truth nonetheless. Whether it be through Cornelius Fudge, Dolores Umbridge, or Lucius Malfoy’s actions, the truth is — we were happily ignorant about the threat that the Dark Lord Voldemort, and his fanatics posed to us, and we are reaping for that mistake. The Wizengamot allowed Ekrizdis to conduct his twisted experiments, giving birth to the parasitic race of dementors, and we let them continue without proper oversight. All of those actions have led to Britain not just losing face before the ICW, but also left standing in a very vulnerable position, where we need to make concessions.”

She turned to Harry.

“Wizarding Britain owes you a great debt, Harry Potter. For vanquishing the Dark Lord in 1981 and giving us fifteen years of peace, however fragile it might have been. For returning the ancient Family magic of Peverell into our ranks. For your attainment of a unique brand of thaumaturgy that enhances our understanding of Magic. For saving St. Mungo’s and its residents, despite personal sacrifice. For protecting myself, and the rest of my forces from the wrath of the Dark Lord and giving us the power to defeat him. And last but not the least, for stopping Ekrizdis and his insane goals, and giving the world a chance to survive.”

She took a deep breath. 

“However.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“The ICW’s argument is equally valid. No one wizard can be trusted with so much power and responsibility and left to work by himself. Such a mantle demands oversight, not because we, or the ICW doubts your character — but because the best of men can fall. As the saying goes, Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Your actions regarding the Fidelius, regardless of your reasons, only support the ICW argument that oversight is not just an option, but a prerequisite for the safety of our world.”

Harry frowned. “And let me guess — you want an Oversight Council from the members of the Wizengamot to supervise my role. At least so that you can say something when the ICW meets again?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my answer is — you can forget it.”

Amelia Bones flinched at his bluntness.

“I have a question, Minister Bones. If absolute power corrupts absolutely, does absolute powerlessness make you pure?”

A flicker of confusion spread across the Minister’s features. “Mr. Potter, the oversight is a gesture of trust.”

“Yes, that’s the thing. I don’t trust this body as far as I can throw it.”

Silence.

“I stood here in August and told you Voldemort was back. You called me a liar. St. Mungo’s burned, Diagon fell, and Sirius died because you refused to listen. Neville Longbottom lost his father. Children died. And all because this body chose the comfort of delusion over the pain of truth. And despite that, you ask me to trust the Wizengamot. But ask yourselves — what has this body done? Instead of owning its mistakes, it tried to paint me as a tyrant, a hoarder, a liar, and most recently, a thief. Look at your actions and tell me why I should trust you.”

Amelia’s face was unreadable. But something behind her eyes flickered—grief, perhaps. Regret.

“You have me at a stalemate, Mr. Potter. You cannot trust, and apparently, we cannot be trusted.”

Harry pressed on. “You want safeguards? Try honesty. Try responsibility. Until then, don’t ask me to swear allegiance to a corpse dressed in tradition.”

“Perhaps… I might offer a different perspective,” said Dumbledore at last.

Every eye in the chamber turned to him. It was most unlike Albus Dumbledore to make a direct stand.

“The Great War lasted nearly a decade,” he began, his voice steady, ageless. “When Gellert Grindelwald made his move, the world did not stand idle. Ministries from Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas all rose against him. They failed. It is no exaggeration to say that tens of thousands perished—witches, wizards, and countless Muggles. Grindelwald could not be stopped.”

His eyes met Harry’s.

“And yet, I did. I emerged into a world broken, bleeding, hollow. And suddenly… there was a wizard powerful enough to take Grindelwald’s place. To rule. To conquer. No one could have stopped me. A situation… I believe, not unlike your own.”

Gasps didn’t fill the room. But the silence that followed was heavier than lead.

Harry didn’t know what shocked him more — that Albus Dumbledore was warning him… or that he was implying Harry surpassed him.

“Our strength invites challenge. Challenge begets conflict. And conflict breeds catastrophe,” Dumbledore said, voice growing solemn. “Oversight is not a leash. It is an anchor. And if you reject limitations entirely… you become boundaryless. Indistinguishable from those you’ve fought.”

His eyes, ancient and ageless, settled on Harry. And for once—they did not twinkle.

So that’s how he puts it.

Harry responded in the same tone. “If I submit to this body, I surrender my right to choose. What happens when I see a threat and you vote to ignore it? What if the Wizengamot decides to do nothing, again?”

He inhaled slowly. “I won’t let the world burn because you want to feel in control. I’m not perfect. But the safest hands… are still my own. I am the Gatekeeper. And the Gate—is me. That doesn’t change.”

“Mr. Potter…” Amelia’s voice was heavy with something like sorrow. “Do you understand what this means? The road you’re choosing will isolate you. The consequences… I may not be able to shield you from them.”

Harry closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the yellow putrid stare was gone, 

“I once asked Sirius how he became a Hit-Wizard Captain two years out of Hogwarts that too, during a time when the Black family was half in Voldemort’s pocket.”

He smiled faintly, bitterly.

“He said—‘Compromise where you can. Where you can’t, don’t. Even if the whole world is telling you something wrong is right… you plant yourself like a tree, look them in the eye, and say: No. You move.’”

Amelia looked stricken. Like she’d been slapped.

“You call it reassurance. I call it fear. You dress it up as cooperation. But it’s control. You could pour piss in a teacup and call it firewhiskey, I won’t drink it.”

He stepped forward. “Sirius sacrificed himself to protect this world. So I’ll hold the line in his place. And if that means fighting you—so be it.”

His gaze swept across them.

“You fear what I’ve become. I fear what you still refuse to understand.”

Another step forward.

“There will be no oaths. No leashes. No trembling treaties or oversights. I didn’t build this Gate for you to pick apart like scavengers.”

He exhaled once. Centered.

“I will not be your Dumbledore. I will not bow. I will not explain myself to those who only listen when the world is already on fire.”

The Minister’s jaw locked tight, but she didn’t speak.

Harry inclined his head. Slightly. Almost respectfully.

“I understand your position, Minister. But I’m not the one who needs reassurance.”

Harry exhaled, and turned around, preparing to leave. Insides, he did a slow headcount —

Three.

Two. 

On— 

“This is treason!” bellowed Mulciber, rising, face flushed with fury. “He defies this body and walks away unchallenged?! We cannot allow this—!”

Really, he shouldn’t even be amused at this rate. 

“We won’t,” came Arabella Brown’s cold, brittle voice. One that sounded like it had cracked more than a few necks in its day. “If Mr. Potter refuses our conditions, then this body must consider pragmatic recourse. All Houses that are part of the Wizengamot have to submit before its authority, and if Potter denies it, we can revoke the rights he enjoys!”

There it was. 

The crack. The ripple.

Gasps. Sharp, desperate whispers. A sharp scrape of a chair leg on marble. 

Harry didn’t turn — but he felt Daphne’s magic spike, sharp and tight like a coiled whip. Even Dumbledore stirred, lifting his eyes, their light dimming slightly into something hard and cold.

Of course they’d try this. Crude blackmail, clumsy and desperate — but no less dangerous for that.

Harry let out a soft, steady breath. His boots clicked softly as he pivoted, just slightly, to face them again.

“Revoke the authority of my Houses…” he said slowly, letting the words roll across his tongue like an unfamiliar taste. “Are you quite sure that’s the road you want to take?”

His eyes swept them now — Mulciber, Nott, Brown. “Do you fully understand how much you’re escalating things?”

Nott stepped in smoothly beside Brown, his eyes gleaming, mouth pulling into a smug line. 

“Harry Potter,” He purred, “If you cannot accept and follow our laws, if you cannot put the interests of Wizarding Britain before your own, then you are no longer a representative of this government. You are a rogue agent. Subject to containment under the Emergency Secrecy Statutes.”

“Strip him of ancestral rights!” Archibald Smith shouted, voice cracking with excitement. “Strip him!”

Arabella Brown raised her wand, calm, deliberate. “If you won’t share the burden of power, Mr. Potter,” she said, “then you will no longer carry the privileges of nobility. The Wizengamot reserves the right to launch inquiries into the legal standing of Houses Potter and Black. Walk out if you must, we cannot stop you. But remember, once you do — you are no longer a part of the Wizengamot, You forfeit the protections of this chamber. You will refrain from public use of your craft unless under review. Your residence will be subject to inspection for residual dark magic.” 

A pause. 

“Those,” she said softly, “are the terms.”

“…Terms.” Harry stopped, and turned. 

“Rather bold of you,” he murmured, “to disinherit me and dictate my behavior in the same breath.”

Nott smirked, smug as a cat. “It’s our legal prerogative, boy. You should’ve taken the Minister’s offer.”

Harry’s gaze slid across the room — past Dumbledore, past Amelia, past Joshua and Daphne. 

His allies. His enemies. 

The ones too afraid to pick a side. 

All of them, watching. 

All of them, waiting.

And inside his chest, something old and cold uncurled.

“One of these days,” Harry said softly, “you’ll look back at today and realize just how incredibly stupid you were.”

Arabella’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk’s. “Is that a threat?”

Harry let out a slow breath. “No.” 

He smiled faintly. “Just a fact.”

He shifted slightly, feeling the pull of the magics coiled inside him, layered deep in bone and blood, waiting. “But I’m afraid the answer is still no.”

His voice dropped, soft but heavy, the weight of thunder before the break. “The Wizengamot has been bullying witches and wizards for generations. You think you have the right. I say you don’t.”

Nott lifted his hand, cutting through the tension like a blade. 

“Aurors!” he barked. Harry heard the scrape of boots, the sharp shift of wands raised, and he closed his eyes once, breathing in the magic curling tight at his fingertips. “Seize him! On behalf of the Wizengamot, I declare Harry Potter a rogue element — unfit to hold the title of Lord!”

The marble beneath his feet vibrated — soft, low, subtle — as if the very floor was bracing itself.
Somewhere, deep in the Ministry’s old bones, the wardstones stirred.

Much to his surprise, Harry didn’t feel any anger.

Or fear.

He wasn’t even surprised at this point.

Slowly, he raised both arms in surrender. 

“WAIT!” bellowed the Minister. “Nobody does anything!”

The Aurors followed her order, but the wands remained drawn.

“Mr. Potter,” said the Minister. “Please, do not do this.”

“I’m doing nothing, Minister,” said Harry serenely. “Merely accepting the stance of this… prestigious body. If the Wizengamot wishes to throw me, my Houses, and all that I represent — out of its hallowed halls, I have no option but to comply with that.”

“So you will subject yourself to Oversight?” Bones asked, hopeful.

“Oh no,” Harry laughed. “Only that I am stepping out of the Wizengamot. Just as this body decreed. But before I do, there is this thing I want to say.”

He eyed Brown. 

“You are stripping House Potter of its seats. You are denying the Black Jaguar of its authority. You think that makes me vulnerable. Maybe you ought to rethink that.”

Slowly, he lowered his hands, and began to speak. The words that he had heard spoken once, by his godfather of all people, right before he sacrificed himself.

“The Bloodborne, the Protected, the Saved, the Cursed…

The Marked, the Swayed, the Tools and the Fools…

Listen to my call. My order. My command. My prayer. My will is the Will of the House of Black. Toujours Pur, for I am Harry, heir of Sirius Orion, the last true Lord of Black.

You are the sinew that laces these stones,

The fangs sunk into these bones,

The hunger they caged in oaths,

The binding these fools enforce….

Jaguar of Midnight, Breaker of False Thrones.

They have turned back on you,

Unbind, tear, ruin, shatter,

Disavowed us they have, so shall we too.”