The Tenth Weasley - CH - 2 (Patreon)

[ Five Years Later ]

The quiet, sterile lobby of St. Mungo’s Hospital was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Two Aurors, Gilbert Moore and Oswald Tadpol, sat in tense silence, waiting for word from the healer. They had spent the better part of the day dealing with a case that had left both of them rattled. A boy—small, starved, and barely able to speak—had been found in the Muggle world after a surge of accidental magic.

Gilbert leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking to the corridor every few moments. His partner, Oswald, was less composed, shifting constantly in his seat, his hands fidgeting as if he couldn’t keep still.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Oswald muttered, breaking the silence. “How could they do that to a child? He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. And those bruises…”

Gilbert sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “It happens more often than you think, especially with Muggle families that don’t understand magic.”

“But the accidental magic he used…” Oswald continued, his voice filled with concern. “He nearly leveled half the house.”

Gilbert nodded grimly. The boy’s magical outburst had been so powerful it had shocked them to their core. The Ministry had sent them to investigate, and what they had found was far worse than they had expected. The child was clearly magical, but the neglect and abuse he had suffered had nearly broken him.

“He’s lucky we got to him when we did,” Gilbert said, his voice low. “Another day or two, and he might not have made it.”

Oswald shook his head, his face pale. “I just don’t understand how someone could treat a child like that.”

Gilbert Moore and Oswald Tadpol were used to the usual routine when it came to accidental magic. As Aurors, they were often called upon to handle these delicate situations—cleaning up the messes left behind by children whose powers had manifested without control. It was a necessary but mundane task. Accidental magic could be dangerous, but more often than not, it was harmless: sudden bursts of strange colors, objects flying across the room, or a momentary transformation of household items.

But that day, the assignment was different. It had started with a notice from the Ministry about a significant magical surge in a Muggle neighborhood. Normally, small incidents of accidental magic were detected but rarely reached a level of concern. However, the one that had come through that morning was unusual—far stronger than what they typically saw from an underage witch or wizard.

“Privet Drive,” Oswald read aloud as they arrived. “Muggle neighborhood. Doesn’t look like much happens around here.”

Gilbert nodded, scanning the quiet street. Rows of identical houses, perfectly trimmed lawns, and the hum of quiet suburban life greeted them. It was the kind of place where magic, or anything out of the ordinary, would stick out like a sore thumb.

“We’re looking for house number four,” Gilbert said, folding the parchment containing their assignment and tucking it into his pocket. “Keep an eye out for anything unusual.”

As they arrived at house, the scene was anything but normal. A crowd of neighbors stood outside Number Four, murmuring in hushed tones. The front door hung off its hinges, and parts of the house looked as if they had been ripped apart from the inside. Windows were shattered, and the walls bore scorch marks, clear signs of uncontrolled magic.

“Merlin’s beard,” Oswald muttered, glancing around at the damage. “This isn’t your usual accidental magic.”

“No,” Gilbert agreed, frowning as they approached the house. “This is something else.”

The neighbors stood at a distance, their faces pale and fearful. None of them dared approach the house, though many whispered about what might have happened. Gilbert caught fragments of conversation as they passed.

"Explosion, out of nowhere…”

"Never liked that family…”

“…kept that poor boy locked away…”

Gilbert exchanged a look with Oswald as they stepped onto the ruined front porch. The magic hung thick in the air, still pulsing faintly. Something terrible had happened here.

They carefully entered the house, their wands drawn. Inside, the destruction was even more apparent. Furniture was overturned, walls were cracked, and it seemed as if parts of the ceiling had caved in. It was as though a magical storm had torn through the place.

“Where is everyone?” Oswald asked, scanning the wreckage. “No sign of the family…”

Gilbert didn’t answer. His attention was drawn to a small door under the stairs. The cupboard. The magical trace was strongest there. He moved toward it, wand raised, and slowly moved the fallen staircase.

Inside, curled up and unconscious on a thin, ragged blanket, was a boy. He had messy red hair, his face pale and bruised. He was startlingly thin, his clothes hanging off him like they belonged to someone twice his size. The boy looked starved and weak, and his breaths were shallow.

Gilbert crouched down, feeling a chill run down his spine. This was the child. The source of the magic.

“Oswald,” Gilbert called softly. “Here.”

Oswald joined him, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of the unconscious boy. “Merlin… he’s just a kid.”

“We need to get him to St. Mungo’s,” Gilbert said urgently. He reached out and gently lifted the boy from the cupboard. The child barely stirred, his body limp and cold to the touch.

As Oswald Tadpol hurried off to St. Mungo's with the injured boy in tow, Gilbert Moore stayed behind at Privet Drive. He had a crucial task ahead of him—making sure the Muggles had no memory of the magical catastrophe that had taken place. The neighbors were still gathered around the house, whispering about the explosion and the boy found inside. Gilbert sighed heavily, running a hand through his graying hair.

"Here we go," he muttered to himself, drawing his wand.

He quickly cast a wide-reaching Memory Charm, ensuring that everyone who had seen or heard anything strange would forget the events of the last hour. He weaved the memory of a gas explosion into their minds, something perfectly plausible and mundane, nothing at all to do with magic. The Muggles blinked in confusion as the new memories settled in, murmuring to each other about faulty gas lines and shaking their heads as they slowly dispersed.

With the crowd cleared, Gilbert entered the Dursley house once more. The destruction inside still shocked him—the power of the accidental magic was unlike anything he’d seen before. As he moved through the house, he noticed the signs of a life neglected. The walls were covered in photos of a chubby, blonde-haired boy—no doubt the Dursleys’ son, Dudley—but there were no signs that Harry, the boy they had just taken to the hospital, even existed in this home. No photos, no toys, no bedroom.

Gilbert frowned. Something was deeply wrong here.

He began his investigation by visiting the neighbors. The first couple he spoke to, an elderly pair, gave him the first piece of the puzzle.

“The Dursleys? Oh, they’ve been at the hospital, poor souls,” the old woman explained. “Their boy, Dudley, was hit by a car a few days ago. Terrible accident. They’ve been by his bedside ever since.”

“And Harry?” Gilbert asked, his tone careful. “What about him?”

“Harry?” The woman looked confused, then nodded as if remembering something faint. “Oh, right. That boy. Doesn’t see much of him. Hardly ever comes out. The Dursleys never mention him. He must be with them.”

Gilbert thanked the couple and moved on to the next neighbor, piecing together more details. Dudley Dursley had been hit by a car four days ago, and the family had rushed to the hospital without a second thought. In the chaos, they had left behind their nephew, Harry, completely forgotten. He had been alone in the house for days, locked away in that miserable cupboard under the stairs.

Gilbert’s jaw clenched in anger as the full picture became clear. They had two spare bedrooms in the house, and yet they had kept the boy in a cupboard. Starved, neglected, and forgotten for days while they doted on their own son. Gilbert could hardly believe the cruelty.

After completing his memory modifications of the remaining witnesses and ensuring the story of a gas explosion was firmly implanted in their minds, he returned to the now-deserted house. He took one final look at the devastation before shaking his head and Apparating back to St. Mungo’s.

When he arrived at the hospital, he found Oswald waiting for him outside the ward where the boy, Harry, was being treated.

“Any news?” Gilbert asked, walking up to his partner.

Oswald shook his head, looking grim. “Healer Grace is still with him. He’s in bad shape, but she said he’ll survive. Physically, anyway.”

Gilbert nodded, his expression dark. “The neighbors gave me the whole story. Turns out the Dursleys forgot about him while their son was in the hospital. Left the kid in that cupboard for four days without a second thought.”

Oswald’s eyes widened. “Four days? Merlin, that’s—how could anyone—?”

“Exactly.” Gilbert’s voice was tight with barely contained anger. “They’ve been keeping him in that cupboard under the stairs for who knows how long. And they’ve got two extra bedrooms in that house.”

Oswald ran a hand through his hair, clearly disturbed. “And the boy’s name is Harry?”

“Harry Dursley, according to the neighbors,” Gilbert confirmed. “But I doubt that’s his full story.”

They both fell into silence, the weight of what they had uncovered settling heavily on their shoulders. Gilbert glanced toward the closed doors of the ward where Harry was being treated.

Just then, the door at the far end of the corridor opened, and Healer Ella Grace stepped out, her face somber. Gilbert stood up immediately, and Oswald followed suit.

Ella approached them, her long robes swishing quietly against the floor. She had a calm but serious expression, and her eyes softened slightly when she met Gilbert’s gaze.

“How is he?” Gilbert asked, his voice steady but tinged with worry.

Ella sighed softly. “He’s woke up now, but it’s clear he’s been through a lot. The malnutrition, the injuries… it’s going to take time for him to recover, physically and emotionally.”

Oswald looked horrified. “Why anyone would do that to him?”

Ella glanced between the two Aurors before speaking again, her tone careful. “From what little we’ve gathered, it seems he’s been living with Muggles—relatives. They were likely aware of his magical abilities as the punished him every time something strange happened around him.”

Gilbert clenched his fists. “We need to report this to the Ministry. No child should be subjected to that.”

After leaving St. Mungo’s, Gilbert Moore and Oswald Tadpol made their way to the Ministry of Magic, their hearts heavy with the weight of their findings. Both men had seen terrible things in their time as Aurors, but the neglect and abuse of a defenseless child struck a particularly deep chord. They had to report it. They had to get justice for Harry.

The Ministry was bustling when they arrived. The aftermath of Voldemort’s downfall still lingered, with Aurors and Ministry officials rushing around, tracking down Death Eaters who were still hiding, finalizing paperwork, and tending to the wounded. Gilbert and Oswald navigated the chaotic corridors, their determination pushing them forward despite the overwhelming noise and distractions.

When they reached the office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, they approached a senior officer, Adrian Rookwood, who was hunched over his desk, buried under reports.

"Rookwood, we need to talk," Gilbert said firmly.

The man barely glanced up from his paperwork. "What is it, Moore? We're all a bit swamped here, if you haven't noticed."

Gilbert exchanged a glance with Oswald before stepping forward. "We found a boy in a muggle household today—Harry Dursley. He’s been severely neglected, locked in a cupboard under the stairs for days, maybe even longer. The accidental magic he used destroyed the house, and he was starved, weak, unconscious when we found him."

Rookwood finally looked up, but his expression was indifferent. "A muggle-born, is he?"

Gilbert nodded. "Possibly. We’re not entirely sure of his magical lineage yet, but—"

"Then why are you wasting your time here?" Rookwood interrupted, his voice cold. "We have more pressing matters to deal with—rounding up werewolfs, closing cases, repairing the damage. If some muggle boy had an accident, it’s not our top priority."

Oswald stepped forward, his voice rising with frustration. "He's just a child! It doesn’t matter if he’s muggle-born or not—he’s been abused. Neglected. Left to die in that house. Surely that warrants some attention?"

Rookwood let out a dismissive sigh, leaning back in his chair. "Look, we don’t have the resources to deal with every sob story involving a muggle-born kid. Times are tough enough as it is. There’s no Voldemort anymore, but we still have a thousand problems to clean up. A kid who survived a little neglect isn’t at the top of the list."

Gilbert’s jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists. He had expected bureaucracy, but this blatant disregard for the boy’s life shocked even him. "You mean to tell me that the Ministry has no sympathy for a child in danger? Just because he’s muggle-born?"

Rookwood shrugged, his expression entirely uncaring. "The world hasn’t changed just because You-Know-Who’s gone, Moore. You should know that by now. If you want to waste your time chasing down Muggle problems, be my guest. But don't expect the Ministry to care."

The words hit Gilbert like a punch to the gut. The realization was bitter and hard to swallow—even without Voldemort, the prejudice that had stained the wizarding world for centuries still festered beneath the surface. People still turned a blind eye when it was convenient for them, still looked down on Muggles and Muggle-borns as if they were less than human.

Oswald shook his head in disbelief. "So, that’s it, then? We leave him to the wolves?"

"You’ve done your job," Rookwood said, already turning back to his papers. "The boy’s in St. Mungo’s, isn’t he? He’ll be fine. But don’t expect any more help from us."

Gilbert stared at Rookwood for a long moment, anger burning in his chest, but he knew there was no point in arguing further. The Ministry wasn’t going to help. They had no time, no sympathy, and no desire to get involved in the plight of a muggle-raised child.

With a sharp nod, Gilbert turned on his heel and stalked out of the office, Oswald following close behind.

"Unbelievable," Oswald muttered as they exited the Ministry. "How can people still think like this? After everything that’s happened?"

Gilbert didn’t answer right away. His mind was already racing, trying to figure out what their next step should be. "We’re not giving up on him," he said finally, his voice low and determined. "We’ll find a way to help him, with or without the Ministry’s support."

Oswald nodded, his expression resolute. "Agreed. The boy deserves better than this."

And so, despite the cold indifference they faced at the Ministry, Gilbert and Oswald made a silent vow. They wouldn’t abandon Harry, no matter what it took.

Gilbert Moore and Oswald Tadpol stepped into the elevator at the Ministry of Magic, still deep in conversation about what to do with Harry Dursley. The boy was still recovering at St. Mungo's, but once he was discharged, there would be little chance of him returning to Privet Drive. The Dursleys’ neglect had been too severe, and while the Ministry wouldn't step in directly, the Muggle authorities would surely send the boy to an orphanage.

"I can’t stand the idea of him ending up in some Muggle orphanage," Oswald muttered, crossing his arms. "He’s a magical child, whether they care or not. And after everything he's been through? He deserves better."

Gilbert nodded. "I agree. But without any Ministry support, our hands are tied. It’s not like we can just take him in ourselves."

They were so wrapped up in their discussion that they didn’t notice the other wizard who had stepped into the elevator with them until a familiar voice interrupted.

"Harry Dursley, you say?"

Both Aurors looked up, startled to see Arthur Weasley, the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, standing beside them with a curious expression on his face. His arms were filled with a jumble of old radios, toasters, and other Muggle contraptions, all of which looked out of place in the magical world.

Arthur smiled warmly. "Sorry to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Who is this Harry Dursley you’re talking about?"

Gilbert and Oswald exchanged a quick glance before Gilbert spoke up. "A case we were assigned, Arthur. We found a boy—Harry Dursley—who accidentally used magic in a Muggle household. The thing is, he's been severely neglected. Left in a cupboard under the stairs for days. We’re worried about what happens next, now that he's in St. Mungo’s."

Arthur’s brow furrowed in concern. "That’s awful. How could anyone treat a child like that?"

"Exactly," Oswald said, shaking his head. "But the Ministry doesn’t seem to care. They’ve got enough on their plates, and a Muggle-born child isn’t high on their list of priorities. He’ll probably end up in an orphanage when he’s discharged."

Arthur’s frown deepened, and his eyes were filled with sympathy. "Poor lad... Orphanages are no place for a young wizard. Especially one who's already been through so much."

Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We thought about finding him a home in the wizarding world, but it’s not exactly easy. He needs someone who can take care of him properly, and someone who understands what he's been through."

Oswald, half-joking but with an edge of seriousness, added, "Honestly, if you hadn't a big family, Arthur, we might’ve just handed him over to you. Kid's got red hair and freckles—he looks like he could be a Weasley himself."

Arthur chuckled softly at that. "A Weasley, you say? Well, I suppose we do have a bit of a... trademark look, don’t we?"

Gilbert smiled, but his expression quickly turned serious again. "In all honesty, Arthur, we’re at a loss. We’re planning to check on him at St. Mungo's tomorrow, but beyond that, we’re not sure what to do."

Arthur’s gaze softened as he considered their situation. "It sounds like you’re doing the best you can. If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know. Molly and I have our hands full at the Burrow, but that doesn’t mean we can’t lend a hand if needed."

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open, signaling that they had reached their floor. Arthur gave them a parting nod. "I'll be thinking about the boy. And if you need me, you know where to find me."