Eight-year-old Harry Potter had always been a quiet, observant child, his gaze sharp and full of an understanding beyond his years. He was a Sentinel, a rare gift in the magical world, and even at his young age, his abilities were growing stronger. James and Sirius had taken great care to help him manage his heightened senses, ensuring he never felt overwhelmed or alone. But despite their guidance, there were moments when his magic reacted instinctively, moments when the world became too much.
Today was one of those days.
The grand halls of the Wizengamot chamber were vast and imposing, filled with the hum of voices, the rustle of robes, and the weight of countless enchantments layered over the centuries. It was Harry’s first time attending such an event, and he clung to Sirius' hand, his small fingers curling tightly around his Guide’s. James walked on his other side, casting reassuring glances down at his son.
“You’re doing great, kiddo,” James murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “If it gets to be too much, just let us know.”
Harry nodded, his green eyes darting across the room, cataloging every unfamiliar face, every unfamiliar magic. His senses stretched outward, brushing against the magic woven into the very walls, against the emotions radiating from the witches and wizards gathered to watch the proceedings.
Then, the room hushed.
Tom Riddle, Minister of Magic, stepped onto the podium.
The moment his presence filled the chamber, something inside Harry twisted. His Sentinel instincts flared, his magic recoiling and reaching all at once, struggling to make sense of what it was perceiving. It was too much, too fast. The air turned thick, the voices in the chamber became a deafening roar in his ears, the pulsing presence of magic like a storm pressing against his skin.
Harry let out a small, choked gasp.
Sirius reacted immediately. He dropped to one knee, pulling Harry against his chest, one hand cradling the back of his head. “Breathe, pup. Just breathe.”
But Harry was trembling, his fingers digging into Sirius’ robes as he struggled to pull air into his lungs. The room tilted, dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision. His magic flared wildly, reaching out, desperate for something to hold onto.
Sirius held him tighter, his voice a steady murmur of comfort. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
James knelt beside them, his own hand resting on Harry’s back. “It’s okay, Prongslet. You’re safe.”
Slowly, painfully, the storm inside Harry began to subside. The overwhelming flood of magic receded under the familiar, grounding presence of Sirius. Harry buried his face in Sirius’ shoulder, his breath shuddering as he clung to him. The world around them had faded away—there was no grand chamber, no Wizengamot, no Minister of Magic. There was only Sirius, solid and unshakable, his magic a steady beacon in the chaos.
After what felt like an eternity, Harry finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Too much.”
“I know,” Sirius murmured, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “You did so well, pup. So well.”
James let out a slow breath, his gaze flicking up to meet Sirius'. “We should take him home.”
Sirius nodded, not loosening his hold on Harry. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Lifting Harry easily, Sirius rose to his feet, his grip protective but gentle. James stood beside him, a silent guardian as they made their way out of the chamber. The gathered witches and wizards parted before them, hushed whispers following their departure. No one had missed what had just happened. No one had missed the way Harry Potter’s magic had reacted to Tom Riddle.
As they stepped out into the cool air beyond the chamber, Harry stirred slightly, shifting in Sirius’ hold. “Did I mess up?”
Sirius pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Not at all, pup. You just showed the world how powerful you are.”
James chuckled softly, ruffling Harry’s hair. “And how much you love your cuddles.”
Harry huffed but didn’t deny it, burrowing deeper into Sirius’ hold. Safe. Secure. Home.
And no matter what came next, he knew he would never face it alone.