Chapter 15 –The game begins

The transition back to Hogwarts was both familiar and jarring. Harry had spent the last couple months in the warmth of summer, wrapped in the comfort of his new life with Amelia and their children. Now, he was once again in the grand, stone corridors of the castle, overseeing students and navigating lesson plans. It wasn't an unwelcome change—he loved teaching—but the distance from Amelia and the children gnawed at him more than he'd expected.

During the day, his routine settled quickly. Mornings were spent preparing lessons over a cup of strong tea, often accompanied by Minerva, who had taken to joining him in the staff lounge before the first class of the day.

"You look particularly brooding this morning, Harry," she said dryly one day, peering at him over the rim of her teacup.

Harry smirked. "Do I? Perhaps it's just the weight of shaping young minds."

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "Or perhaps it's the weight of being separated from your new wife five days a week."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You know me too well."

"It's not difficult. You were insufferable before you married Amelia. Now you're just downright mopey," she teased, though there was warmth in her gaze.

Harry leaned back in his chair, sighing dramatically. "It's tragic, really. But I'll manage. I just count down to Friday when we get a whole weekend together."

"Love does make fools of us all," Minerva mused, a rare smile gracing her lips. "But you, my friend, are hopeless."

"Hopelessly in love," he corrected, grinning.

After breakfast, he spent the day teaching. His students had warmed up to him quickly last year, and now, as he walked through the aisles of his classroom, observing duelling pairs and correcting stances, he found he enjoyed it more than he'd ever expected. He couldn't help but smile as a fourth-year Hufflepuff managed to disarm her opponent with a perfectly executed Expelliarmus.

"Excellent form, Miss Fairchild," Harry praised. "Keep your stance steady—power is nothing without control."

Meanwhile, Amelia's days were vastly different. The Department of Mysteries was a place of constant movement, innovation, and secrecy. She spent her time studying magical phenomena, analysing ancient magical texts, and even experimenting with time-turners under the watchful eyes of senior Unspeakables.

It was fascinating work, though mentally exhausting. By the time she floo'd home, she longed for the quiet sanctuary of their evenings together though they were usually brief as once the kids were in bed Harry would often leave with Sirius and Edgar. What Voldemort would do next was always a constant worry.

But Friday evenings were for them, looming threat or not, and they both looked forward to it more than any other part of the week. When Harry arrived home on Fridays, Amelia would already have dinner waiting. The moment he stepped through the floo, the children would barrel into him, giggling and shouting about their day. He would scoop them up, twirling Liliana and ruffling Edgar's hair, while Sirius clung to his leg.

On the first Friday, Amelia stood back and watched, smiling softly. "Missed me, did you?" she teased.

"Terribly," he murmured, his lips finding hers in a deep, lingering kiss.

After dinner, they settled into their routine—bathing the children, tucking them in, and reading bedtime stories. Liliana always insisted on hearing The Tales of Beedle the Bard, while Sirius preferred a dramatic retelling of one of Harry's more embellished adventures.

Once the children were asleep, Harry and Amelia would retreat to their favourite loveseat by the fire. He would sit first, pulling her into his lap, their limbs tangling as she rested her head against his shoulder.

"How was your week?" she'd ask, tracing lazy patterns over his chest.

"Long. Not nearly as fun without you."

She'd hum in response, playing with the fabric of his shirt. "Minerva says you're unbearable."

Harry laughed, pressing a kiss to her hair. "That's not new."

Their conversations stretched late into the night—talks of work, the future, their hopes and fears. Sometimes, they simply sat in comfortable silence, the warmth of the fire flickering over their entwined fingers.

And always, without fail, their nights ended in kisses—slow, deep, and filled with the promise that soon, another weekend would come, and they would have each other again.

One evening in the middle of September the scent of roasted chicken and buttered vegetables filled Blackwood Manor as Harry stepped through the floo, shaking off the tension of the day.

"Daddy!" Lily and Sirius ran up to him, their small arms wrapping tightly around his legs.

"There's my troublemakers," Harry said, scooping them up effortlessly. "Did you behave for your aunt and uncle?"

"We always behave," Eddie chimed in, grinning mischievously from his seat at the dining table.

Amelia appeared in the doorway, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "That's a lie if I've ever heard one."

Harry chuckled, setting the twins down before making his way to her. He pressed a kiss to her temple, savouring the way she leaned into him. "I missed you."

She sighed contentedly. "I missed you too."

Dinner was filled with laughter and stories of the children's day. Lily proudly announced that she had managed to levitate an entire book with her wand, while Eddie. excitedly explained the intricate details of a prank he and Sirius had attempted—only to be foiled by an unimpressed Elizabeth.

Harry savoured the domesticity of it all, knowing moments like these were fleeting, at least for now.

As they finished their meal, Edgar arrived through the floo, followed closely by Sirius.

"Time to go?" Harry asked, setting down his goblet.

Edgar nodded, his expression grim. "We have a lead on one of Voldemort's safe houses. If we're lucky, we might get a glimpse of his inner circle's movements."

Amelia's brows knitted together in concern. "Be careful," she murmured, reaching for Harry's hand.

"Always," he promised, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips before stepping back. "I'll be home late. Don't wait up."

She gave him a pointed look. "You know I will."

Harry sighed but smiled, then turned to the children. "Be good for your mother."

"We will!" they chorused.

With a final glance at Amelia, he stepped into the green flames and vanished.

The night air was cold as the three men apparated to the outskirts of a decrepit manor in the Scottish Highlands. The house loomed before them, its windows dark, but the wards surrounding it thrummed with powerful magic.

"Looks abandoned," Sirius murmured, scanning the surroundings.

"Which we've learned is exactly why we should assume it's not," Edgar countered, drawing his wand.

Harry nodded, pulling his cloak tighter around him. "Let's move."

They circled the manor cautiously, casting silent detection spells. It didn't take long before Edgar stiffened. "Two people inside. One on the second floor, one near the fireplace."

"Death Eaters?" Sirius asked.

"Most likely," Harry whispered. "But no sign of Voldemort himself."

They moved closer, careful to remain in the shadows. Harry recognised the deep, muffled voice of Mulciber speaking to someone else.

"...next target confirmed. We strike at the village on Mabon night. The Dark Lord wants the message to be clear—nowhere is safe."

Harry exchanged a tense glance with Edgar and Sirius. Mabon was only a week away. If they didn't intervene, another massacre would stain the wizarding world with blood.

Satisfied with what they had learned, the three men retreated silently before disapparating.

It was well past midnight when Harry finally stepped back into Blackwood Manor. The house was quiet, the candles dimmed, but Amelia was still awake, curled in their armchair by the fire with a book resting on her lap.

At the sound of his arrival, she looked up, relief flashing across her features. "You're back."

He nodded, walking over to her and kneeling at her side. She ran her fingers through his hair, her touch soothing the tension in his shoulders.

"What did you find?" she asked softly.

Harry sighed, leaning into her warmth. "Voldemort's planning an attack on Mabon. A village. We don't know which one yet, but we will. We have to."

She frowned. "That's in less than a week."

"I know."

She reached for his hand, squeezing it. "We'll stop him, Harry. We always do."

Harry exhaled slowly, pulling her into his lap. "I know. I just hate leaving you and the kids at night."

Amelia rested her head against his chest, her voice steady. "I hate it too, but I understand. You're protecting our future."

He kissed her softly, pouring all of his exhaustion and love into the moment. "I don't deserve you."

She smiled against his lips. "You do."

They sat together in the quiet, wrapped in each other's presence, the flickering firelight casting their shadows against the walls. Tomorrow would bring new battles, but for now, they had this.

O – o – o – o

Mabon brought one of the bloodiest nights of the war yet. The Order had scrambled to respond to the attack, but they had been too late. The entire village had been burned to the ground, families slaughtered , and Ministry forces overwhelmed.

Harry, Sirius, and Edgar sat in the dimly lit study of Blackwood Manor, the weight of their failure pressing down on them. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across their exhausted faces. None of them had changed out of their battle robes, the scent of smoke and blood still clinging to the fabric.

Sirius ran a frustrated hand through his hair, knocking back a tumbler of firewhiskey before slamming it down on the table. "We lost too many tonight." His voice was raw with grief.

Edgar sat across from him, his fingers gripping the arm of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. "It's different now. He's changed his strategy. No warning, no whispers, no way to track them. He's figured out we were listening."

Harry's jaw tightened. He had suspected something was wrong when their last few scouting missions had yielded nothing—no meetings, no loose-lipped Death Eaters bragging in dark alleys, just silence.

"He's stopped telling them where the attacks will be," Harry murmured, thinking aloud. "Instead, he's using Portkeys, giving them their locations only at the moment of the attack."

Edgar let out abitter laugh. "So even his own followers don't know where they're going until it's too late. We can't intercept them, we can't predict them, and the moment they land, it's already a massacre."

Sirius shook his head. "We can't keep playing catch-up like this, Harry. We need a new strategy. We can't afford to let him get ahead of us again."

Harry exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. His mind was racing. They couldn't rely on intelligence anymore—not in the same way. Voldemort had cut off their only advantage, and if they didn't adapt, they would be left chasing his shadow while more people died.

"We need inside access," Harry said finally, his voice steely with determination. "Someone he trusts."

Sirius frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

Harry looked between them, his gaze sharp. "We can't predict where the Death Eaters will strike next. So instead, we need someone inside the Inner who can figure out where these Portkeys are coming from and how they're being distributed."

Edgar leaned forward, his expression grim. "You mean a spy."

Harry nodded. "Yes."

Silence fell over the room as the weight of what he was suggesting sank in.

Sirius's eyesdarkened. "That's suicide. You'd be the only one who could do it, and he'd see through you in seconds."

"That's not what I meant." He looked at Edgar. "We need someone he already trusts. Someone already inside."

Edgar's brows furrowed before his expression shifted in realisation. "Lucius."

Sirius snorted. "Lucius Malfoy? You want to trust that prancing ferret to betray Voldemort?"

Harry leaned forward. "He's already been questioning things. He hesitates when he's fighting. I think we can reach him."

Sirius scowled. "He's a coward. He won't risk his own neck for anyone but himself."

Harry shook his head. "That's exactly why he might help us. Voldemort is losing. He's getting more reckless, more paranoid. Lucius has always valued power and security—if we convince him Voldemort is a sinking ship, he might just jump."

Edgar nodded slowly. "It's not impossible."

Sirius was still unconvinced. "And what if he goes running to Voldemort instead? What if he tells him everything and gets us all killed?"

Harry met his gaze evenly. "Then I'll handle it."

Silence stretched between them before Sirius let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. "I hate this."

"I know," Harry said softly.

Edgar folded his arms. "How do we do it?"

Harry considered for a moment. "We get Cygnus to arrange a meeting. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere Lucius feels safe. I'll talk to him, lay everything out, and give him a choice."

Sirius let out a bitter laugh. "And if he says no?"

Harry's eyes hardened. "Then we make sure he never gets the chance to say anything at all."

A tense silence fell over the room.

Sirius sighed and grabbed another drink. "Bloody hell. We're actually doing this."

Harry exhaled and nodded. "Yes. We are."

A week later, Harry arrived at Black Manor just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the grand estate. Cygnus Black was already waiting for him in the study, a glass of brandy in his hand, his sharp grey eyes scrutinising Harry the moment he stepped through the door. They had met several times before to discuss Narcissa's wedding arrangements, but this meeting was different, and they both knew it.

"You don't often request private meetings, Lord Blackwood," Cygnus remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His voice was smooth, measured, carrying the weight of a man who had spent decades navigating the complexities of politics and power. "I assume this is about my soon-to-be son-in-law."

Harry stepped forward, declining the offer of a drink with a small shake of his head. "No. This is about something different." He folded his arms, levelling Cygnus with a steady gaze. "Before I continue—what are your opinions regarding the self-proclaimed Dark Lord Voldemort?"

Cygnus exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering toward the fire as he considered his response. "I agree that pure-blood families deserve to be elevated above all others, but…" He took a measured sip of his drink, eyes sharp as he met Harry's gaze. "His methods leave something to be desired."

Harry watched him carefully, trying to gauge the honesty in his words. The elder Black was a shrewd man, not one to reveal his hand easily. But there was no mistaking the slight edge of distaste in his voice.

"You should know," Harry said slowly, "that he doesn't share power. And he is a half-blood."

Cygnus's fingers tightened slightly around his glass, though his expression remained neutral. "Is that so?"

"Yes. His father was a Muggle. He preaches the supremacy of pure-bloods, but in the end, it's only about power—his power. It always has been. Make of that what you will."

A long silence stretched between them before Cygnus let out a quiet chuckle. "So you came here to enlighten me, then? Or is there another purpose to this meeting?"

Harry inclined his head slightly. "I need your help arranging a meeting with Lucius."

Cygnus raised a brow but didn't look surprised. "For what purpose?"

"I believe he's begun to see the truth," Harry replied. "That he wants out and I need someone on the inside."

Cygnus let out a thoughtful hum, swirling the brandy in his glass. "Wants out? And what do you intend to do if he does?"

"Give him an alternative," Harry said plainly. "A way to protect himself and his future family. Voldemort is losing, Cygnus. He's growing reckless, desperate. When he falls, those closest to him will fall with him. I need to know if Lucius Malfoy has the spine to see that."

A smirk ghosted over Cygnus's lips. "That boy was raised to be ambitious , not brave."

"Then I will appeal to his ambition," Harry countered. "Convince him that aligning with me is in his best interest."

Cygnus studied him for a long moment, his sharp mind clearly weighing the risks. "And if he refuses?"

Harry's jaw tightened. "Then I won't give him that chance."

Another silence, thick with meaning. Then Cygnus nodded. "Very well. I'll send word that I wish to meet with him privately. You'll get your chance to speak with him—but make no mistake, Hector, if you misjudge him, he'll run straight to the Dark Lord."

Harry's lips curled into a grim smile. "Then I'll make sure he can't resist."

The following evening, Lucius Malfoy strode into Black Manor, looking as impeccably dressed as always, his platinum hair neatly tied back, and his cane tapping against the marble floor. But despite his usual composure, there was a stiffness in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw.

"Cygnus," Lucius greeted politely before turning his cool gaze to Harry. "Lord Blackwood."

Harry inclined his head. "Mr. Malfoy."

Cygnus gestured for them to sit, but after an exchanged look, he stood. "I'll leave you two to talk. No bloodshed in my study, gentlemen." With that, he exited, leaving Harry and Lucius alone.

Lucius turned to face him fully, crossing his arms. "I assume this meeting is not a social call."

"No," Harry admitted. "I need you to make a choice."

Lucius arched an elegant brow. "A choice?"

"You're an intelligent man," Harry continued. "You see what's happening. Voldemort is losing. He's growing reckless, desperate. If you stay by his side when he falls, he'll take you down with him."

Lucius scoffed. "You overestimate your chances."

Harry leaned forward, his green eyespiercing. "Do I? I've seen you hesitate. I've seen you hold back."

Lucius's jaw clenched. "I was being strategic."

"No, you were being careful," Harry corrected. "Because you know the truth. Voldemort isn't a leader—he's a mad man who kills his own men at the slightest provocation. And when he loses, what do you think will happen to those who followed him?"

Lucius remained silent.

"You're not Bellatrix," Harry pressed. "You're not blinded by ideology. You did this for power—for influence. And I can offer you something far more valuable than Voldemort ever could."

Lucius exhaled slowly. "And what is that?"

"Survival." Harry let the word hang between them. "You and your future family—your future heir—you want him to have a future, don't you?"

At the mention of an heir, something flickered in Lucius's gaze. It was brief, but Harry caught it.

"I want you to work for me," Harry said bluntly. "Feed me information about Voldemort's movements. I don't need you to fight against him—just to listen. Find out where the Portkeys are being made, where they're being sent. Give me something I can use."

Lucius studied him carefully. "And if I refuse?"

Harry's expression remained calm, but his voice dropped to something dangerously soft. "Then you continue on the losing side of a war that will end with Voldemort's death. And when that happens, I won't be able to protect you. But if you help me now, I will."

Lucius was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhaled, rubbing his temples. "If I do this... I want assurances."

"You'll have them," Harry said. "When this is over, you'll be pardoned. Your name, your fortune—all intact. Your involvement can either be kept secret or made public that's up to you. I know you have an image to uphold, but you'll get no interference from the ministry."

Lucius hesitated just a second longer before henodded. "Very well. I'll do what I can."

Harry extended a hand. Lucius stared at it for a moment before finally shaking it.

As their hands clasped, Harry knew—this was the turning point. Voldemort had just lost his strongest political ally and they finally had the advantage back.

O – o – o - o

As September waned into October the weekends at Blackwood Manor began to take on a new rhythm. The large estate, already filled with warmth and laughter from the children, now had a near-constant hum of activity as wedding preparations took over.

Lily had quickly become a fixture at the manor, arriving early Saturday mornings and often staying well into the evening. She claimed it was to get Amelia's help planning, but everyone—including Harry—knew she was just as eager to spend time with her grandchildren. Watching her bond with them filled Harry's heart in ways he never thought possible.

Narcissa was another regular presence. Though still maintaining her poised and elegant demeanour, she had warmed considerably over the months, and since both she and Lily were planning their weddings, Narcissa's at the end of October and Lily's in December, it made sense to plan together.

This particular Saturday, the three women were gathered in the sitting room, parchment and swatches of fabric strewn across the coffee table. A soft fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room.

"I still think you should go for something classic," Narcissa said, sipping her tea as she examined the design Lily had sketched. "Simple, elegant, but timeless."

"You mean something you would wear," Amelia teased, elbowing Narcissa playfully.

"And what's wrong with that?" Narcissa arched a delicate brow, smirking.

"Nothing," Lily laughed. "But I was actually thinking of something with a little more lace. Maybe some detailing on the sleeves."

Amelia clapped her hands together. "Yes! Something romantic but still regal."

"You're going to look stunning no matter what you wear," Narcissa admitted, setting her tea down. "James is going to be utterly useless the moment he sees you."

Lily blushed. "You think so?"

Amelia snorted. "Oh, absolutely. Don't you remember how Harry was? He's going to be completely undone when he sees you walking down the aisle."

Just then, a small blur of red curls ran into the room. Liliana climbed onto Amelia's lap, her eyes bright with excitement.

"Mama, can we show gr - Lily the flowers we picked?"

Amelia smiled and kissed her daughter's forehead. "Of course, love. Go get them."

Liliana hopped off her lap and ran out, her little feet barely making a sound against the thick carpets.

Lily watched her go, a soft expression settling on her face. "She's incredible," she murmured.

"She adores you, you know," Amelia said, studying Lily closely.

"I adore her too," Lily whispered. She cleared her throat and turned to Narcissa. "I assume you're handling all the decorations?"

"Obviously," Narcissa drawled, flipping her hair. "Someone has to ensure this wedding doesn't turn into a disaster."

Amelia laughed, shaking her head. She may not have imagined planning her mother in law's wedding with a former Slytherin queen, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

O – o – o – o

As autumn fully settled over Britain in a crisp embrace, the trees ablaze with fiery reds and oranges, anticipation began building at Blackwood Manor.

Amelia had barely sat still all day, glancing anxiously at the fireplace every few minutes. "She's late," she murmured, pacing in front of the hearth.

Harry, who had spent the last hour trying to grade essays, set down his quill with a smirk. "I imagine labor isn't exactly something one can schedule precisely."

She shot him a glare, but before she could respond, the flames roared to life, and Edgar's head appeared. His eyes were bright, exhausted, but full of pride.

"She's here," he announced breathlessly. "Susan's here. Would you like to come meet her?"

Amelia let out a relieved breath, a smile breaking across her face. "Of course."

Harry stood, helping her into the floo first before following her to Bones Manor. The moment they arrived, the warmth of the home wrapped around them. The sitting room was softly lit, and in the far corner, Edgar sat in an armchair, his wife nestled against him, a small pink bundle in her arms.

Amelia approached slowly, her heart swelling as she gazed down at the tiny baby. Susan Bones was wrapped in a pale yellow blanket, her delicate features relaxed in sleep, a tuft of reddish-blonde hair peeking from beneath the fabric.

"She's perfect," Amelia whispered, reaching out to touch her niece's tiny fingers.

Edgar beamed. "She is, isn't she?"

Harry stood behind Amelia, resting a hand on the small of her back. "Congratulations," he said sincerely.

Edgar looked up at them both, a flicker of emotion in his eyes. "Thank you, there's another reason I wanted you both here." He exchanged a glance with his wife, who nodded encouragingly. "We'd like you to be Susan's godparents."

Amelia's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she was speechless. "You—you want us?"

"Who else?" Edgar chuckled. "Amelia, you're my sister, and there's no one I trust more. And Harry… well, you're already family. There's no one better for the job."

Harry felt an unexpected tightness in his chest. Family. The word had never carried so much warmth.

Amelia turned to him, her eyes shining. "What do you think?"

He smiled softly, nodding. "I'd be honoured."

Edgar grinned. "Good. Because I expect you both to spoil her rotten."

Amelia laughed, brushing a tender finger over Susan's tiny hand. "Oh, don't worry. I fully intend to."

As the evening stretched on, they stayed by the fire, taking turns holding their new goddaughter, marvelling at the tiny miracle she was. Harry couldn't help but watch Amelia as she cradled Susan, rocking her gently. The sight of her with a baby in her arms stirred something deep inside him—a longing for a future he had once thought lost.

Later, as they returned to Blackwood manor, Amelia leaned against him with a contented sigh.

"I love her already," she murmured.

Harry kissed the top of her head. "Me too."

And in that moment, surrounded by love and the quiet hum of the night, they both knew— they wanted more children of their own.

O – o – o – o

On Hallo'ween, Black Manor was transformed for the wedding of Narcissa and Severus. The sprawling gardens were adorned with enchanted lanterns, floating in midair like tiny constellations, while silver roses bloomed under the soft light of the hovering chandeliers. It was a wedding fit for aristocracy—elegant and refined—a testament to the type of union expected of a Black.

The ceremony took place under a stunning white-marble pavilion by the lake, with a backdrop of towering enchanted willows swaying in the autumn breeze. Narcissa, draped in a gown of silken silver, radiated elegance as she walked down the aisle, her delicate veil trailing behind her. Severus, standing at the altar in finely tailored black robes, looked the calmest Harry had ever seen him—though his hands were clenched tightly at his sides, betraying his nerves.

Seated at the front were Cygnus and Druella Black, Narcissa's formidable parents, their expressions unreadable as they watched their daughter walk toward her future husband. Beside them sat Lucius Malfoy, his jaw tight, but otherwise impassive.

When the officiant declared them husband and wife, golden enchanted petals rained from above, and a thunderous applause erupted.

Inside the manor's grand ballroom, the high ceilings reflected a starry night sky, while violinists played an elegant melody. Goblets of the finest Elven wine and platters of decadent French cuisine were passed around.

As Harry sipped his drink, he noticed Cygnus Black watching him from across the room. With a subtle nod, Cygnus gestured for Harry to approach. Harry sighed and made his way over, feeling Druella's piercing gaze on him as well.

"Lord Blackwood," Cygnus greeted, his voice deep and commanding. "You've been… very generous."

"I assume you're referring to the bridal price and wedding expenses?" Harry replied smoothly, not missing the calculating glint in Cygnus's eyes.

"My daughter has married well," Druella interjected, her sharp eyes scanning Harry's face. "But we find it curious that you would go to such lengths for a match that does not directly benefit you."

Harry took a sip of his wine, then met their gaze evenly. "Severus and Narcissa are both my friends. They deserved a wedding befitting of their status. That is all there is to it."

Cygnus's lips twitched into something almost like amusement. "I assume Severus is aware of your generosity?"

"He is," Harry confirmed. "Though I have no doubt he resents me for it."

Druella let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "He will get over it. And if he doesn't… well, Narcissa always gets what she wants."

Harry smirked. "That she does."

Before the conversation could continue, the ballroom doors suddenly slammed open with a deafening crash.

The warmth vanished in an instant. Bellatrix Lestrange stood at the threshold, her dark curls wild, her sharp features twisted in unhinged delight. Death Eaters flanked her, wands raised, black masks gleaming under the chandeliers.

"Apologies," Bellatrix purred, her voice dripping with mockery. "We weren't invited—but it would have been terribly rude not to celebrate dear Cissy's wedding."

The room erupted into chaos as guests scrambled for cover. Harry was already moving, shielding Amelia with his body as he drew his wand. Across the room, Lucius sprang to his feet, wand clenched, his expression caught between fury and alarm.

"Get out," Severus snarled, stepping in front of Narcissa, his wand aimed at her sister.

Bellatrix tilted her head, her expression amused. "Oh, Sev, you always were so dramatic." Then, without warning—"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

A green bolt shot from her wand—straight at Severus. He barely dodged, but the curse bounced and shattered the grand chandelier, sending shards raining down onto the dance floor.

The fight exploded.

Harry flung a curse at one of the Death Eaters, sending him crashing into a nearby table. Sirius was already in motion, dueling a masked figure with impressive agility, dodging curses as he sent hex after hex flying.

Narcissa stood firm beside Severus, her wand cutting through the air with ruthless precision. Lucius, shockingly, joined them—his fury directed at Bellatrix, sending a blazing streak of silver fire toward her, forcing her to leap aside.

Sirius and Bellatrix met in a whirlwind of flashing spells.

"You always were reckless, cousin!" Bellatrix taunted,twirling elegantlyas she dodged a hex.

"And you always were a bloody psychopath!" Sirius shot back, deflecting her next curse.

Then—a sickening CRACK.

Harry whipped around just in time to see Sirius crumple to the floor, Bellatrix's wand aimed directly at his chest. Blood soaked his dress robes, and for a moment—just a fleeting moment—Harry feared the worst.

"SIRIUS!" Amelia screamed.

A savage rage ignited in Harry. With a roar, he sent a blazing hex at Bellatrix, knocking her back. Before she could retaliate, Lucius disarmed her, his face pale with fury.

"You shouldn't have come here," he spat. "The Dark Lord won't be pleased."

Bellatrix laughed, manic and breathless, before vanishing into the night with her remaining men.

The room was left in shambles—overturned tables, broken glass, the scent of burnt magic hanging in the air.

Harry dropped to his knees beside Sirius, who was deathly pale. Blood poured from a deep wound in his abdomen, his breathing shallow.

"We need to get him to St. Mungo's," Amelia said urgently, pressing her hands against the wound. "Now."

Severus and Narcissa stood in stunned silence, their wedding night completely shattered.

Cygnus Black surveyed the wreckage, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turned to Harry. "It seems," he murmured, "that war does not wait for celebrations."

Harry, his hands covered in Sirius's blood, looked up at the older man with cold determination. "No, it doesn't."

He turned to Edgar. "Help me get him out of here."

As they hurriedly apparated to St. Mungo's, Harry silently vowed—this would end soon.

And Bellatrix would not escape again.