Chapter 2: Power, survival and return

The morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of Potter Manor's study, casting long shadows across the dark wooden furniture. Morland Holmes sat in the same armchair he had occupied the previous evening, hands folded neatly on his lap, watching as Harry poured two cups of tea.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Harry finally broke the silence, setting Morland's cup down in front of him. "You're not a man prone to personal visits, Morland. Let's not waste time pretending otherwise."

Morland gave a small, knowing smile and picked up his tea. "Then I'll be direct. I assume you've heard about the attack in New York?"

Harry leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "The explosion at your office? Yes. I make it my business to know when someone of your stature is nearly assassinated."

Morland regarded him carefully. "Then I imagine you also know who was responsible."

Harry's lips pressed into a thin line. "Joshua Vikner."

The name sat between them, heavy with implication.

Morland tilted his head. "You knew?"

Harry's gaze didn't waver. "I knew Moriarty's organization was behind it. And I knew Vikner had been consolidating power after her absence. It wasn't difficult to put together."

Morland exhaled sharply. "You knew, and yet you did nothing."

Harry's expression remained unreadable. "I did nothing," he repeated, "because taking down Moriarty's network isn't as simple as arresting a handful of people. They aren't some two-bit crime syndicate you can dismantle overnight. They are the foundation upon which many other organizations rely. If you remove them without preparation, the result isn't peace—it's chaos."

Morland studied him for a long moment, considering the weight of those words. "You believe they are necessary?"

Harry shook his head. "No. But I recognize what happens when a power vacuum is created." He set his own cup down, his tone turning sharper. "Look at what happened in America's underworld when Moriarty was removed. Crime didn't disappear—it fractured. Smaller factions fought to fill the void. There were more casualties, more instability. Imagine that on a global scale."

Morland nodded slowly, absorbing the reasoning. "And yet, despite all of this, you intervened before."

Harry arched a brow. "Ah. You finally figured that out."

Morland's fingers tapped lightly against his cup. "Two years ago, Sabine Raoult and I were attacked in Prague. It was supposed to be the end of me. And yet, somehow, the assassins failed." He leaned forward slightly. "That was you, wasn't it?"

Harry didn't confirm it outright, but the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Let's just say that I had a vested interest in keeping you alive."

Morland's gaze sharpened. "And why is that?"

Harry's expression grew more serious. "For the same reason I haven't moved against Moriarty's organization directly. Your survival keeps things balanced. If you had died, the resulting power shift would have caused more damage than I was willing to allow."

Morland let out a quiet chuckle. "How pragmatic of you."

Harry met his gaze evenly. "I don't operate on sentiment, Morland. I operate on necessity."

Morland studied him, seeing the boy he once knew completely replaced by the man sitting before him—calculated, deliberate, powerful in a way that didn't need to be spoken aloud.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Morland finally said.

Harry smirked. "So are you."

Silence settled between them again, but this time, there was understanding in it.

Morland exhaled, placing his empty cup down. "So, where do we go from here?"

Harry's green eyes flickered with something unreadable. "That depends. What exactly are you planning to do next?"

Morland leaned back slightly, a smile playing at his lips. "That, Harry, is a conversation for another day."

Harry nodded once. "Then we'll talk again soon."

For the first time in a long time, Morland felt as though he was sitting across from an equal.

The late afternoon sun cast golden hues across the study, its warmth doing little to soften the weight of the conversation at hand. Morland Holmes sat comfortably in his chair, his posture composed, but his gaze sharp with intent. Across from him, Harry Potter leaned against his desk, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Morland had spent decades mastering the art of negotiation, yet dealing with Harry now was distinctly unsettling. He was no longer the reckless boy Morland had once known—this was a man who had built his own empire, one that operated in shadows even Morland couldn't fully grasp.

Harry broke the silence first. "By attacking you, Joshua Vikner has expended whatever immunity he had." His voice was calm but absolute. "He's made himself a liability."

Morland's fingers tapped lightly against the chair's armrest. "A liability to whom?"

"To the very organization he's trying to control." Harry pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "Vikner is ambitious, but he lacks foresight. He thinks eliminating you strengthens his hold, but all he's done is make himself a target. Your death would create problems—problems bigger than he's prepared to handle."

Morland tilted his head slightly, assessing him. "And what do you plan to do about it?"

Harry's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Let's just say Moriarty's organization will require a leadership change soon."

Morland absorbed the words carefully. He had always known power shifts to be inevitable, but hearing it stated so plainly made it clear—Harry was not merely an observer in this game. He was shaping the board.

A stretch of silence followed. Morland could feel the weight of the conversation pressing upon them both. He was no fool—Harry wasn't offering him protection out of sentimentality. This was strategy. Still, there was something in the way he spoke that suggested a certain level of respect.

Morland exhaled, setting his empty glass down. "With this knowledge, I believe it's time I return to New York."

Harry arched a brow. "So soon?"

Morland smirked. "I don't have the luxury of time, Harry. I need to arrange a meeting with Hashemi, the NYPD, and—of course—Sherlock."

Harry nodded, unsurprised. "Be careful. Vikner won't take your return lightly."

Morland's smirk widened. "Neither will Sherlock, I imagine."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "No, probably not."

Despite the business at hand, Morland found himself hesitating. He had come to Potter Manor expecting strategy, not sentiment. Yet, something about being here, seeing Harry with his children, had shifted something in him.

"I'll stay a few more days," Morland said after a moment. "I should like to learn more about you—about my grandchildren."

Harry's expression didn't change much, but there was a flicker of something—something that looked a little like acknowledgment.

"Then stay," Harry said simply.

And for the first time in years, Morland Holmes felt something close to belonging.

Morland Holmes was not a sentimental man. He had spent his life building empires, dealing in power and influence, and ensuring he remained in control of every aspect of his existence. Yet, as he sat in the grand yet oddly warm confines of Potter Manor, watching his three grandchildren run through the vast gardens, he found himself in unfamiliar territory.

The days following his conversation with Harry were quieter than he expected. There were no urgent matters of business to tend to, no meetings with powerful figures—just moments spent in a house that felt like a home in ways Morland had never quite understood.

James Sirius, the eldest, had a natural charisma that Morland found both impressive and mildly concerning. The boy was clever—too clever for his own good—and carried an air of confidence that made it clear he was used to leading. He asked Morland sharp, probing questions about business and the world beyond magic, as if eager to understand the landscape of power.

Albus was more reserved, watchful in a way that reminded Morland of Mycroft. He didn't speak much, but when he did, his words were thoughtful, calculated. He had none of James' easy bravado but carried himself with a quiet certainty that hinted at deeper intellect.

Lily was a firecracker. She spoke her mind freely, unafraid to challenge her brothers or even the adults around her. She reminded Morland of the few formidable women he had encountered in his life—women who changed the course of history not by brute force but by sheer will.

Over breakfast one morning, Lily looked at him curiously. "You're not a wizard, are you?"

Morland, caught off guard, set down his tea. "No, I'm not."

She frowned. "Then how do you know Dad?"

Harry, seated at the head of the table, chuckled. "Lily, Morland is family. He adopted me when I was younger."

James, who had been listening intently, perked up. "Wait, so you're like our grandfather?"

Morland hesitated, but Harry nodded. "Something like that."

Lily tilted her head. "Do we call you Granddad?"

Morland nearly choked on his tea. "That… won't be necessary."

James smirked. "Sounds like Granddad to me."

Harry didn't intervene as the children continued their playful interrogation. He simply watched, amused, as Morland fumbled through their relentless curiosity.

Later that day, after the children had run off to play, Morland joined Harry in his study. The conversation quickly shifted back to business.

"I've decided to return to New York," Morland said, sipping his drink.

Harry leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "I expected as much."

Morland nodded. "I need to meet with Hashemi, the NYPD, and Sherlock. They need to understand what we discussed."

Harry exhaled. "I cannot remove the entire organization from the equation, but they will require a leadership change soon. That is inevitable."

Morland was quiet for a moment. "And you? What do you gain from this?"

Harry's gaze was steady. "Nothing. And everything."

Morland arched a brow.

Harry sighed. "There's no love lost between us, Morland. But you gave me something I never had—a way out of the hell I grew up in. I may not have agreed with everything you did, but I was never ungrateful."

Morland regarded him for a long moment. "You feel indebted."

Harry gave a half-smile. "Perhaps. But only to a point."

The room was silent, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

As Morland prepared to leave the next morning, Harry walked him to the door. Before Morland could step outside, Harry spoke again.

"There's something else."

Morland turned. "Yes?"

Harry crossed his arms. "Tell Sherlock to settle down. Have a family. Find something real."

Morland smirked. "You think he'd listen to that kind of advice?"

Harry chuckled. "No. But tell him anyway."

Morland sighed. "Why?"

Harry's expression was unreadable. "Because when a man is bound by family—by people he loves unconditionally—no addiction can tempt him anymore."

Morland stilled.

Harry continued. "Sherlock has been drawn to remarkable women: Jamie Moriarty, Fiona Helbron. But attraction isn't the same as connection. Tell him that men don't get many second chances, so he needs to get his wits straight and pursue something meaningful. Something that isn't deductible. Something that has no logical reasoning, no explanation—just something that is."

Morland regarded him carefully before nodding. "I shall convey your best wishes to Sherlock."

Harry gave a small nod. "See that you do."

With that, Morland Holmes stepped outside, leaving Potter Manor behind—but carrying far more than just a message.