MACUSA Headquarters, New York City
CRACK.
They landed hard.
Neville stumbled first — all broad shoulders and blundering boots — arms flailing like he'd just been sucker-punched by gravity. He caught himself against the alley wall with a grunt.
Harry, by contrast, had barely swayed. He stood with the casual poise of a man who'd Apparated through worse — like a collapsing volcano or, God forbid, a Hogwarts hallway during Peeves' boredom. His coat flared behind him in the Manhattan breeze, collar popped just enough to flirt with dramatic.
A neon billboard overhead buzzed and flickered pink and indigo against the wet pavement. Somewhere down the street, a cab honked like it was actively offended by their arrival.
Daphne adjusted the lapel of her coat with deliberate elegance, expression unreadable. "Wonderful," she drawled, arching a golden brow. "We're three blocks from a meth-fueled rave and one cross-eyed raccoon away from a stabbing."
"Ah, the Big Apple," Harry said, casting a grin toward her. "Where even the pigeons have a criminal record and the hot dogs are priced like illegal potions."
Neville grimaced. "I swear, that one in Central Park tried to mug me last time. It growled."
Hermione, who had already begun scanning the area with the precision of a NASA launch tech, pointed toward an unassuming doorway wedged between a boarded-up jazz club and a suspiciously perfect falafel shop.
"There," she said briskly. "MACUSA auxiliary entrance. It's layered in at least four glamour veils, a repulsion hex, and a Notice-Me-Not charm. You'd walk past it unless you were specifically keyed into its magical frequency."
"Or desperate for hummus," Harry added, eyeing the falafel menu. "Seriously, does anyone else smell coriander and destiny?"
Neville tightened the strap of his enchanted satchel, groaning softly as they followed Hermione toward the door. "All I smell is imminent political fallout."
The door opened with the sound of whispering runes and the faint hum of wards adjusting. The group stepped into a sleek lift chamber lined with glowing sigils. The air was cool and dry, like they'd walked into a vault of sterile secrets.
Hermione placed her hand against the wand-sensor. It pulsed amber in recognition.
"Level Seven," she said clearly. "Portkey Operations."
The lift moved sideways. Naturally.
Neville blinked. "Right. Because down would be too pedestrian."
Daphne smirked. "Horizontal movement is more... subversive. Like your tie."
Neville looked down at his Gryffindor-striped neckwear. "What's wrong with my tie?"
Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Nothing, mate. It screams 'I trust people too easily' in the most charming way."
The lift shuddered to a halt and opened onto a wide, high-ceilinged hall bathed in warm golden light. The Portkey Division buzzed with movement — American Aurors in tailored uniforms, runes floating like ticker tape across the vaulted ceiling, magical artifacts humming on polished counters.
A man with sharp cheekbones and a burnt-orange robe appeared as if summoned by sarcasm. His grin was a little too perfect.
"Agent Raines," he said. "You must be Longbottom's little fireteam. You've got fifteen minutes before your Portkey slot. MACUSA asks you kindly not to start any coups while you wait."
"No promises," Harry said smoothly. "But if anything explodes, it's probably just our sparkling personalities."
Neville stepped forward with the paperwork. "Grand Uncle Algie filed the route in advance. Diplomatic travel charter under neutrality clause."
Hermione muttered, "Which translates to 'we haven't committed any official war crimes yet.'"
Raines laughed. "You Brits always keep things spicy."
They followed him through a reinforced corridor and into a chamber lined with obsidian marble. In the center, a massive golden grandfather clock gleamed, its hands etched with celestial runes. At its base coiled a glowing Portkey — a lasso of braided dragonhide, humming with restrained magic.
"It activates on the chime," Raines explained. "Five-second window. Try not to sneeze."
Daphne eyed the Portkey like it had just insulted her ancestry. "Is there a version that doesn't risk soul fragmentation?"
"Sure," Raines said brightly. "It's called First Class. You'll find it doesn't exist."
They gathered in a loose circle. Hands hovered over the dragonhide coil. Harry's fingers brushed Daphne's — light as breath, just enough contact to feel the heat between them but not enough to define it.
"You good?" he murmured, his voice pitched low and intimate.
Her eyes met his — cool steel and something smoldering just beneath. "I was born for high treason and flawless cheekbone angles."
Harry's grin flickered. "God, you're terrifying."
"Flattered," she purred.
Neville cleared his throat. "Right. If we die in transit, someone tell my Gran I want decent sandwiches at the funeral. No more of that cucumber-waterboard nonsense."
Hermione didn't even glance up. "You're not dying. Yet."
The clock chimed.
The world exploded in a rush of wind and arcane pressure — the scent of thyme, ozone, and burning constellations. Time warped. Space twisted. Someone might have screamed. Possibly Harry.
And then—
Impact.
—
The Longbottom Estate, Wiltshire
They landed with varying degrees of grace in a stone-ringed circle nestled within a moonlit courtyard.
Neville hit the ground like a fallen tree. "Ugh. Portkeys are the worst. I think my spleen turned inside out."
Daphne landed with the quiet poise of a predator on marble. Not a hair out of place. She looked vaguely annoyed, like reality had dared muss her style.
"I don't land," she said airily. "I arrive."
Harry rolled up from a crouch, tugging his collar back into place. "I swear you're part Veela. Or part war goddess. Or possibly both."
Daphne flashed him a look that was equal parts flirtation and challenge. "Keep sweet-talking me, Potter, and I'll consider not hexing you in your sleep."
"You say that like it's a threat," he said. "But honestly? Bit of a turn-on."
Hermione was already scanning the perimeter with her wand, lips pursed in concentration. "Wards are holding. Non-Ministerial channels won't pick up our arrival unless someone inside tips them off."
"So we've got a few hours before the Magical CCTV of Doom figures out we're not here to sightsee," Harry muttered. "Fantastic."
Neville exhaled slowly, glancing up at the manor — all ivy-covered stone and candlelit windows. "Grand Uncle Algie left the estate to me in his will. Ministry can't track us past the threshold. The place is layered in anti-detection spells."
"Courtesy of...?" Daphne prompted.
Neville shrugged. "A goblin warlock with a gambling problem and a grudge against paperwork."
Daphne blinked. "You're not making that up?"
"Nope."
"I'm... aroused and alarmed," she said.
Harry clapped Neville on the back. "Mate, when you write your autobiography, title it Explosions, Goats, and Goblin Debt: The Longbottom Legacy."
They crossed into the manor's threshold, the wards shimmering briefly as they passed. The door shut behind them with a soft, echoing thunk.
The kind of sound that meant no turning back.
Outside, the wind stirred. London's distant skyline glittered like a dragon sleeping on its hoard. But in the shadowed depths of the countryside, something older stirred.
The strike team had landed.
The Ministry just didn't know it yet…
But England?
England was about to get interesting.
—
The fire snapped and hissed in the grate like it had opinions. The scent of old parchment, bergamot tea, and something distinctly magical — ozone after a spellstorm — clung to the drawing room like the ghosts of duels past.
Harry slouched in an armchair that looked like it had been stolen from a Transfiguration professor with taste and regrets. His boots were muddy, his hair was a heroic mess, and his coat was draped over the armrest like he was auditioning for a Ministry wanted poster.
"All right," he drawled, eyes glinting under tousled dark curls. "Step one: find Zabini before he disappears again in a puff of expensive cologne and plausible deniability."
Neville, broad-shouldered and freshly back from training recruits in Cornwall, leaned forward, tea in hand like it was doing emotional labor. "He's still solid," he said. "Slippery as a Kneazle in a rainstorm, but he's been feeding us good intel. Last drop was three days ago — he said the Legati Noctis are getting bolder."
Hermione's nose crinkled. "The what now?"
Neville grimaced. "That's what they're calling themselves now."
Harry's head thunked against the high back of the chair. "Oh, for Merlin's left bollock. Legati Noctis? What, 'Junior Death Eaters' wasn't melodramatic enough? Had to bust out the Latin like they're auditioning for a gothic telenovela?"
Daphne, curled on a velvet chaise like sin dressed in silk, sipped her drink without looking up. Her legs were crossed just so, one heel dangling with lazy menace. "Legati Noctis," she repeated, her voice honeyed with mockery. "Let me guess — something like Envoys of the Night? Sounds like a Pureblood poetry club with a dark rituals kink."
Neville made a face. "Actually… yeah. That's pretty much it."
"They have matching robes," Hermione added, eyebrows raised.
"With custom embroidery," Neville added grimly. "Nott designed them."
Harry's brows shot up. "Of course he did. Bet he charges a consultation fee and insists on blood-based fabric dye for authenticity."
Daphne chuckled, low and warm. "And probably swans about muttering phrases like 'symbology of sorrow' while measuring inseams."
"Don't forget the eyeliner," Harry muttered, sitting up. "That's always when you know a Pureblood cult's gone off the deep end — when the boys start raiding their sisters' vanity kits."
Neville cleared his throat and gestured to the map spread across the coffee table. "Zabini's next meeting point is the Owl & Bone. Knockturn Alley speakeasy. You'll need a passphrase and at least one minor felony to get through the door."
Harry smirked. "Check and check. Do I get in faster if I've committed arson and stolen a unicorn?"
"Only if you name it something pretentious," Daphne said. "Like Vengeance."
Harry's grin was all teeth. "Damn. I went with Susan."
That earned a snort from Hermione and a choked laugh from Neville.
But just as the room was riding the wave of banter, Daphne set her glass down with a soft clink, all humor draining from her expression.
"No," she said. Cool. Decisive.
The temperature dropped a few degrees.
Harry's brow furrowed. "No?"
She stood, all poised elegance and dangerous curves, a portrait of deliberate grace. One brow arched with weaponized calm. "Before we go skipping off to flirt with Blaise and whatever identity crisis he's having this month, I want to speak with Astoria."
Harry straightened. "Your sister? I thought we agreed she was—"
"—Engaged to Draco?" Daphne interrupted, eyes locked on his. "Yes. And she's not stupid. She's playing this game from inside the Malfoy manor — and if you think that makes her irrelevant, then I've severely overestimated your IQ."
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I mean… fair."
Neville shifted uncomfortably. "You think she'll talk?"
"I think," Daphne said slowly, "if I phrase things carefully and imply I'm judging her shoes, she'll say far more than she means to. She was raised in a house where gossip was currency and silence was suspicion."
Hermione frowned. "It's risky."
Daphne's voice softened — barely. "Everything we're doing is risky. But she's still my sister. If there's even a chance Draco's dragging her into something darker, I need to know. And if there's doubt in her — even a sliver — I can use it."
Harry studied her: the curve of her jaw, the flicker of old affection buried under steel, the perfect precision of her stance. Daphne Greengrass, as portrayed by a goddess in lipstick and knives.
He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Okay. You talk to her. But you're not going alone."
"I wasn't planning to," she said smoothly, turning toward the stairs. Then, over her shoulder: "She won't open up if I show up solo. She'll think it's a setup. But if I bring someone she trusts…"
Hermione's eyes widened. "Someone Draco hates."
Harry groaned. "Oh come on—"
"Exactly," Daphne said sweetly, smiling like the knife just twisted. "You're Draco's favorite trauma trigger. Congratulations, Potter — you're my emotional battering ram."
Harry stood, hands in his pockets. "Wow. I feel so… loved. Weaponized, but loved."
"You should," Daphne purred, already ascending the stairs. "Be ready in ten. Astoria loves unannounced visitors — it makes her feel like she's in a doomed period romance."
"Do I need to wear a cravat?"
"Only if you want to look like a constipated poet," she called back.
Neville leaned over the map. "We'll prep the Blaise op. Hermione, we'll need counter-charms, maybe a couple of low-key glamours…"
"I'll handle it," Hermione said briskly, already pulling parchment and ink from her beaded bag. "And Neville? Brush your hair. I need your intimidating face."
"This is my intimidating face," he said, scowling.
"No," Hermione said. "That's your constipated poet face."
Harry turned to follow Daphne, but not before muttering, "Operation Ferret Recon, commence."
From the stairs, Daphne's voice drifted back like silk wrapped around steel. "Try to keep up, Potter. If you die, I'll be very cross."
Harry smirked. "You'll miss me."
She glanced down at him, one manicured brow arching. "I'll miss mocking you."
He stepped onto the first stair, angling his head to look up at her, just so — enough to meet her eyes and smile that lazy, devil-may-care smile that had once melted Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill. "If you wanted me all to yourself, Daphne, you could've just said so."
Daphne didn't answer.
But her smirk lingered longer than necessary, and when she turned, her hips swayed like they knew exactly what kind of distraction they were creating.
And Harry — Harry bloody Potter — grinned like a man walking into battle with the world's most dangerous woman on his arm.
Which, in all fairness, he was.
—
Camellia & Co. — Diagon Alley's Most Discreet Floral Boutique
The bell above the door didn't so much ring as it sighed, like it was mildly disappointed someone had the audacity to enter. Harry Potter had to suppress a smirk. This was Astoria's place all right—elegant, unnerving, and oddly perfect in a way that didn't seem entirely legal. The window displayed a bouquet of obsidian roses, each petal shimmering with an unsettling sheen. If you leaned in too close, they whispered your worst fears. Harry knew because he'd tried it on a dare. The roses were extremely chatty.
Daphne, in her typical way, breezed in like she was royalty claiming a seat at the head of the table. Harry followed, a step behind, scanning the place like he was on a covert mission. Which, to be fair, he kind of was.
He leaned toward Daphne. "So, we sure this is a flower shop and not the front for a genteel hit squad?"
Daphne, without even glancing at him, deadpanned, "It's both."
"Right." Harry eyed the glass vials of bubbling liquids in the corner. "Not suspicious at all."
"Trust me, it's all part of the charm." Daphne's voice had that edge of knowing she wasn't wrong, which was her usual vibe.
Behind the counter, Astoria Greengrass—formerly the shy, unassuming younger sister of Daphne—looked up. A quill was suspended in mid-air above a ledger, her posture as stiff as her hair, which was twisted into some immaculate, gravity-defying updo. She was dressed in robes of the deepest shade of poison green. The look? Immaculate. The aura? Like she could order a hit on someone without blinking.
And then her eyes locked on Harry.
"Harry bloody Potter," she breathed, the composure that she prided herself on cracking for just a moment. "You're real."
Harry blinked, his hand already halfway to his wand before he realized who it was. "Unless this is some elaborate hallucination."
But Astoria wasn't waiting for him to finish. She was across the room in a blink, flinging her arms around him with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't seen their brother after a war. Well, not that she knew anything about that—Harry was fairly sure no one in the wizarding world even knew half of what he'd been through.
"You smell the same," she mumbled into his coat, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.
Harry stiffened, awkwardly patting her back. "I—what? Like what?"
"Like burnt cinnamon, rain, and... recklessness," she said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, looking him up and down like he was some rare, expensive wine.
"Okay," Harry muttered, fidgeting. "That's... oddly specific."
From behind him, Daphne finally spoke up, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're embarrassing yourself, 'Stori."
Astoria huffed, giving her a playful side-eye. "Oh, hush. You're just jealous I'm hugging your ex."
Daphne's response was sweetly venomous, and Harry could practically hear her smirk without even looking at her. "I'm currently sleeping with him again, so no, not jealous. Just... vaguely annoyed."
Harry cleared his throat. "I feel like I'm a pawn in some weird wand-measuring contest."
Astoria's gaze turned mischievous. "Don't be silly, Harry. You're a collector's item—limited edition. I always said Daphne was a fool for letting you go."
Daphne's lips curled into a sly smile. "I didn't let him go. He vanished. Like a brooding idiot."
"I was grieving," Harry shot back, defensively. "And semi-dead. That's kind of a big part of my brand."
Astoria gave him a once-over. "You look good. Better than the skinny guy you were before. And you moisturize. Smart move."
Daphne smirked. "Told you."
Astoria's brows furrowed. "Wait. Are you two back together? Or is this just a... thing?" Her tone was too casual, but Harry could tell she was already drawing her own conclusions.
Harry raised an eyebrow, hands casually in his pockets. "Define 'thing'."
Daphne walked behind him, looping her arms around his waist and leaning her cheek against his shoulder with a possessive grace that could rival any Bond girl.
Astoria's expression shifted from playful to something almost... relieved? Maybe both of them just thought Draco would explode if they didn't keep him on his toes.
Astoria's lips twitched into an excited grin. "Oh, thank Merlin. Draco will absolutely implode when he finds out. His arch-nemesis, back in the picture? Oh, this will be good."
Harry leaned toward Daphne, lowering his voice to a teasing whisper. "So, mission accomplished?"
"Oh, this isn't the mission," Daphne murmured, her voice honeyed with amusement. "This is just... foreplay."
Astoria's laugh was something dry and knowing, as she grabbed a decanter of violently pink liquid and poured herself a glass, then handed a tumbler to Harry with a wicked grin. "You know, I really hate that you two have chemistry. It's terribly distracting."
Harry sniffed the drink suspiciously. "Is this safe?"
Both sisters said, "No," at once, in perfect unison.
"Perfect," Harry muttered, throwing it back anyway. The liquid burned like an angel's kiss—if angels were involved in unregulated potions brewing.
Astoria smirked, making a show of settling down across from them with a well-practiced air of indifference. But Harry could see the sharpness in her eyes, like she knew something she wasn't saying. She fiddled with the stem of her glass, almost as though it were a weapon.
"I knew Draco was up to something," she said, leaning forward. "He started doing business with old friends. People from his father's circle. He says it's about 'business', Galleons, influence, family respectability... but he's been twitchy."
"Twitchy?" Daphne asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Started warding our conversations. Mumbling Latin in his sleep. Bought a second wand under a false name. And I found a journal." Astoria's voice lowered just enough for the words to sound dangerous. "Written entirely in Parseltongue."
Harry stiffened. "Did you keep it?"
Astoria's gaze flickered over to him. "I copied it. And hexed the original to make it scream Celestina Warbeck songs whenever Draco opens it."
Harry couldn't help it; he snorted in laughter. "Okay, that is brilliant."
Astoria smirked. "I thought you'd appreciate it."
She reached into the drawer behind the counter and pulled out a small, leather-bound book, sliding it across the counter to them with the kind of grace you'd expect from a true Slytherin. "There you go. I know you speak Parseltongue, Potter. Let's see what our favorite Malfoy is really up to."
Daphne grabbed the book and tucked it into her bag, her fingers brushing Harry's with a purposeful, lingering touch. "Thanks, 'Stori. You're a lifesaver."
Astoria's lips curved into a smile that was equal parts amused and wistful. "Just... be careful. Whatever he's planning, I'm not involved. But if you're really back together..." She reached across the table, gently squeezing Daphne's hand. "He won't take that lightly."
Daphne nodded once, the tension in her posture sharpening. "Neither will I."
Astoria gave Harry one more long, unreadable look. Then, before he could move, she tugged him into another hug, this one quieter, more private. Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Break his nose if you have to. I'll cover it up with foundation."
Harry chuckled, pulling back. "Noted."
Daphne, already at the door, tossed her hair over her shoulder with a small, satisfied smile. "Come on, Potter. We've got a boyband cult to break up."
Harry lingered a moment longer, eyes meeting Astoria's with a sense of finality. "Take care of yourself."
"I will," she said, a softness to her tone that made Harry wonder how much she'd seen. "And for what it's worth... I'm glad it's you."
He gave her a nod, then followed Daphne out into the cool twilight of Diagon Alley, the weight of the mission settling heavily in his chest—and the warmth of Daphne's hand in his even more so.
—
Knockturn Alley – The Owl & Bone Speakeasy
The alley stank of damp stone and bad decisions. Even the shadows seemed to sneer.
Neville Longbottom stared at the soot-blackened wall in front of him, thick arms crossed like he was expecting it to throw a punch.
"So," he muttered. "We knock, or what?"
Hermione Granger, impeccably put together despite the drizzle and pervasive air of moral rot, gave him a long-suffering look over the top of her scarf.
"We do not knock," she said crisply. "This isn't a pub. It's a speakeasy for people who think Azkaban was too mainstream."
Neville shrugged. "I still say 'Junior Death Eaters' is a more honest name."
Hermione stepped forward, drawing her wand in a smooth, practiced motion. "That's exactly why you're not allowed to name our operations."
She traced a looping S across the grime-dark bricks. The wall shivered — then folded in on itself like wet parchment. A door appeared, carved from black wood and banded in silver. Above it, gilt letters shimmered faintly:
The Owl & Bone – Est. in Sin.
Neville squinted. "Feels like the sort of place where someone offers you a drink and steals your soul in the garnish."
Hermione didn't bother answering. She was already pushing the door open.
Inside, the air was thick with glamour and cigarette smoke, the scent of jasmine, cloves, and danger mingling in the air. Candles floated midair in brass cages, casting lazy, seductive shadows. A piano played itself near the back — something low and jazzy that sounded like it might stab you in an alley if you requested a song it didn't like.
The bar stretched along one wall, manned by a vampire-thin bartender whose waistcoat appeared to be made of shifting shadows. He polished a glass with a cloth that might have once been human.
Neville took one look and muttered, "Feels like I'm breathing in moral ambiguity."
Hermione tilted her head toward the velvet-draped booths. "Try not to touch anything that glows or whispers."
They were halfway to the back when Neville paused and added, "So what's the safe word again?"
Hermione didn't stop walking. "Mooncalf."
He frowned. "Mooncalf? Bit… gentle, isn't it?"
"I considered 'Mandrake,'" she said over her shoulder. "But knowing you, you'd mishear it and decapitate someone."
"Once," Neville growled. "That happened once."
They reached the booth.
Blaise Zabini didn't sit like a man. He lounged like an expensive problem — dressed in layers of indigo silk over dragonhide, his robe collar casually askew, gold chain just visible above a deep vee. Every finger bore a ring, and each ring looked like it had a backstory involving seduction, murder, or both.
He didn't stand. Just raised a glass of something the color of old secrets and said smoothly, "Granger. Longbottom. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have ordered a choir and set something on fire."
Hermione slid into the booth, eyes sharp, posture regal.
"Still dressing like a villain in an opera, I see," she said.
Blaise grinned. "A man must brand himself."
Neville remained standing, arms folded like an ancient oak. "We're not here for fashion critique, Zabini."
"Pity," Blaise said. "You could use a tailor. Preferably one who's not afraid of muscle mass."
Neville gave him a look that suggested he could fold Blaise into a trunk and not lose sleep over it.
Hermione cleared her throat. "We're here about the Legati."
Blaise took a slow sip of his drink. "And here I thought you'd just missed me."
"Let's not flatter ourselves," Hermione said, tone like iced champagne. "The last drop mentioned alignments. Something big. Then you disappear into a velvet-drenched tomb of overpriced whiskey and emotional unavailability."
Blaise's smile didn't falter. "Darling, I live in emotional unavailability. It's tax-deductible."
Neville leaned forward slightly. "Cut the crap. What's coming?"
Blaise's eyes flicked toward the door, then back. His expression shifted — something behind the flirt and silk coiled tight.
"They've made contact," he said, voice low. "The Legati. They're not just gathering anymore. They're aligning."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "With whom?"
"A new player," Blaise said. "Old magic. Deeper pockets. Someone who knows how to whisper in the right ears — and curse the rest. They're not pureblood idealists anymore. They're something worse."
Neville's shoulders squared. "Worse how?"
"They're hungry," Blaise said. "They don't just want to rule. They want to erase."
Hermione's heart kicked hard against her ribs. "Names. Give me a name."
But Blaise's gaze slid sideways. "Tell your boy wonder," he said, "that if he walks into Malfoy Manor unprepared, he won't walk out. There are things gathering there that make Voldemort look like a tantrum with a branding problem."
Neville's jaw clenched. "What kind of things?"
Blaise stared at him for a long beat, then said, very softly:
"The kind that don't need wands."
The silence that followed was thick and knowing.
Hermione leaned forward, every inch the war general in a pretty blouse. "So this is a warning?"
Blaise gave her a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "It's a gift."
Neville's brow furrowed. "You giving gifts now?"
"To some," Blaise murmured, casting a glance toward the bar. "But mostly? I'm making bets. And I think you Gryffindors are a better investment than the freaks currently dry-humping prophecy in the dungeons of Wiltshire."
Hermione shook her head. "You always did love a dangerous game."
Blaise's smile sharpened. "Only the ones with interesting players."
He raised his glass again, slow and theatrical, like a man toasting his own funeral.
"Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Tell Daphne to watch her back."
Hermione stilled. "Why?"
Blaise didn't answer directly. He leaned back, letting the shadows swallow half his face. Just enough light lingered to catch the gleam of gold on his teeth as he said, almost lazily:
"Because the wolves are circling."
Then, softer still:
"And some of them speak Parseltongue."
—
Longbottom Manor – Sitting Room
Late Afternoon
Sunlight spilled through the stained glass windows like liquid fire, refracted into fractured rainbows that danced across the hardwood floor and centuries-old tapestries. The air in the Longbottom sitting room was thick with the scent of old parchment, rosemary from the garden, and something vaguely metallic—like the charge in the air before a lightning storm.
Harry Potter sat perched on the edge of a deep green armchair that looked older than Merlin's beard. One leg was crossed lazily over the other, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the cracked leather armrest. His emerald eyes were narrowed in thought, but they flicked now and then toward the closed door like a cat watching a mousehole.
Daphne Greengrass stood by the fireplace in fitted black trousers and a cashmere jumper that matched her icy eyes—cool and calculating, but with heat simmering just beneath the surface. Her golden hair was pinned up in a casual twist, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the curve of one sharp cheekbone. She had the energy of a coiled serpent and the patience of someone who knew she'd strike first when the moment came.
Every few seconds, her eyes flicked to the door.
Harry didn't look at her, but his smirk deepened just slightly.
"Your pacing is loud enough to wake the dead," he murmured.
"I'm not pacing," she said coolly, still staring at the door.
"You were pacing. In your head."
The door creaked open before she could retort. Hermione swept in like a storm, her curls haloed with static from the wind outside. Neville followed, ducking slightly to fit through the old doorframe, his shoulders broader than the average wardrobe and his face set in grim determination.
Harry sat up straighter. "Tell me you've got something good, or at least something explosive. I'm not picky."
Neville dropped his satchel onto the Persian rug with a dull thud and ran a hand through his hair.
"Blaise confirmed it," he said grimly. "The Legati aren't just remnants. They're an organized cabal. Old money. Old names. And they're recruiting bloodline witches and wizards from across Europe."
Hermione nodded, already unbuttoning her trench coat and tossing it across a chair. "And it gets worse. Some of them speak Parseltongue. They're not just looking for power—they're looking to resurrect someone."
"Gee, I wonder who," Harry muttered. "Tall, bald, snake-faced bloke with a flair for dramatics?"
Neville gave him a dry look. "Voldemort."
Harry leaned back in the chair and gave an exaggerated sigh.
"Oh, brilliant. I was just thinking my week didn't have enough necromantic cults in it."
Daphne crossed the room in two sleek steps, her boots barely making a sound on the floorboards.
"Cut the sarcasm, Potter. What's their angle? They've got old blood, dark magic, and now a fetish for Parseltongue. That's not a coincidence."
Harry reached into his satchel and pulled out the book Astoria had given him. Its leather cover gleamed dully in the shifting light, the serpentine embossing catching every flicker like it was breathing.
He held it up, looking pointedly at Hermione.
"You want dramatic reveals? Buckle in."
Hermione leaned over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with that familiar academic hunger. Daphne stepped in close to Harry's other side, a few inches too close to be casual. Her perfume hit him like a well-placed curse—jasmine and danger.
Harry rested his fingertips on the book's spine and hissed in Parseltongue.
"Ssevralth mor'dah."
The book shivered in his hands, then burst open like it had been holding its breath. Pages fluttered wildly before settling on one lined with runes, curling ink, and a pulse of serpentine magic.
Hermione gasped. "This isn't just a ledger. It's a magical codex. A bloodline registry."
Harry's brow furrowed as he read, voice low and oddly melodic in the flickering firelight:
"The line of the Serpent Lord shall not end. In shadow and secrecy was she born — Delphini, daughter of the Dark Lord and his chosen queen, Bellatrix Lestrange. Conceived beneath the blood moon and hidden in the halls of the Transylvanian Slytherins…"
Neville blinked. "Wait—Voldemort had a daughter?"
Harry raised a brow. "Apparently. Which is wild, because I was ninety-nine percent sure he didn't even have a—"
"Potter!" Daphne snapped, cheeks tinged pink.
"—soul," Harry finished, not missing a beat. "Didn't say what you thought I said, Greengrass. Get your mind out of Knockturn Alley."
Daphne rolled her eyes but stepped closer anyway, resting one hand on the back of his chair. Her fingers brushed the curve of his neck—just lightly, just long enough.
Hermione, ever the distraction from flirtation, motioned Harry to continue reading.
"Delphini bears the mark of Parseltongue in her blood. Her guardians raise her in isolation, steeped in ritual and ancient magic. She is not heir, but vessel — the body in which the Dark Lord shall rise again."
Harry's mouth thinned into a grim line. He snapped the book shut, and the sound cracked like a whip.
"Right. So they're not just reviving Voldemort. They're rebooting him. Deluxe Edition. New body, same genocidal psychosis."
Neville scrubbed a hand down his face. "And she's trained. Raised for this."
"She'd be more dangerous than he ever was," Hermione said softly. "Because she'd know how he failed. And she'd have his blood, his language, and the benefit of our mistakes."
Harry turned in his chair, eyes flicking to Daphne.
She was already watching him, lips parted slightly, gaze sharp as dragon glass.
"Well then," he said, voice soft but edged with steel. "We find her. Before they do."
Daphne gave him a slow, dangerous smile, like a blade being unsheathed.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Their eyes locked. The air between them crackled with something half feral, half magnetic. Neither moved, but neither needed to.
Behind them, Hermione folded her arms. "So that's it, then? We go from cult conspiracies to hunting down dark magic's favorite lovechild?"
Harry stood, the book tucked beneath one arm, eyes still on Daphne.
"No," he said. "We go to war."
Hermione smirked. "Welcome back to the family business, Potter."
Harry smirked back, tugging his collar straight as he stepped beside Daphne.
"Yeah. Only this time, we're not kids. We're not scared. And we sure as hell aren't going to play fair."
Daphne leaned into him slightly, her voice a whisper meant only for him.
"Do try to keep up, darling."
"Oh, I plan to," Harry murmured back, eyes glinting. "But you'll be the one gasping by the end."
Neville groaned. "I regret ever letting you two in the same room."
Hermione sighed. "Don't lie, Neville. You love the drama."
And outside, in the shifting gold of the late afternoon sun, Longbottom Manor stood still and silent—while inside, war brewed in whispers, and the ghosts of the past began to stir.
---
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