Chapter 68 - The Black Cat's Shadow
Three months had passed since the defeat of Herpo the Foul, and Potter Manor, decorated with glittering garlands and enchanted holly, was filled with the warmth of the season. Harry took a moment to watch Tracey as she carefully manoeuvred around the parlour, her new prosthetic leg adjusting smoothly with each step. She moved gracefully now, with a calm acceptance that had taken time and patience to achieve. Harry remembered the doctor's words: magical prosthetics were still far from perfect, and while walking and even some lighter activities were manageable, more strenuous efforts like running were no longer possible for her. Tracey, though outwardly resilient, had needed time to adjust to the limitations. But together, they had found a rhythm, building her confidence little by little.
Their youngest, Evan, however, was still simmering with anger, the betrayal he felt carving deep into his usually open-hearted nature. He hadn't spoken much to Harry or Tracey since learning the truth. For days, he'd been sullen and silent, his eyes narrowing whenever his parents tried to explain themselves. They'd told him they were "just going on a trip" — a quick, necessary errand that would have them home before long. But when they returned, Tracey was injured, limping, her face weary. Only then did he learn they'd gone not on a "trip," but to stop a brewing civil war.
Evan's fury was palpable; his jaw tightened whenever his mother entered the room, and his eyes held an uncharacteristic hardness when he looked at Harry. "If you'd told me, I would have… I could've…" he'd muttered once, before leaving the room in a storm of unspent frustration. Even Tracey's soft reassurances seemed to falter against the wall of his resentment, and Harry could see, clearer than he wanted to, the pain beneath Evan's anger. It was the pain of feeling left out and betrayed, of having been lied to and then left to deal with his mother's injury without any warning.
In Evan's tense silence, Harry saw more than just the fierce protectiveness that ran in the Potter family — he saw a young heart grappling with a painful lesson in trust, one that he and Tracey could only hope would heal in time.
In the weeks that followed, the Manor had become full of life once more, the arrival of James and Hazel from Hogwarts for the winter holiday renewing the warmth in the house. Harry and Tracey relished every minute spent with their children, revelling in the family time they cherished but found all too rare during the school year. Evenings were filled with laughter, as James proudly shared tales of his Gryffindor house, and Hazel animatedly described her fascination with Transfiguration.
On Christmas morning, the family gathered in the parlour by the tree, a grand evergreen adorned with baubles that changed colours at intervals, filling the room with a magical, shifting glow. The children sat in eager anticipation, their eyes shining with excitement as Harry and Tracey shared knowing smiles.
For James, they'd chosen a particularly special gift: a pair of enchanted Quidditch gloves. Woven with an intricate charm, the gloves would allow him an uncanny grip on his broom, even in the wettest or coldest conditions. James's eyes widened as he slipped them on, the supple leather fitting his hands perfectly.
"Oh, thank you!" he exclaimed, his face alight with joy. "These are brilliant—just wait till the next game!"
Hazel received an enchanted journal, its deep blue cover speckled with silver stars that shimmered as if alive. Every page held a different enchantment, allowing her to record her dreams and musings in beautiful, shifting inks that mirrored her mood.
"It's… it's like it knows exactly what I'm thinking!" she whispered, hugging the book close. "Thank you, Mum, Dad! This is wonderful."
Finally, for Evan, Harry and Tracey had found a unique chess set carved from dragon bone and onyx. Each piece could take on different forms, from knights on horseback to phoenixes in flight, adding a new level of strategy to the game.
"Whoa," Evan whispered, running a hand over the sleek black rook, which gave a small bow. "This is fantastic!" A small smile crept onto his face, and Harry was relieved to see his son's spirits lifted, if only for a moment.
As the family laughed and teased each other over breakfast, Harry couldn't shake a shadow from his mind—one that drifted, unbidden, to Rigel. His godbrother had been changed since Daphne's death, and his determination to ascend to the position of Supreme Mugwump had only grown more relentless. Harry knew the Black Castle would be silent this holiday season, haunted by the absence of Daphne and the weight of Rigel's ambitions. Though he understood his brother's drive, he couldn't help but wish Rigel were here with them, to share in this rare moment of happiness.
With a sigh, Harry turned his attention back to his family, determined to cherish every laugh and smile that filled the room. For now, he would set his worries aside, choosing to immerse himself fully in the warmth of the day, as a light snow began to fall outside, casting a gentle, quiet beauty over Potter Manor.
~~~o~~~
The grand sitting room at Black Castle was swathed in shadows, the flickering light of a few enchanted lanterns doing little to dispel the sombre atmosphere. Outside, snow drifted silently against the frost-glazed windows, muffling the world beyond. The Black children were gathered in the room, seated on the dark leather sofas and chairs arranged near the vast, stone fireplace. Though a fire crackled faintly, its warmth seemed unable to touch the subdued mood that hung heavy over the group.
Vega sat cross-legged on the floor, her dark blue skirt fanned around her, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. Her sister Cassiopeia lounged on a nearby chaise, absently flicking through the pages of a book she clearly wasn't reading. Across from them, Lyra sat in an armchair, her legs tucked under her as she watched the other two with faint amusement. Perseus perched on the edge of the sofa, fidgeting with a chess piece he'd pulled from the ornate set on the side table. Orion, sitting apart from the rest in a high-backed chair, had his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on the fire, his jaw set in a way that spoke of deeper thoughts.
The absence of their father was unspoken, but it lingered in the room like the shadow of his immense responsibilities. Rigel Black, Lord of one of the most politically entwined families in Britain, had a schedule few could fathom. Between his campaign for Supreme Mugwump and his relentless efforts to restore balance to the fractured wizarding world, his days were consumed. Added to this was his most personal and painful undertaking—the quest to bring their mother back from the veil of death, a pursuit that both drove him and weighed heavily on the family.
The children knew all this, understood it in the way that only children of such a man could, but even so, the lack of his presence stung. Surely he had forgotten what day it was, not out of callousness, but because his mind was constantly drawn in a thousand directions. Their father's love for them was never doubted, but his burdens made it difficult for him to show it in the usual ways. So, their voices, though warm, lacked the unbridled joy that usually marked Christmas mornings, tempered instead by the quiet acceptance of their reality.
It was Vega who broke the silence, her tone curious but restrained. "Cassiopeia," she began, "is it true you're leaving for Potter Manor tomorrow? For the rest of the holidays?"
Cassiopeia glanced up from her book, her lips curling into a faint smile. "Yes, Hazel invited me," she replied, her voice soft but carrying a hint of excitement. Her smile turned wistful as she added, in a tone just shy of a whisper, "It'll certainly be more cheerful than here."
Vega's cheeks tinged with colour at the jab, but Cassiopeia wasn't done. "Why do you ask, anyway?" she teased, raising an eyebrow. "Shall I bring James a message for you?"
Lyra burst into laughter, a sharp sound that seemed louder than it was in the muted room. Vega flushed a deeper red and turned a glare on her younger sister. "Shut it, you great plonker," she shot back, though her tone was more embarrassed than angry.
"Plonker," Cassiopeia echoed with mock solemnity, as if considering the insult. "I'll remember that the next time James writes."
Lyra dissolved into fresh giggles, and even Perseus cracked a small smile. Vega huffed, crossing her arms in a dramatic display of indignation, but the corners of her mouth twitched as if she couldn't entirely suppress a grin.
When the laughter settled, an uneasy quiet fell over the room, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Perseus, who had been fidgeting with a chess piece, finally broke the silence. His voice was hesitant, almost a whisper.
"Should we check on Father?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the small black knight in his hand. "I… I'm worried about him. The way he was talking to that artefact the other day… it didn't feel right." He glanced up at his siblings, his eyes filled with concern.
Lyra straightened, her brow furrowing. "I've noticed it too," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "He's been different lately. It's like he's… distracted. Distant."
Vega crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her expression troubled. "Do you think it's because of Mother? Because he still hasn't…" She trailed off, her voice catching, but the meaning was clear.
Cassiopeia looked down at her lap, her fingers twisting nervously in the hem of her dress. "I know he's trying," she said softly. "But what if he's trying too hard? What if whatever he's doing with that artefact… hurts him?"
The weight of their words settled heavily over the group, the normally warm sitting room feeling colder. Orion, who had been silent until now, let out a low sigh and stood, uncrossing his arms. His tall frame cast a long shadow across the room as he regarded his siblings with a steady gaze.
"Father is doing whatever he must to bring Mother back," he said firmly, his voice calm but resolute. "You know him as well as I do. He wouldn't stop unless he believed it was the only way. He's strong enough to handle this."
The younger children exchanged uncertain looks, but Orion's tone seemed to ease their fears slightly. He took a step toward the door, his movements deliberate. "I'll go talk to him," he said, his voice tinged with resignation. "Find out what he's up to and make sure he's all right."
The others exchanged glances but nodded, understanding that Orion, as the eldest, bore this particular responsibility. Cassiopeia opened her mouth as if to speak but thought better of it, returning her attention to her book instead. Vega's demeanour softened, and she cast her older brother a brief, encouraging look before returning to her seat. Perseus set the chess piece down with a small clatter and slumped back against the sofa.
Orion straightened his shoulders and left the room, the echo of his footsteps fading as he made his way toward their father's study, the corridors of Black Castle seeming darker and colder with each step.
Orion reached the heavy oak door of his father's study and knocked firmly. The sound echoed faintly through the stone corridors, but there was no response. He waited a moment, then, steeling himself, pushed the door open.
Inside, Rigel stood behind his desk, his wand alight as it hovered over a blackened tome. The air shimmered faintly with an aura of powerful, dark magic, the kind that seemed to warp the light and draw shadows closer. Without looking up, Rigel's voice cut through the charged atmosphere, sharp and commanding.
"I've told you countless times not to disturb me when I'm in my study."
Orion squared his shoulders and stepped fully into the room, his voice steady and unyielding. "It's Christmas, Father. The others are downstairs, and they're missing you."
At this, Rigel paused, the glow of his wand extinguishing. His brow furrowed as he turned his gaze to the calendar pinned neatly on the wall beside his desk. His piercing blue eyes scanned the date, and his expression softened, the weight of Orion's words settling over him.
"You're right," he murmured, his voice losing its earlier edge. He sighed deeply, running a hand through his dark hair. "I apologise. Thank you for reminding me." Rigel's tone warmed slightly as he added, "I'll be down in a few minutes."
Orion's stance remained firm as he replied, "You should apologise to the others too. They understand why you forgot, but they deserve to hear it from you." He hesitated, then added, "That's not the only reason I came here. I have two things to discuss with you."
Rigel's expression shifted, curiosity flickering across his features. "Go on, then."
Orion stepped closer to the desk, meeting his father's gaze head-on. "You and Mother raised me to one day lead this family. You both taught me that the family always comes first. It's my duty to steer it in a way that preserves our power and wealth—and ensures prosperity for us all."
Rigel nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "That's correct. But why bring this up now?"
"Because," Orion said, his voice hardening with resolve, "I know how much your goal of bringing Mother back consumes you. I understand it, even admire your dedication. But if you descend so far into this obsession that it causes the family to suffer, I won't hesitate to replace you as head of the family. You taught me that the family comes first, even when tough decisions need to be made. I will not let it fall apart, even if it means opposing you."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, the tension as sharp as a blade. Then, to Orion's surprise, Rigel chuckled, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"It's refreshing to see we raised you well, Orion. Your Mother would be proud of your resolve." He leaned back in his chair, his tone taking on a lighter edge as he added, "That said, you needn't worry. The family remains my top priority. But I have to admit, I'd be curious to see how you'd try to replace me, considering I'm one of the most powerful wizards alive."
Orion allowed himself a faint smile in return. "It wouldn't be fair to divulge that information, Father. A strategist never reveals their plans."
Rigel's grin widened, genuine amusement glinting in his eyes. "Fair enough. Now," he said, gesturing for Orion to continue, "you said there was a second thing you wished to discuss."
Orion straightened, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "I know about the risks you've been taking, Father. It's hard to miss the pattern. Perseus saw you talking to that dark artefact not long ago, and shortly after that, Herpo the Foul returned from the dead. Then you, of all people, were the one to defeat him, ensuring your place as a hero. Now, you're experimenting with even darker magic—Herpo's research, no doubt—and running a campaign for Supreme Mugwump on the back of that victory."
Rigel's expression didn't falter, but a glimmer of amusement flickered in his eyes. He inclined his head slightly. "Perceptive of you, Orion. You're correct. But why bring this up?"
Orion's voice took on an edge, a hint of anger colouring his words. "Because it's reckless. The plan, while it worked, was too dangerous. You've always taught us that family comes first—but a part of family is relying on them. If Mother were alive, you would have leaned on her for support. Now that she's gone, you should rely on me. You can't do everything on your own."
For a moment, Rigel simply stared at his son, his expression inscrutable. Then, suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and unexpected in the dark confines of the study.
"So, let me summarise, Orion," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "First, you threaten to replace me, and now you offer me your help?"
Orion stood firm, unflinching in the face of his father's mirth. "That's right," he replied steadily. "You don't have to carry all of this alone."
Rigel's laughter subsided, replaced by a fond smile. "You are truly your mother's son," he said softly, the edges of his voice tinged with pride. "Thank you for the offer, Orion, but with you stuck at school most of the year, there's little you can do."
Orion's jaw tightened, dissatisfaction flashing in his eyes. "That's not good enough. You need someone at your side."
Rigel sighed, the weight of the conversation evident in the set of his shoulders. After a moment, he relented. "Very well. I promise I won't attempt anything dangerous until you've finished school. If, by that time, I've failed to bring Daphne back, I'll rely on you more."
Orion's demeanour softened, his shoulders easing. He nodded, the tension in his posture ebbing away. "That's acceptable."
Rigel rose from his desk, his presence towering and commanding even in the moment's levity. "Then it's time we rejoin the others. I imagine they'll be impatient to open presents."
Orion smirked, his own humour returning. "I'm surprised you didn't forget to buy any, given everything else on your plate."
Rigel chuckled, brushing past him toward the door. "I may be busy, but I'm not entirely hopeless." He paused, calling out, "Kreacher!"
With a soft pop, the ancient house-elf appeared, bowing low. "Yes, Master Rigel?"
"Bring the presents from my study to the tree in the sitting room," Rigel commanded, his tone both firm and kind.
"It shall be done," Kreacher said with a raspy bow before disappearing with another pop.
As the two Blacks began their walk toward the sitting room, Rigel rested a hand briefly on Orion's shoulder. It was a quiet gesture, but one filled with gratitude and pride. Orion said nothing, but the corners of his mouth lifted into a faint smile as they strode through the halls together, the distant sound of the family's voices growing louder as they neared the heart of the castle.
When Rigel and Orion entered the sitting room, the atmosphere shifted noticeably. The muted conversations among the children stilled, replaced by brightened expressions and an almost palpable relief. Perseus was the first to jump up, grinning broadly. "Father!" he exclaimed, the excitement in his voice breaking the previous quiet.
Vega and Cassiopeia shared an incredulous look, their surprise quickly melting into smiles, while Lyra simply leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed but her eyes warm. Rigel offered them a small, apologetic smile.
"I owe all of you an apology," he began, his voice calm but carrying the weight of sincerity. "I forgot the date and lost track of the day's importance. I promise I won't let it happen again."
The children murmured their acceptance, their forgiveness implicit in their reactions, though Lyra muttered something about not holding her breath. Rigel's smile twitched at her quip before he moved to the towering tree, now fully adorned with its shining ornaments and shimmering lights.
"Kreacher has already brought the presents," Rigel said, gesturing to the stack neatly arranged beneath the tree. He crouched to retrieve the first gift. "Let's begin, shall we?"
He handed the first present to Orion, wrapped in crisp, dark green paper. Orion unwrapped it quickly, revealing a beautifully crafted duelling wand holster made of supple dragonhide.
"A gift to hone your skills," Rigel said with a nod. "You'll be a formidable duellist one day, and this will ensure your wand is always ready."
"Thank you, Father," Orion said, his tone respectful, though he held the holster with less excitement than one might expect.
For Perseus, the next gift was a gleaming set of gobstones, their surfaces enchanted to glow faintly with runes. "I thought you might enjoy something that hones your strategic thinking," Rigel explained as Perseus's face lit up.
"Thank you!" Perseus exclaimed, immediately opening the set to inspect the stones.
Next came Vega, who accepted her present with an elegant air. She unwrapped it carefully, revealing an intricate silver necklace inlaid with tiny emeralds. "A piece to reflect your refinement," Rigel said. Vega managed a gracious smile but glanced briefly at Orion, who returned a knowing look.
Cassiopeia's gift followed: a delicate bracelet adorned with black pearls, their sheen catching the firelight. "Something to add to your collection," Rigel said simply, watching as she turned it over in her hands.
Lyra's present was a pair of elegant earrings, their deep sapphire stones catching her gaze. "For when you need to project authority," Rigel offered. Lyra gave a nod of thanks, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced she needed them.
Once the individual gifts were handed out, Rigel returned to the tree and retrieved a single, larger package. He handed it to the three girls. "This is for all of you," he said, watching as they exchanged curious glances before opening it together. Inside was a book, its title embossed in flowing gold script: Contraceptive Charms: A Practical Guide for Young Witches.
Cassiopeia's eyebrows shot up as Lyra smirked and Vega's cheeks turned a deep shade of red. Rigel cleared his throat. "Traditionally, this is something a mother would teach her daughters. However, as that isn't possible right now, I thought this might be the next best thing. It's important knowledge for you to have. Among more traditional families, it's often expected that the responsibility for avoiding such situations lies solely with young witches."
Lyra, still smirking, interjected, "Mom already taught me everything I need to know. She went over it all on my last birthday." She turned to her sisters. "I can teach Vega and Cassiopeia, not just the charms but everything else that's important."
Rigel inclined his head, relief visible on his face. "Thank you, Lyra. I would not be the best teacher on such matters."
Cassiopeia, shaking her head with a rueful smile, added, "Well, that's sorted then. But don't forget—I'm heading to Potter Manor tomorrow."
Rigel smiled faintly, a glimmer of affection softening his usual stoicism. "I haven't forgotten. Only the date, not the plans. I'm happy you and Hazel are such good friends. You'll be in excellent hands there."
Cassiopeia grinned and settled back into her chair, clutching her bracelet with one hand and tapping the book absently with the other.
The rest of the day passed in a rare but welcome sense of togetherness. Rigel, true to his word, tried to put his ambitions and burdens aside to focus on his children. He listened to Perseus explain the intricate rules of his gobstones, complimented Lyra's sharp wit when she teased Vega about her new necklace, and even indulged Orion in a discussion about duelling strategy.
Still, from time to time, his gaze drifted into the distance, his mind inevitably pulled toward the weighty tasks awaiting him. But for now, in the glow of the firelight and the soft murmur of his children's voices, Rigel allowed himself a fleeting moment of peace.
~~~o~~~
The Lord's Study in Black Castle was a fortress of shadow and power, its heavy stone walls lined with dark oak shelves that held ancient tomes and forbidden texts. The flickering light of blue-flamed lanterns cast shifting patterns across the room, where Rigel Black sat at his imposing desk, its surface strewn with the tools of his relentless ambitions. It had been half a year since he had claimed the title of Supreme Mugwump, and already the world was bending to his will.
Under his leadership, the Order of the Black Cat had grown from a secretive force in Britain to an international powerhouse. Rigel had personally overseen the establishment of branches in nearly every member country of the International Confederation of Wizards, their influence spreading like ink across parchment. In nation after nation, laws were being reformed to reflect the Order's ideals: an end to archaic discrimination, stronger and more efficient magical law enforcement, and a vision of equality where any witch or wizard could rise to greatness. At last, the world was beginning to align with the ideals he and the other founding members had once dreamed of.
Yet, for all his triumphs, Rigel's gaze was drawn to the scrolls and cracked journals strewn across his desk—Herpo the Foul's research. The texts were brilliant, filled with dark knowledge that would make even the most ambitious wizard hesitate. But despite months of study, they held no answers to the question that haunted him most: how to bring Daphne back.
Herpo had been right. Reversing death was impossible—or so it seemed. Rigel sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple with one hand. His other hand drifted toward a locked drawer. With a whispered incantation, the drawer slid open to reveal an unassuming black stone: the Resurrection Stone. He picked it up, weighing it in his palm, the cool metal grounding him. Slowly, he turned the stone three times, his mind fixed on a single thought.
The air in the room chilled, and a faint silver mist began to swirl in front of him. Moments later, the ghostly form of Daphne Greengrass-Black materialised, her translucent figure glowing faintly in the dim light. She looked as she always had: poised and graceful, her blue eyes sharp with intelligence.
Her lips curved into a pout as she regarded him. "You summon me so rarely, Rigel," she said, crossing her arms. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were avoiding me."
Rigel chuckled softly, the tension in his posture easing at the sight of her. "You know I could never avoid you," he replied, his voice low but warm. "I just don't like using the stone. But seeing you… talking to you… it always reminds me why I'm doing all this." His expression softened. "How are you?"
She sighed dramatically, the gesture losing none of its effect despite her ghostly form. "The afterlife is dull, as usual. I spend most of my time here, watching over you and the children. They're doing well, by the way. As are you." Her expression turned fond. "The Order of the Black Cat is thriving. The world is finally changing for the better. You've done all we dreamed of."
Rigel's jaw tightened as he looked away, his fingers tightening around the stone. "Not all," he said quietly. "I haven't succeeded in the one thing that matters most. I haven't brought you back."
Daphne's features softened as she stepped closer, her shimmering presence passing through the desk. "It's too early to give up," she said firmly. "We've faced impossible odds before. You just need to explore other avenues."
Rigel met her gaze, his voice tinged with frustration. "What about Herpo's research? You've seen me dissect every page. Is there anything—anything at all—that I've missed? Anything that could help us?"
Daphne shook her head, her ethereal hair flowing like a silver cascade. "I've watched you analyse it, Rigel. Every spell, every theory. As brilliant as it is, there's nothing there that can bring me back. I have to agree with your conclusion."
"There's one last idea," Rigel said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as though even speaking it aloud might give it too much weight. "It's… ambitious. Dangerous, even. But if it works…" He trailed off, his hand tightening around the Resurrection Stone, his gaze hardening as he stared into the flickering blue flames.
The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint crackle of the lanterns. Rigel's jaw tightened as his thoughts spiralled inward, calculating, weighing risks that no man should ever have to consider. His eyes flicked toward the locked drawer where the stone would soon rest again, but his mind was elsewhere—on the pieces of a puzzle only he could see.
"It'll take time," he murmured, his voice almost lost in the stillness. His fingers traced the smooth edge of the stone, his eyes darkening. "I'll need to plan… very carefully."
He closed the drawer with a decisive snap, the sound reverberating through the room like the toll of a distant bell. Rigel leaned back in his chair, the shadows of the study seeming to press closer around him, as if they, too, knew the weight of the path he was considering.
Daphne tilted her head, her expression thoughtful but supportive. "Then plan it," she said simply. "You've never been one to shy away from the impossible. Just promise me something."
Rigel's brow furrowed. "What?"
"Don't lose yourself in the process," she said, her voice gentle but firm.
He looked at her for a long moment before nodding. "I promise."
Daphne smiled, the gesture lighting her ghostly features. "Good. Now, get some rest. You look dreadful."
Rigel let out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening. "You've always known how to keep me in line."
"And I always will," she replied. Her form began to fade, her voice lingering like a whisper. "Until next time, Rigel."
As the room returned to its dim stillness, Rigel placed the stone carefully back in the drawer and locked it with a wave of his wand. His mind turned over the steps he would need to take, the risks he would need to weigh.
For now, the world saw Rigel Black as a man who had achieved his dreams. But deep in the heart of Black Castle, his ambitions burned brighter than ever.
~~~o~~~
2 Years later
The summer night was stifling, the air thick and unmoving, clinging to the walls of Potter Manor like an unwelcome guest. A brilliant full moon hung high in the sky, its silver light pouring through the grand windows of the master bedroom, illuminating the space with a cool, serene glow. The room was still, save for the soft rustle of the curtains swaying faintly in the warm breeze slipping through a slightly open window. Outside, the sounds of crickets filled the night, their rhythmic song broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves in the distant trees.
Harry lay on his back in bed, his arms folded behind his head, his emerald-green eyes fixed on the intricate patterns carved into the ceiling. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, carried by the languid atmosphere of the night. Tracey lay beside him, her dark hair spread like a silken fan across her pillow, her face softened in the tranquillity of sleep. Her breathing was even and calm, and Harry took a moment to let the sound ground him, a reminder of the peace he had fought so hard to preserve.
Summers had become his favourite season, a time when the Manor brimmed with life and laughter. With the children home from Hogwarts, the house was a haven of warmth and joy, the echoes of their voices filling every corner. Hazel's animated chatter, James's enthusiasm over Quidditch, and Evan's quieter but no less heartfelt presence made every day a delight. Harry had never imagined this kind of life when he was younger, and now that he had it, he treasured every moment.
And yet, peace was a fragile thing, always fleeting.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Rigel. His godbrother's rise to Supreme Mugwump had been swift and dazzling, transforming the wizarding world with unprecedented efficiency. Under Rigel's leadership, the Order of the Black Cat had reached its zenith, reshaping ICW nations to reflect his vision. Harry had been proud of Rigel's accomplishments—how could he not be?—but pride alone couldn't smother the growing unease he felt about the direction Rigel had taken.
Rigel had changed since Daphne's death. His once measured pragmatism had hardened into something sharper, more unyielding. His policies, particularly regarding the relationship between wizards and Muggles, had become dangerously hardline. Rigel spoke often of the need to "secure wizarding sovereignty" against the creeping influence of Muggles, a stance that had gained widespread support but also raised questions. Harry feared these measures might do more than alienate the two worlds—they could one day lead to open conflict.
Harry shifted slightly, his jaw tightening as he thought of the votes he had cast against Rigel's more aggressive proposals in the ICW. They had debated the issues civilly enough, as they always did, and Rigel had brushed off any tension with his usual assurance: "Politics between us will never be personal, Harry." But Harry wasn't so sure. The disagreements were small cracks now, but if left unresolved, they threatened to widen. How long could they avoid the strain it placed on their relationship? Sooner or later, they would have to address it, and Harry dreaded the possibility of what might happen if they didn't see eye to eye.
Tracey murmured in her sleep, shifting slightly, and Harry glanced at her. Her serene face was a balm to his unease, yet the questions remained, hovering like a spectre in the quiet of the night. Could Rigel see the risks he was courting? Did he even care, so long as his vision of a perfect world came closer to reality? Harry wasn't sure anymore, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.
He let out a soft sigh, forcing his mind back to the present. For now, the house was safe, his family was home, and the summer stretched before them like a warm, golden promise. Whatever storms might be brewing beyond the Manor's wards, Harry resolved to keep them at bay for as long as he could.
He shook his head and focused on Tracey, her peaceful expression a stark contrast to his unsettled thoughts. He smiled faintly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. Her presence was a comfort, a reminder that, for now, all was well.
Or so he thought.
A faint creak broke the stillness of the room, so subtle that it could have been the wood of the house settling. Harry's eyes snapped to the bedroom door, his senses sharpening instantly. The door had shifted—just slightly, but enough for the moonlight to catch its edge. Slowly, it began to open. The movement was deliberate, cautious.
His heart hammered in his chest, but his mind remained calm, years of training kicking in. If it had been one of the children, they wouldn't have tried to be stealthy. This was someone—or something—else. The wards on Potter Manor were among the best in the magical world, layered with protections designed to repel intruders. How had anyone managed to get through?
Moving with the precision of a predator, Harry slid his hand to the nightstand, his fingers closing around his wand. In one fluid motion, he was on his feet, his wand raised and aimed at the door. His jaw tightened as the door swung wider, revealing hulking figures silhouetted against the faint light of the hall. Their glowing eyes and hunched forms made his blood run cold.
Werewolves.
The Werewolves noticed Harry's sudden movement, and their cautious approach gave way to a feral charge, claws and teeth flashing in the moonlight. Harry didn't hesitate. His wand flicked sharply, conjuring a spear of silver in mid-air. With a thought, the weapon shot forward, impaling the lead Werewolf through the chest. The beast let out a gurgling snarl before collapsing to the floor, twitching as the silver burned through its body.
Two more lunged at him simultaneously. Harry pivoted, his wand slashing through the air, summoning a silver blade that sliced cleanly through one's throat. The other raked at him with its claws, forcing him to duck and roll to the side. As he rose, he thrust his wand forward, and the blade spun mid-air, driving deep into the Werewolf's side. It howled in agony, crumpling into a heap.
The commotion stirred Tracey from her slumber. She sat up groggily, her hand instinctively reaching for her wand as her eyes adjusted to the chaos.
"Harry?" she murmured, startled, as the realisation of the danger set in.
"Stay back, Tracey!" Harry barked, his voice hard and commanding. He summoned another silver weapon, a chain this time, which lashed out and wrapped around the neck of another Werewolf attempting to enter the room. With a swift motion, he yanked the chain, snapping its neck.
More Werewolves spilled into the room, their snarls filling the air. Tracey, now fully awake, grasped her wand tightly and took up a defensive stance on the bed. Harry moved swiftly, positioning himself between her and the intruders.
"Tracey, don't push it!" Harry shouted, worry flashing in his eyes as he glanced at her prosthetic leg. "Just cover me—I'll handle this."
She nodded reluctantly, her wand aimed and ready to shield or stun as necessary. Another pair of Werewolves lunged at Harry. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a wide, shimmering shield of silver, which slammed into them, sending one careening into the wall with a sickening crunch. The second met its end as Harry thrust his wand forward, a silver spike erupting from the floor and impaling the creature mid-leap.
By now, the room reeked of blood and burnt fur. Harry counted the fallen: six, seven, eight. Each bore the same scarred mark on their shoulders—the sigil of the Shadowfang Pack. MacTavish's bounty hunters. His stomach churned. This wasn't random. They were here for him—or worse, his family.
Tracey's voice cut through his grim thoughts, her tone urgent. "Harry! The children—what if there are more of them?"
The words hit him like a curse. His heart lurched as he turned his wand toward the hallway. "I'll finish this," he growled, his green eyes blazing with fury. In a blur of motion, he dispatched the remaining Werewolves, his movements precise and brutal. A twisting motion of his wand conjured a silver whip, which cracked across two of the beasts, its edges cutting deep and clean. The last tried to flee, but Harry's wand erupted in a burst of silver shards, shredding it mid-stride.
Panting, Harry spun to face Tracey. "Will you be okay?" he demanded, his voice tight with urgency.
Tracey nodded, gripping her wand. "Go. I'll stay here and hold the room if more come. Hurry!"
Harry didn't waste another second. He charged into the hall, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor as he flung open the first door. James's room. The boy stirred groggily, blinking in confusion as Harry scanned the room. Empty.
"Dad?" James mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
"Stay here, James," Harry ordered. "Lock the door and don't come out unless I say so."
The next room was Hazel's. Harry burst through, his wand raised, only to find her similarly asleep, her head buried under a pillow. He exhaled a shaky breath. "Hazel," he said gently, rousing her enough to repeat the same instructions.
Finally, Evan's room. Harry's youngest barely stirred as Harry swept the space, confirming it was safe. Relief coursed through him as he turned back toward the hall, his heart still racing.
Tracey hobbled into view, her face pale but determined. "I think that's all of them," she said, her voice steadier than he expected. "What do we do now?"
Harry's jaw tightened as he considered the bloodied intruders and the unbroken wards. "Someone let them in," he said grimly. "The wards are still intact. That means a traitor." He glanced at the children's doors, his resolve hardening. "We can't stay here. It's not safe anymore."
Tracey met his gaze, her expression mirroring his worry. "Where will we go?"
Harry didn't hesitate. "Black Castle. It's the only place I know they can't touch us until we figure this out."
Tracey nodded, gripping his arm for a moment before stepping back to help gather their children. Harry turned toward the carnage in the master bedroom, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. Whoever had betrayed them would pay dearly. But first, he had to protect his family. No matter the cost.
~~~o~~~
The grand sitting room of Black Castle exuded an austere majesty, its towering windows framed by heavy velvet curtains that shimmered faintly in the light of the roaring fire. Dark oak panelling adorned the walls, and intricate silver chandeliers cast a subdued glow over the room. Harry and Tracey sat near the hearth, a tea tray set between them on a polished low table. The cups steamed faintly, untouched, as both seemed lost in thought, the weight of the night still heavy on their shoulders.
The door creaked open, and Rigel entered, his imposing figure framed by the flickering shadows of the hall behind him. He strode in with grace, his dark robes trailing lightly over the polished stone floor.
"Kreacher has seen to it that your children are in bed," he said, his deep voice carrying a calm authority. "He even prepared tea with a calming draught for them. They should sleep through the night without issue."
Tracey exhaled a quiet breath of relief. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice tinged with gratitude. "For letting us stay here, and for looking after them."
Rigel's lips curved into a faint smile, his expression uncharacteristically warm. "It's the least I can do," he replied, lowering himself gracefully into the armchair opposite them. "We're practically family, after all."
Tracey smiled faintly at his words, but Harry's expression remained distant, his jaw tight as he stared into the fire. The flickering light cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his features. His thoughts churned, returning again and again to the question that had plagued him since the attack.
"Who let them in?" he murmured, half to himself before shifting his focus to Rigel. "What do you think we should do now?"
Rigel leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he regarded Harry thoughtfully. "It was a highly coordinated attack," he said after a moment. "But one detail strikes me as particularly odd."
Tracey turned to him, her brow furrowing. "What detail?"
"They went straight for your master bedroom," Rigel said, his tone measured but grim. "If their goal had been the children…" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them. "They could have killed them easily."
The room fell into a stunned silence. Tracey's breath hitched as her hands clenched tightly around the armrests of her chair. Harry's face darkened, his green eyes flashing with an anger that masked the knot of fear tightening in his chest. As much as they didn't want to admit it, Rigel was right. Their children were strong, but not strong enough to fend off a pack of werewolves.
Rigel continued, his voice calm but edged with steel. "That means they were targeting either you, Harry, or Tracey. And given MacTavish's reputation, I'd wager they were after you specifically."
Harry absorbed the words, his expression unreadable, but Tracey leaned forward, her voice shaky with barely contained anger. "But how? The wards—"
"They had help," Rigel interrupted, his tone blunt. "Someone either manipulated the wards to allow them passage or overrode them entirely. Both are difficult, but not impossible. I'll hire a team of expert warders to determine precisely what happened and ensure the protections are strengthened."
Harry nodded slowly, but his fists tightened on his knees. "I can't let this sit, Rigel," he said, his voice low and cold. "Someone attacked my family."
Rigel inclined his head in understanding. "Then your best bet is to track down MacTavish. As leader of the Shadowfang Pack, he'll know who placed the hit on you—and who gave him the means to bypass your wards."
Harry's gaze burned with determination as he nodded. "Tracey and the kids…" he began, glancing at his wife.
"They'll stay here," Rigel offered. "No place is safer in the wizarding world than Black Castle."
Before Harry could respond, Tracey straightened in her chair, her expression defiant. "I'm not staying behind," she said firmly. "I'm not letting you risk your life alone."
Harry turned to her sharply, his voice hard. "Tracey, you can't come. Active combat is too dangerous for you now."
Her eyes flashed with indignation. "I've been fighting at your side for years, Harry! Don't you dare—"
"I am saying it," Harry interrupted, his tone final. "Not because I doubt you, but because I can't risk you. Not now. Your leg—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. "It's my decision. And it's final."
Tracey's jaw tightened, her anger barely contained, but she didn't argue further. Her silence was louder than any protest.
Rigel broke the tension, his voice measured and calm. "Tracey, I'll make sure you and the children are well-protected here. You have my word."
Tracey turned her gaze to him, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thank you," she murmured, though the fire in her eyes hadn't entirely dimmed.
Rigel nodded and rose to his full height, his presence as commanding as ever. He paced a step toward the fireplace, his gaze flickering to the flames before turning back to Harry. "I'll make the arrangements for the warders immediately. But Harry—this is bigger than just you. If you're planning to track MacTavish down, I suggest taking reinforcements. I can dispatch several squads of Order members to accompany you."
Harry stiffened, his jaw tightening as he met Rigel's steady gaze. "I appreciate the offer," he said evenly, "but I can't trust anyone right now. Whoever let those werewolves through the wards might be in the Order. I can't take that risk."
Tracey leaned forward, her expression a mix of worry and frustration. "Harry, you can't do this alone," she urged. "Taking at least one squad makes sense. You've fought enough battles to know the danger of going in without backup."
Harry turned to her, his green eyes flashing with determination. "Tracey, I have fought enough battles to know the risk," he said firmly. "But this isn't just another mission. Someone betrayed us. I can't afford to trust anyone but my close family and friends until I know who it is. Not even the Order."
Tracey's lips pressed into a thin line, her frustration evident, but she didn't argue further. She knew the look in his eyes, the unyielding resolve that had carried him through so many fights before.
Rigel's gaze lingered on Harry for a moment, his expression unreadable. "If that's your decision," he said finally, his voice calm but edged with gravity, "then I'll respect it. But you'll need a plan."
"I already have one," Harry said. "Where's the Shadowfang Pack's base of operations?"
Rigel's brow furrowed as he folded his arms. "Are you sure they were members of the Shadowfang Pack? That group should have been finished long ago."
Harry nodded grimly. "They all bore the mark on their shoulders. I saw it myself. No mistaking it."
Rigel's expression shifted, surprise flashing across his face. "I thought the Shadowfang Pack disbanded after MacTavish died during the destruction of Malfoy Manor. Voldemort's explosion didn't leave much standing—or much alive."
Harry's green eyes burned with determination. "Then either MacTavish survived, or someone else has taken his place as leader. Either way, they're still operating, and they came after my family."
Rigel exhaled, his gaze turning thoughtful. "If they're still operating, their last known base of operations was on the outskirts of Faskally Woods," he said, his voice steady but edged with a faint smirk. "Do you remember? That's where you first met MacTavish. It was during your little… secret date."
Harry's mouth twitched into the briefest of smiles, though it didn't reach his eyes. He remembered that night vividly—the two of them venturing into the Scottish wilderness, braving the hostile terrain and the unsettling confrontation with MacTavish and his werewolves.
"I remember," he said quietly, the memory sharp in his mind. His gaze hardened once more. "I'll leave at first light. I'll find MacTavish and make this right. I'll protect my family."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Harry's words settling over them. Tracey reached out, her hand brushing against his, and he took it, holding it tightly as if drawing strength from her touch.
Rigel inclined his head slightly, his expression sombre. "You know where to find me if you need anything," he said simply. Then, as though remembering something, he reached into his robes and withdrew a small figurine carved from obsidian—a sleek black cat poised mid-leap. He extended it toward Harry, who accepted it with a questioning look.
"It's a Portkey," Rigel explained. "The keyword to activate it is 'Safety.' If anything goes wrong, it will bring you straight back here, to Black Castle."
Harry studied the figurine for a moment, its surface cool and smooth against his fingers. The weight of Rigel's gesture wasn't lost on him. He nodded, his green eyes meeting Rigel's. "Thank you," he said, his voice low but resolute.
Rigel offered a faint smile. "You may not want reinforcements, but even the best plans need contingencies. Use it if you must."
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth doing little to dispel the cold tension in the room. Harry slipped the Portkey into his pocket, his grip tightening around Tracey's hand as they sat in the flickering light. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts, the shadows of the battle yet to come looming ever larger over the night.