Chapter 9
Arvind Patil stepped into his home, exhausted from another gruelling day at the New Delhi Ministry of Magic. He had spent hours in discussions about trade agreements, the upcoming ICW summit, and—of course—the diplomatic nightmare that had erupted this morning.
His wife, Meera Patil, sat at their large teakwood dining table, surrounded by scrolls and parchment. She was grading her students’ essays from Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya, a magical institution renowned for its alchemy, healing arts, and the study of Nāga magic.
The scent of sandalwood and saffron tea lingered in the air.
Just as he removed his shawl and set down his briefcase, two blurs of energy came hurtling toward him.
“Baba! Baba! Look at this!”
Padma and Parvati—his two beloved whirlwinds of chaos—shoved a newspaper into his hands, their identical dark eyes wide with excitement.
Arvind barely had time to process before his gaze locked onto the bold headline.
"BOY-WHO-LIVED FOUND IN INDIA! INDIA'S PARLIAMENT AND BRITISH MINISTRY AT ODDS ONCE MORE SINCE 1968!"
Silence.
Then a slow, deep inhale.
He turned to Meera, who hadn't even looked up from her grading.
"You knew about this," he stated.
"Of course," she replied dryly, dipping her quill in ink. “It’s been the only thing people have been talking about. Even the seventh-years were gossiping about it during their Healing Theories exam.”
Parvati bounced on her toes. “Baba, did you know about this before today?!”
Arvind exhaled, rubbing his forehead.
“Unfortunately, beta, I did.”
Padma frowned. “And?”
Arvind looked between his daughters—one wide-eyed with mischief (Parvati) and the other frowning with a budding scholar’s curiosity (Padma). He considered lying. He really did.
But these two would figure it out anyway.
“…And,” he admitted with a sigh, “this is going to be a nightmare.”
The International Confederation of Wizards was in absolute uproar.
Voices clashed in the grand chamber, arguments bouncing off the marble walls as representatives from dozens of magical nations bickered, shouted, and gestured wildly. Arvind Patil sat at his assigned seat, nursing a growing headache as the debate spiraled further into madness.
At the center of it all stood Luiza Duarte, head of the ICW Department of Magical Creatures, Cursed Individuals, and Crossbreeding Offices (DMCCICO). She had just finished her detailed report on Harry Potter’s living situation. Her face remained neutral as she awaited the reaction.
She didn’t have to wait long.
“THIS IS ABSURD!”
The exclamation came from Albus Dumbledore, representing the British Ministry of Magic. His blue eyes, usually twinkling with carefully crafted wisdom, were sharp with frustration.
“Surely, the ICW cannot condone leaving a child—The Boy Who Lived, no less—to be raised in the wild!” Dumbledore’s voice rang through the chamber. “It is our responsibility to bring him back to civilization, to ensure he is properly educated and cared for—”
"Enough."
A single word cut through the noise like a blade.
All eyes turned toward the elevated podium, where Vicência Santos, Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, sat with thinly veiled irritation.
The Brazilian Witch was done.
She leveled Dumbledore with a stare that could have frozen the Amazon River.
“Representative Dumbledore,” she said, voice calm yet carrying an undeniable weight. “I suggest you refresh yourself on international law before further embarrassing your country.”
Dumbledore opened his mouth, but Santos wasn’t finished.
“As per ICW policy, Mr. Potter is a minor under the guardianship of a caretaker who has, for the past six years, provided sufficient care, protection, and magical upbringing.” She arched an eyebrow. “Despite what you call his ‘feral’ upbringing, he is alive, healthy, and thriving.”
There were murmurs around the chamber.
Arvind closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
Here we go.
“But—” Dumbledore tried again.
Santos raised a hand, and the entire room fell silent.
"No."
Dumbledore blinked. “Excuse me?”
"I said NO."
Santos leaned forward, fingers interlaced as she stared him down.
“Britain has no legal claim to this child.”
The chamber erupted again.
As the uproar continued, a new voice cut through the noise.
"Why doesn’t Britain have a claim?"
The speaker was the MACUSA representative, a sharp-eyed wizard from the American delegation. His tone wasn’t accusatory, merely curious—but it carried weight.
Supreme Mugwump Vicência Santos turned her gaze toward him, lips curling slightly as if she had been waiting for this very question.
“Excellent question, Representative Harrington,” she said smoothly, tapping a thick parchment scroll in front of her. “Allow me to reference a precedent.”
A flick of her wand, and a holographic projection of an old ICW ruling shimmered into existence above the center of the chamber.
“The Case of Santiago Velásquez, 1943.”
The murmurs quieted as those who knew the name stiffened. Others simply frowned in confusion.
Santos continued, her tone even, authoritative.
“During World War II, a Lamia from the Crete Islands took an orphaned Spanish child to the Congo after his family was killed in the bombings of Madrid.” She glanced at the Spanish delegation, who gave curt nods in confirmation. “Despite protests from the Spanish and British Ministries at the time, the ICW ruled in favor of the Lamia due to her ability to follow all necessary procedures to raise the child under magical law.”
Santos let the words hang in the air before delivering the final blow.
“Magic itself recognized the adoption.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the chamber.
Then, with a deliberate motion, Santos raised a certified parchment and held it for all to see. The golden ICW seal gleamed under the chamber’s enchanted lighting.
“As of six years ago,” she declared, “Nagini, a registered Maledictus, completed the necessary magical procedures for guardianship over Mr. Harry James Potter. This parchment is certified proof of her legal and magical rights.”
Silence.
For the first time since the session began, Albus Dumbledore looked truly stunned.
The chamber was still reeling from Supreme Mugwump Vicência Santos’ declaration when she lifted her hand, signaling for silence.
"As per ICW international policy, the guardian of a magical minor holds jurisdiction over their education, finances, and overall well-being unless proven unfit. As Nagini has fulfilled all requirements for legal and magical guardianship, it is hereby ruled that Mr. Harry James Potter’s magical education will be handled by India."
The British delegation looked ready to explode, but Santos was far from finished.
She turned toward the representative of Gringotts, the goblin sitting in a neutral stance, his sharp eyes taking in the entire exchange.
“Furthermore, as per international law, all of Mr. Potter’s holdings, wealth, and family heirlooms are to be transferred to India’s financial institutions within ninety days.”
A low murmur ran through the chamber.
"This includes all properties, artifacts, and vault contents currently held by Gringotts in Britain. Effective immediately, the Potter estate shall be transferred to..." She let the moment stretch, glancing at the Indian delegation.
"Nāgaloka Bank, the primary banking institution of magical India, overseen by the noble Naga clans."
The goblin representative's expression remained unreadable, but a slow nod confirmed Gringotts' compliance.
Dumbledore, who had remained eerily quiet, finally found his voice. "Supreme Mugwump—"
Santos slammed her ceremonial staff down, the resounding boom cutting him off.
"This session is concluded."
And with that, the fate of the Boy-Who-Lived was sealed.
Arvind Patil adjusted his robes, exhaling slowly as he stepped into the grand chamber of India’s Magical Parliament, where the assembled Ministers of Magic from various cities sat in their respective seats. At the head of the chamber sat the Parliamentary Chancellor, a respected elder from one of India's many indigenous magical tribes, ensuring neutrality in all major decisions.
Patil stepped forward and began his report.
“As per the ruling of the ICW Supreme Mugwump, Vicência Santos, the legal guardianship of Harry James Potter remains with Nagini, a confirmed Maledictus residing within India’s mangrove jungles. The ICW has deemed her fit and lawful in her guardianship, and India is now responsible for his magical education and protection.”
The chamber remained silent for a moment, then the Chancellor spoke, his voice deep with wisdom.
"Are there any objections to recognizing Nagini as a 'Native Tribal' under our magical citizenship laws?"
There were none.
A senior Minister, representing Mumbai, nodded in approval. “She has lived in our lands for years, raising a magical child under our laws, albeit unconventionally. We’ve granted similar citizenship rights to Veela, Lamia, and other magical beings. She qualifies.”
Another Minister from Chennai tapped his quill against the table. “And what of the ICW’s demand for all of Potter’s holdings to be transferred to Nāgaloka Bank?”
Arvind allowed himself a rare smirk. “It will proceed without issue. Gringotts has no power to interfere.”
A ripple of satisfaction ran through the chamber.
For years, India’s Parliament had struggled with the British Ministry’s arrogance in international affairs. The fact that London had now lost all claims to the Potter estate—a fortune that would instead strengthen India’s magical economy—was a political victory like no other.
The Chancellor raised a hand, calling for the final consensus. “Then it is decided. India recognizes Nagini as a citizen, and we uphold the ICW’s ruling in full.”
The gavel struck. The matter was settled.
Dhruv Kashyap stared at the freshly printed edition of The Bhopal Reader as it lay on the counter of the dimly lit bar.
"ICW RULES: HARRY POTTER TO REMAIN IN INDIA! BRITAIN LOSES ALL CLAIMS!"
Aisha Rao, his ever-present source of amusement and occasional suffering, raised her glass of Old Monk rum with a smug grin. “Cheers to you, partner. You survived.”
Dhruv picked up his own drink—a neat glass of whisky—and took a slow sip before responding.
“Survived?” He let out a tired chuckle. “Aisha, I have now become the ‘point of contact’ for the world’s most infamous lost-and-found case.” He gestured vaguely at the newspaper. “Everyone’s going to want to know where the mangrove is. And guess who has to deal with all the idiots trying to find it?”
Aisha smirked, taking a sip of her drink. “You.”
Dhruv groaned. “Me.”
There was a comfortable silence between them as the sounds of clinking glasses and distant conversation filled the space.
Then Aisha, with all the casual cruelty of a best friend, snickered and muttered, “You’re gonna need more alcohol.”
Dhruv downed his whisky.
She wasn’t wrong.