Legacy of the Basilisk

by wolf970

The Horcrux is destroyed in the chamber. Harry will find out about his family, his place in the magical world, and perhaps a family and love.

42. Chapter 42

Chapter 363

Sebastian Delacour sat in his office, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his eyes half-lidded as he studied the gilded clock on the far wall. Time was always a precious commodity in his world; today, it felt like it was slipping through his fingers faster than usual.

The heavy oak door swung open with a soft creak, admitting Etienne Moreau, his ever-efficient chief of staff. Etienne moved with the precision of a man accustomed to high stakes and whispered secrets. He closed the door quietly behind him, stepping forward with an air of urgency that did not go unnoticed by Sebastian.

"I thought you'd want to be informed," Etienne said, his voice low but steady. "The Adjudicator herself is en route from her office. She's coming to speak with you."

Silence hung in the room briefly, thick as the velvet drapes framing the tall windows. Sebastian's lips curled into a faint, calculating smile. It wasn't every day that someone of the Adjudicator's stature left her domain to make a personal visit. This was a storm brewing on the horizon.

"She's coming here, personally," Sebastian mused, his tone a blend of curiosity and caution. "That can mean only one thing, Etienne—she's bearing a dire warning."

Etienne's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He knew all too well the weight of an audience with the Adjudicator. Deals forged in such meetings often came with sharp edges and hidden clauses.

"How long do we have before she arrives?" Sebastian asked, rising from his chair and adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit.

"Fifteen minutes at most," Etienne replied, checking his watch.

"Good," Sebastian said, striding toward the window to gaze at the sprawling cityscape below. "Then let's make sure we're ready. When the Adjudicator comes knocking, one must be prepared to play the game—or be played by it."

Sebastian glanced at Etienne, a hint of annoyance flickering across his sharp features. "It seems a senator or two has grown weary of my influence and decided to visit the Adjudicator's office, hoping to stir up an investigation."

Etienne frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. "But what kind of investigation would they push for without consulting you first?

"That's easy," Sebastian replied, his voice laced with irony. "The topic that's dominated every private conversation in the halls for the past few weeks—Lord Hadrian Potter-Black."

As Etienne opened his mouth to respond, the heavy oak door swung open with finality, instantly silencing the room. The figure who entered commanded attention with an elegant and dangerous aura, the embodiment of quiet authority wrapped in steel.

The Adjudicator herself stood framed in the doorway. She was tall, statuesque, with an almost ethereal poise, like a blade forged with perfect precision. Her impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit fit her slender form with an understated elegance that spoke of wealth and influence yet bore no ostentation. A black silk tie rested neatly against a crisp white shirt, every detail immaculate.

Her hair was a sleek curtain of raven black, cut sharply at her chin, each strand ideally in place, accentuating her angular cheekbones and sharp jawline. Her eyes—cold, calculating, and unnervingly direct—were a piercing shade of ice blue, a gaze that could strip away pretense with a single look. There was no need for jewelry or unnecessary adornments; her presence alone was a statement of power.

She walked into the room with a measured, deliberate stride, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Every movement was controlled as if the air bent to her will. Behind her followed two silent, stern-faced aides, each dressed in dark suits, their hands clasped respectfully at their waists.

"Sebastian," the Adjudicator said, her voice smooth, calm, and laced with the kind of authority that didn't need to be raised to be heard. "It seems your name has found its way to my desk once again."

She stopped a few paces from Sebastian's desk, her expression neutral, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air—a coiled readiness, like a predator observing its prey before the strike.

Etienne remained rooted to his spot, instinctively stiffening as if the air had grown heavier. At the same time, Sebastian maintained his composure, leaning back slightly in his chair with an air of relaxed confidence, though his eyes gleamed with cautious interest.

"Adjudicator," Sebastian greeted her with a polite nod, his voice even betraying neither surprise nor concern. "I take it this isn't a social call?"

The Adjudicator allowed a faint, enigmatic smile to play at the corners of her lips, a gesture as precise and controlled as the rest of her. "No, I'm afraid not."

Sebastian rose slowly from his chair, his movements deliberate, exuding the calm authority of a man accustomed to holding power in his grasp. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored midnight-blue suit, the delicate fabric catching the soft light filtering through the tall windows behind him. His gaze locked onto the Adjudicator, sharp and unwavering, the weight of his displeasure palpable in the air.

"I see," he began, his voice low and measured but with a distinct edge of cold steel beneath the polished surface. "You didn't make an appointment. Then, without a knock, you barge into my office as if protocol means nothing." He stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking softly on the marble floor, the sound echoing faintly in the otherwise silent room.

His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing the Adjudicator with the scrutiny that could flay a lesser opponent. "I'm willing to allow a degree of decorum to be... overlooked in certain circumstances. But let me be clear—whatever you may be accustomed to in the past, whether it's deference or fear, things work differently here."

The tension in the room thickened as he stopped a few paces from her, his tone growing firmer. "When you wish to see me, you will either schedule an appointment like anyone else or, if the matter is urgent, you will wait until you are properly shown in. That is the standard I expect, Adjudicator. Do you understand?"

Sebastian's words hung in the air, each carefully chosen and delivered with unyielding finality. His stance was relaxed, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of restrained power in his posture as if he were a coiled spring, ready to act at a moment's notice.

The Adjudicator, for her part, remained unfazed. Her expression was cool. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she met his gaze without flinching. The icy blue of her eyes seemed to sharpen as though appraising the man before her anew.

Behind her, the two aides shifted slightly, their hands still clasped at their waists, but the tension in their shoulders betrayed their discomfort at Sebastian's assertive response.

After a long, charged pause, the Adjudicator inclined her head ever so slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment, though whether it was respect or merely a calculated move was unclear.

"Understood," she said, her voice calm and smooth, devoid of emotion. "But I trust you'll agree that extraordinary circumstances sometimes require extraordinary measures."

Sebastian's lips twitched, not quite forming a smile, but his eyes showed a glint of amusement. "Extraordinary or not, respect is not optional. Now, what urgent matter brings you here today, Adjudicator?"

The Adjudicator's expression remained perfectly composed, yet there was a distinct edge to her voice as she spoke, her words cutting through the tension in the room like a honed blade.

"I've had several senators visit my office personally," she began, her tone measured but carrying the unmistakable weight of those whose favor mattered. "They've shared their concerns about what lies beyond the sensational headlines we've seen lately."

Unruffled by her words, Sebastian slowly lowered himself back into his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes, dark and unreadable, remained locked on hers. "Go on," he said, his voice low, almost inviting.

The Adjudicator didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor, her gaze unwavering. "It seems these senators are troubled by what they perceive as your... lack of concern regarding Lord Hadrian Potter-Black—specifically, the power and influence he's been accumulating at an alarming pace."

She paused, allowing the statement to hang like the first crack of thunder before a storm. "He's becoming a focal point of interest, not just among political players but in less transparent circles. Whispers of alliances and rumors of deals brokered in the shadows—none of them had escaped notice. And yet, you have remained conspicuously silent."

Sebastian leaned back slightly, the leather of his chair creaking softly under the shift in weight. His expression was calm, but his eyes gleamed with something colder, something calculating. He tapped a finger once against the armrest before speaking, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Silent? No. Observant, yes." He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "You see, Adjudicator, silence can often be mistaken for inaction by those who lack... foresight. I prefer to gather every puzzle piece before making my move."

The Adjudicator's lips pressed into a thin line, her posture impeccably poised. "Foresight or not, Sebastian, some believe your hesitation may cost us dearly. They fear that if Potter-Black continues unchecked, he will soon command influence rivaling the ICW."

A flicker of amusement danced across Sebastian's face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "Rivalry is a game for the impatient. Tell me, Adjudicator—do these senators suggest action, or are they simply venting their fears, hoping you'll deliver a convenient solution on a silver platter?"

"They expect an investigation," she replied coldly. "Something to show that you, as one of the key figures in the ICW, are taking the matter seriously."

Sebastian's eyes narrowed slightly, the weight of the conversation pressing down like an invisible hand. "An investigation into what, precisely? Power is not a crime, and influence... well, influence is earned, not gifted."

The Adjudicator's gaze hardened. "Perhaps. But when influence grows unchecked, it becomes dangerous. The senators demand assurance that Potter-Black's rise will not destabilize the delicate balance we've all worked so hard to maintain. If you will not act, I may have no choice but to do so myself."

Sebastian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk, his gaze colder now, sharper. "You would overstep your bounds, Adjudicator. Be careful. You may find that even the strongest blade shatters when it strikes stone."

The room grew colder, the tension thick enough to be cut with a knife. Neither figure moved momentarily, locked in a battle of wills as the weight of unspoken threats and veiled power plays filled the silence.

Chapter 364 "Balance of Power

"First, let's get one thing clear," Sebastian said, his voice low and cutting, every syllable laced with iron authority. He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the surface of his polished mahogany desk, his eyes locked onto the Adjudicator like a predator sizing up its prey. "Your office has no jurisdiction to open an investigation on its own. It can and will not proceed unless explicitly authorized by my office—or, more importantly, by me."

The Adjudicator's expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of tension in her eyes as Sebastian's words settled like a cold stone in the room. He continued, his voice steady, deliberate, with an edge sharp enough to cut through steel.

"The only way around that restriction is through a majority vote in the Senate." He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with meticulous care, the act a quiet assertion of his control. "And I assure you, those senators don't have the votes. They can whisper behind closed doors, gnash their teeth, and wring their hands all they want, but they lack the strength to act decisively."

Sebastian paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. The air in the room grew heavier, the tension coiling like a taut wire ready to snap. He retook his seat, the leather chair creaking softly beneath him, but his gaze never left the Adjudicator's.

"However," he said, a faint, sardonic smile curving his lips, "since you've gone through all this trouble, I'll humor you. I'll show you precisely how my so-called inaction has gathered more intelligence, leverage, and control than any half-baked investigation could ever hope to achieve."

The finality in his tone left no room for argument. The room fell into silence, except for the faint clock ticking on the wall, counting down the moments until the Adjudicator's next move.

"Please, take a seat," Sebastian said smoothly, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. His tone was calm, but the command beneath it was unmistakable. The Adjudicator hesitated for a fraction of a second before complying, lowering herself into the seat with poised grace. Sebastian leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin, his eyes gleaming with quiet intensity. "Now, allow me to share what I've uncovered."

He paused, letting the silence linger long enough to assert control over the room. "I must admit, I'm deeply intrigued by how Harry called upon the Dragon Cabal for aid." He deliberately used the boy's first name, a subtle demonstration of familiarity, power, and a level of understanding that few others could claim. The weight of that single name, spoken without title or pretense, hung heavy in the air. It wasn't a simple mention—it was a declaration. In this game of influence and power, knowing one's adversary personally was a currency Sebastian wielded with precision.

"Rather than sit idly and wait for answers to fall into my lap, I reached out to an old friend—Albus Dumbledore." He allowed the name to land with the weight it deserved, watching for the faint flicker of recognition in the Adjudicator's eyes. Satisfied, he continued, his voice steady and deliberate. "I inquired whether he knew anything about Harry's ability to summon such a powerful entity. While he didn't have precise knowledge, he offered an educated guess—one based on his conversations with Harry and a fair amount of logic."

Sebastian leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening. "And that guess, Adjudicator, is precisely what I will share with you."

The tension thickened, and each word was delivered with the confidence of a man who held power and knew how to wield it. The game was his to control now.

The Adjudicator settled into the chair, her movements slow, deliberate. She wasn't accustomed to being put in her place so quickly, and Sebastian Delacour had done it without breaking a sweat. He had exceeded her expectations, forcing her to recalibrate. Still, she wouldn't allow herself to be rattled. No, she would wait for a crack in his logic, a moment of weakness she could exploit. Power was a game of shifting tides, and she intended to reclaim the upper hand before this exchange was through.

Sebastian leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the desk, his presence commanding the space as though it were an extension of himself. "You see," he began, his voice carrying that same calm authority, "Dumbledore believes Harry had a meeting with the Dragon Cabal."

He let the words sink in, watching her closely for a reaction. He didn't have to wait long. The mention of the Dragon Cabal alone was enough to stir unease, but what followed was far more surprising.

"The meeting," he continued, his voice steady but laced with intrigue, didn't occur in the usual channels. It took place in Purgatory under the guidance of the Mediator herself. "

The Adjudicator's composure slipped, if only for a fleeting second. Her eyes narrowed, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on the armrests of her chair. The Mediator—a name rarely spoken aloud, even in circles of power such as this. And Purgatory, the exclusive club where deals were brokered in whispers, where access required not only influence but an intricate dance of alliances and trust. She knew what it took to gain membership—she was a member herself—and the idea that Harry had been brought into that world under the Mediator's guidance was... unsettling.

"I see I've caught your attention, " Sebastian remarked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He reclined slightly in his chair, his demeanor exuding quiet confidence. "You're surprised. That's understandable. After all, not just anyone is invited to Purgatory, but much less given the opportunity to negotiate under the watchful eye of the Mediator. "

The Adjudicator's mind raced outwardly. She forced her expression into neutrality, masking her thoughts. Yet, Sebastian could sense the ripples beneath her calm surface, the subtle shift in her breathing, the faint flicker in her eyes. She was calculating, trying to regain control, but he wasn't about to give her that chance.

"I'm sure you're wondering how Harry managed such a feat," Sebastian continued, his voice smooth yet edged with something sharper. "That's the real question. How a boy barely stepping into this world has already begun to master its most elusive corridors of power."

He paused, his gaze locking onto hers, the tension in the room thick as iron. "And that, Adjudicator, is what makes him dangerous. But more importantly, it's what makes him... valuable."

The Adjudicator didn't flinch, but inwardly she bristled. Sebastian was playing the long game, weaving facts with implications, asserting his dominance not through force but through precision. She had underestimated him, but she wouldn't make that mistake again.

I'm listening, " she said coolly, masking the tension behind an air of calm. She would wait, watch, and when the moment came—she would strike.

Sebastian smiled, knowing full well the battle had only begun.

Chapter 365 "Adjudicator Gambit""

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of his desk. His voice, calm yet edged with tension, filled the room. "You see, I've gathered quite a bit of helpful information. But instead of offering clarity, all it's done is set me on edge. "

The Adjudicator, ever composed, kept her expression neutral though her mind was racing inwardly. She had underestimated Sebastian before and wasn't about to make that mistake again. His tone wasn't one of a man speculating idly—no, this was someone walking a razor's edge between revelation and danger.

"I don't believe Harry had the knowledge or influence to arrange a meeting with the Dragon Cabal on his own, " Sebastian continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "This leaves us with a far more troubling possibility—they contacted him. And that begs the question: why? "

Sebastian let the silence linger, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. The Adjudicator leaned forward ever so slightly, her fingers laced together in front of her. Why indeed? The Dragon Cabal wasn't known for diplomacy. Ruthlessness, secrecy, perhaps even fear—but not diplomacy.

"An organization we believed to be intent on killing Harry suddenly requesting a meeting, negotiating a treaty, or perhaps even an accord? Something had to drive them to the table, " Sebastian said, his voice low, calculating. "But what could that something be? "

The Adjudicator's mind moved swiftly through possibilities, but nothing fit. The Cabal never acted without purpose. If they sought Harry out, it was for more than mere survival—it was for power, leverage, something far more significant than either of them could yet see.

Sebastian continued, his tone darkening. "It took me some time to put the pieces together, but it appears that some of our friends from the north stumbled upon a temple that had been cloaked for centuries beneath wards of extraordinary power. A dragon temple. "

He leaned forward now, his eyes locked onto hers, his voice dropping to a whisper, each word carrying weight. "There were signs of battle. But no bodies were discovered. No enemies. Just an empty, abandoned temple. "

The Adjudicator felt her pulse quicken, though outwardly she betrayed nothing. An empty dragon temple was more than an anomaly—a warning. Something ancient, something dangerous, had stirred. And the Dragon Cabal knew it. That was why they reached out to Harry. They weren't making peace—they were hedging their bets.

Sebastian watched her carefully, noting the faintest shift in her posture, the slight tension in her fingers. He knew she was already trying to connect the dots, searching for the angles, the hidden moves beneath the surface.

"This isn't about Harry's influence, " Sebastian said quietly. "It's about something far older. Something they fear. And if the Cabal fears it, we'd be fools not to take it seriously."

The Adjudicator remained silent, but her mind was a whirlwind of calculations and possibilities. She couldn't deny the gravity of what he was saying. The pieces were falling into place, but the picture they formed was far from complete. She had come here to assert control, but now she found herself in a far more precarious position—where every word and move mattered more than ever.

Sebastian leaned back once more, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. He knew he had her attention now; in this game, attention was the first step to control.

Sebastian's fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, his expression composed, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable. His sharp and cutting voice carried the weight of a man who understood that their game had become far more dangerous.

"This is why I'm concerned," he said, his eyes never leaving the Adjudicator's. "You, the senators, and the rest of the council fail to grasp what's unfolding. You see only the surface, only the headlines. But beneath it lies something far more intricate. Harry managed to move from Hogwarts to South America, deep behind the lines of the ICW, with nothing more than a volunteer force."

He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in. The Adjudicator, while outwardly calm, felt her mind begin to churn. Moving forces behind the lines of the ICW wasn't just difficult—it was almost impossible without inside knowledge or formidable power. And yet, Harry had done it. That alone demanded attention.

Sebastian continued, his voice hardening. "But that's not the most alarming part. Once again, a highly disciplined and trained army appeared, flying the ancient banner of the Potters. This wasn't some ragtag band of rebels—they were organized, efficient, and utterly loyal. And leading them? An unknown race of cat-like beings who follow Harry's orders without question. From my sources, they operate under an ancient ranking system—Roman in structure."

The Adjudicator leaned forward slightly, her mind racing. Roman? She hadn't heard of the Potters family with ties to the Roman Empire beyond vague historical myths. Yet here Sebastian was, laying out facts with precision. She knew enough about him to recognize when he wasn't speculating. He knew something more, something she didn't.

Sebastian's tone grew sharper, colder. "You may not know that the Potters' power is rooted in ancient Rome. One of their ancestors came over with the Roman legions during the conquest of Britain. That's where it started. Their legacy and influence dates back to an empire that knew how to conquer and command loyalty."

The Adjudicator's thoughts whirled as she digested the implications. If the Potters had a history linked to Rome, and Harry was somehow reviving that legacy—if he'd managed to call forth not just old symbols but ancient forces loyal to his bloodline—then the balance of power was shifting faster than anyone had realized.

Sebastian leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "You see now why my inaction wasn't inaction at all. I've been watching, waiting, gathering pieces of a puzzle that most of you didn't even know existed. And now, the stakes are higher than any of us anticipated. Harry isn't just some boy playing at power. He's reviving something ancient, something dangerous. And if we don't figure out what's driving him—who or what is behind him—the next time we see that banner, it might not be in negotiation. It might be in war."

The Adjudicator's mask of calm remained, but inwardly, she knew Sebastian was right. This was no longer a matter of simple politics. This was history repeating itself—with Harry Potter at its center. And history, when left unchecked, had a habit of leaving empires in ruins.

The Adjudicator's lips curved into a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile wielded as a calculated, sharp weapon designed to test the man across from her. "Do you think Harry threatens the ICW or other nations? A rogue force, perhaps? Another Dark Lord rising to power? Because that's precisely what the senators fear."

Sebastian mirrored her expression, though his smile was more amused than cordial, a deliberate gesture that said he saw through her attempt to steer the conversation. "A Dark Lord?" he repeated, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "No, Harry isn't a threat in that way—not the way you or the senators imagine."

Chapter 366 "A Card is Played"

The Adjudicator's gaze narrowed ever so slightly. This was the opening she had been waiting for, her ace card finally ready to be played. "I see," she said smoothly, her voice soft yet laced with a quiet challenge. "I just hope... personal matters aren't clouding your judgment. Specifically, by the fact that Harry is dating your daughter."

The room fell into a tense, loaded silence that crackled with unspoken threats. There was no sound for a moment but the faint clock ticking on the wall, counting down the seconds as Sebastian's fingers froze mid-tap.

Sebastian forced himself to pause, inhaling deeply before he could react. He felt the instinctual urge to lash out—to put her in her place for daring to question his professionalism, implying that he would let his personal life interfere with his duty. But he didn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.

Instead, he smiled—a cold, deliberate expression that held no warmth, only the razor edge of control. "You miscalculate, Adjudicator," he said, his voice calm, measured, yet carrying a dangerous undercurrent. "I would never allow my personal life—or my daughter's love life—to influence my decisions. My duty remains unchanged, and my eyes remain clear, regardless of who she chooses to associate with."

The Adjudicator tilted her head, studying him carefully. He had deflected her strike precisely, refusing to rise to her bait. Still, she knew the mention of his daughter had hit a nerve—one she could press again later under the right circumstances.

Meanwhile, Sebastian leaned forward, his smile fading into something more serious. "But let's not pretend that line of questioning was anything more than a distraction. You came here with an agenda, Adjudicator. You wanted to test my will to see if I was weak enough to sway under personal pressure. Now you have your answer."

He let the words hang in the air, heavy with finality. The Adjudicator maintained her composure, but inwardly, she knew she had lost this round. Sebastian had outmaneuvered her, turning her attempted power play into little more than an exposed bluff.

"Now," Sebastian said, his tone returning to that cold, confident cadence, "if we're done with personal insinuations, perhaps we can get back to the real threat at hand."

The Adjudicator gave him a slight nod, conceding the point for now.

The Adjudicator leaned back in her chair, her expression carefully composed, though her tone carried an edge of skepticism. "I hear what you're saying, Sebastian. You've uncovered things, but it's all speculation—wind in the air. Observations and conversations are stitched together into a narrative but without substance. None of it comes from the source—the only source that truly matters in this case: Lord Hadrian Potter-Black himself. "Sebastian's brow arched slightly, his fingers drumming once on the polished surface of his desk before stilling. His eyes gleamed with quiet calculation as he asked, "What are you proposing? "

"I'm proposing," the Adjudicator said, her voice deliberate, "that we call him to a meeting. Sit him down. Ask him direct questions so we can put these rumors to rest. The whispers of him being a Dark Lord on the rise are gaining traction, and we can't afford to ignore them."

Sebastian laughed, a low, sharp sound devoid of humor. "You would dare call him a Dark Lord?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous, measured tone. "This boy you speak of—this 'rumored Dark Lord'—has killed a lich lord from the Council of Thirteen, shattered the power of a necromancer in the deserts of Africa, and, lest we forget, defeated a Dark Lord before he could even walk."

The Adjudicator's expression remained neutral, but inwardly she bristled. Sebastian's defense of Potter-Black was impassioned and formidable. Yet she held her ground.

"I understand," she said, her voice steady. "His list of accomplishments is long. Impressive, even. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't ask questions. And you won't like this, but it needs to be said. How does an average student—a boy who was nothing more than a name in history just a year ago—suddenly become a powerhouse at thirteen? Leading armies, single-handedly defeating criminals in combat, and somehow gaining the allegiance of ancient forces?"

Sebastian didn't respond immediately. He studied her silently as though weighing her words and testing her resolve.

"And let's not forget what he's done at Hogwarts," the Adjudicator pressed on, her tone sharpening. "Creating a power nexus that no one knew existed—one that has made Hogwarts one of the strongest magical locations on this planet. That didn't happen by accident, Sebastian. That took knowledge, power, and something more than sheer luck."

Sebastian's eyes darkened, his expression hardening as he listened. The Adjudicator wasn't wrong in her assessment, but he couldn't help but bristle at the insinuation that Harry's rise was unnatural and warranted suspicion.

"You want answers," Sebastian said slowly, his voice cold and sharp. "Fine. But understand this—if you walk into a meeting with Harry Potter thinking he's just another student who got lucky, you'll be making a grave mistake. He's not some puppet with strings to pull. He's a force unto himself. And if you go into that room treating him like an enemy, he will respond accordingly."

The Adjudicator held his gaze, tension thickening in the room. She had wanted to provoke and push him into revealing his stance—and she had succeeded. But there was something else in his tone now, something she couldn't quite place. Was it a concern? Caution? Or perhaps a warning?

"I'll ask him the questions," Sebastian added, his voice dropping lower, quieter, but no less intense. "But not because you or the senators want it. I'll do it because the only thing more dangerous than underestimating Harry Potter is letting fear dictate our actions."

Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. The Adjudicator nodded once, accepting the terms of this power play for now.

"If you're going to have this meeting with Lord Potter-Black," the Adjudicator said, calm but insistent, "I wish to be present. That way, when the time comes, the other senators will have no doubts that the necessary questions were asked—and that the process was above reproach."

Sebastian shook his head slowly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips, though his eyes remained cold and severe. "Be very careful, Adjudicator," he said, his voice low, deliberate. "When you're in a room with him, understand this—Harry will match your tone for tone. He's not someone you can intimidate, nor will he be easily led. Push too hard, and you'll face more than you bargained for."

The Adjudicator didn't flinch or waver under the weight of his warning. Instead, she straightened, smoothing out the lapels of her impeccably tailored jacket. "Noted," she said simply, her tone betraying neither irritation nor concession. "Do notify me when you've decided on the time and place for the meeting."

Without waiting for a response, she rose smoothly to her feet. "Thank you for your time, Sebastian," she added, her words more formality than gratitude. Then, with a sharp turn on her heel, she strode toward the door, her movements brisk and precise, the echo of her footsteps fading as she left the room without another word.

Sebastian watched her go, his expression unreadable, though the tension in the room lingered long after she had gone. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin again. This was no longer a simple power game between politicians—it was far more dangerous. And now, with the Adjudicator and the senators involved, the stakes had risen yet again.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible in the empty office. "This meeting will be one for the history books… if we're careful enough to survive it."

Chapter 367 "The Attack On The Manner"

Andromeda Black stepped out of the floo and paused at the entrance of the grand manor house, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. The place had undergone significant restoration, and its once crumbling exterior is now pristine, with ivy climbing the stone walls in carefully maintained patterns. She smiled faintly, impressed by how much her daughter had accomplished in such a short time.

The door opened, and Tonks appeared, her characteristic grin lighting up her face. "Mom! I'm surprised you made it."

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, her expression equal parts amusement and reproach. "Why are you surprised, Nymphadora? I may be older, but I'm hardly ready to be confined to a rocking chair."

Tonks groaned, her grin slipping into a familiar grimace. "Mom, I told you—that's not my name. It's Tonks."

Andromeda chuckled softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "We can argue about that later, dear. Right now, I'm more interested in this manor." Her eyes roamed the grand hall, its polished wooden floors gleaming under the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. She noted the intricate details on the walls, the repaired banisters, and the light scent of fresh paint in the air. "I must say, I'm impressed. What you've done here is remarkable, considering this place was deserted for over twenty years."

Tonks shrugged, a flicker of pride in her eyes despite her casual tone. "It wasn't easy, but it's starting to feel like home."

Andromeda smiled warmly, brushing her fingers over the edge of a nearby table. "Sirius always had a flair for dramatic gestures, didn't he? Still, it's good to see you putting it to use. You've done well, Nympha—Tonks," she corrected herself with a teasing glint in her eye. "I can see this place becoming something special."

Tonks sighed but smiled. "Come on, Mom. Let me show you around."

After guiding her mother through the restored manor, Tonks smiled as they settled into the cozy sitting room, a pot of steaming tea resting on the low table between them. The soft crackle of the fireplace filled the room, adding warmth to the otherwise quiet afternoon.

"So," Tonks began, pouring a cup for her mother before taking her own, "what do you think, Mom? It's almost done."

Andromeda took a sip of her tea, her sharp eyes softening as she gazed around the room. "You've done wonders here, Nymphadora." She held up a hand before Tonks could protest. "Fine, fine—Tonks. But truly, you've transformed this place beautifully. I can hardly believe it was abandoned for so long."

Tonks grinned, leaning back in her chair. "It's been a lot of work, but I think it's worth it."

Andromeda's expression turned thoughtful. "What about the wards?" she asked, her tone suddenly serious. "Restoring a place like this is one thing, but keeping it safe is another."

Tonks set down her cup, her grin fading into a more businesslike expression. "The original wards are still intact—they were strong but outdated. I've arranged for the Goblins to come by in a week to update them and add a few new layers of protection. They're bringing in some of the most powerful warding spells."

"That's good to hear," Andromeda said, nodding approvingly. "Still, I think you should stay at our place while the wards are being reinforced. No point in taking unnecessary risks."

Tonks raised an eyebrow but smiled. "You're not going to stop worrying about me, are you?"

Andromeda chuckled softly, her voice warm. "Of course not. Mothers do that, especially when their daughters live in ancient manors with half-finished wards."

"I'll think about it," Tonks said, teasing but appreciative. "Thanks, Mom."

The calm of the afternoon shattered with a sudden, deafening explosion. The teacups rattled violently on the table as another blast followed, then another, each one closer than the last. Alarms blared throughout the manor, piercing sounds echoing off the stone walls. Tonks were on her feet instantly, wand in hand, and her eyes were sharp and alert.

"Those were the wards," she said quickly, her voice tense. "They're down."

Before Andromeda could respond, the unmistakable crackle of spellfire rang out from beyond the walls. Moments later, the heavy front doors burst open, and three figures clad in black robes stumbled inside—members of Andromeda guard, known as the Crows. Their breathing was labored, their robes scorched and bloodied.

"The perimeter is breached!" one reported, his voice strained. "All four Crows outside are down—they portkeyed out, but they're wounded."

Andromeda rose from her seat, her expression grim but composed. "We're leaving. Now. Portkeys."

She pulled out a silver chain, but as she activated it, nothing happened. Frowning, she tried again. Still nothing. Her lips thinned, and a rare curse escaped her. "Damn it. They've put up anti-portkey wards."

Tonks tried to apparate but felt the familiar resistance of suppression wards locking down the area. "Apparition is blocked too," she confirmed, her voice tight with frustration.

"Damn it," Andromeda muttered again, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Then, slowly, she turned to her daughter, a fierce smile forming on her lips. "Very well. If they don't let us leave, we show them why no one attacks the Blacks."

With a flick of her wrist, her elegant robes shimmered and transformed into a sleek, dark set of enchanted armor—gifted to her by Harry Potter himself. The intricate runes etched into the black metal glowed faintly, pulsing with power.

Tonks matched her mother's smile, a spark of defiance in her eyes. With a practiced motion, she transformed her robes into her battle armor, its surface gleaming with a magical sheen. "Let's show them how a Black fights."

Mother and daughter stood side by side, ready for battle, their eyes locked on the door as the sound of approaching enemies grew louder. This was no longer a home—it was a battlefield. And the enemy was about to learn just how dangerous a cornered Black could be.

The wall erupted inward with a thunderous roar, shards of stone and wood splinters hurtling through the air like lethal shrapnel. Dust filled the room in a choking cloud as chunks of debris shot toward Andromeda Black. Instinct took over instantly—her wand flicked upward, and everything froze mid-air, suspended in the chaos like a macabre painting.

Without hesitation, Andromeda's eyes narrowed, and with a sharp, precise twist of her wrist, the debris reversed direction, hurtling back through the gaping hole with deadly force. The shattered remains of the wall became a weapon, slamming into five black-clad wizards who had just breached the wall.

The impact was brutal. The attackers were thrown off their feet, their wands clattering to the ground as they crashed into the rubble outside. A few tried to rise but groaned in pain, their movements sluggish, stunned by the sheer force of the counterattack.

Standing beside her mother, Tonks grinned fiercely, raising her wand for the next strike. "Nice move, Mom," she muttered, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Andromeda didn't smile. Her expression remained cold, calculating. "Stay sharp. That was only the first wave," she said, her voice calm but deadly, eyes fixed on the swirling dust beyond the breach.

The momentary calm shattered as the next wave of attackers surged through the breach, their black robes billowing behind them as they fired a barrage of curses toward Andromeda and Tonks. Bright red and green magic beams streaked through the air, scorching walls and splintering furniture as the two women sprang into action.

"Fire!" bellowed Sergeant Boyd from the far side of the room. His voice cut through the chaos as his squad of Crows launched a volley of explosive fireballs toward the opening. The spells detonated rapidly, filling the air with deafening blasts. Fire erupted across the entrance, the inferno consuming several attackers who hadn't been quick enough to shield themselves. Flames clung to their robes, and their screams pierced the air as they fell, writhing in agony.

The remaining wizards, more disciplined, raised shimmering shields, deflecting the remaining blasts as they pressed forward.

Tonks's eyes narrowed. "They want to play with fire? Let's oblige." With a flick of her wand, a slick coating of oil spread across the floor near the breach, glistening ominously in the firelight.

Andromeda didn't need further instruction. Her wand flashed, and a fire bolt shot forth, igniting the oil instantly. The flames roared to life, rushing across the floor in searing heat. The remaining attackers barely had time to react before they were engulfed. Shields flickered and failed under the sheer intensity, and those who had survived the initial fireballs now found themselves trapped in an inferno.

The flames danced wildly, casting flickering shadows across the room as the acrid scent of burning robes filled the air. The screams died down, replaced by the crackling roar of fire.

Tonks grinned fiercely, lowering her wand. "I think that takes care of them."

Andromeda's gaze remained fixed on the breach, her wand still raised, ready for the next threat. "Don't get comfortable. If they've sent this many, they're not done yet."

Outside, the dust and smoke swirled ominously. Whatever force had come for them wouldn't give up easily—but neither were the Blacks.

Another deafening explosion rocked the manor, this time from two sides. Chunks of stone and wooden beams rained down as the roof above groaned ominously, splitting apart under the force of the attack. Dust filled the air, momentarily disorienting the defenders as the enemy exploited the chaos from both breaches.

Tonks didn't hesitate. She turned to her right, eyes blazing, and hurled orbs of searing black fire toward the first wave of attackers. The magical flames detonated on impact, incinerating three wizards instantly, their robes and flesh consumed in a blinding flash. Without pausing, she charged forward, spinning on her heel as a volley of yellow and red spells streaked past her, narrowly missing their mark.

A spell crackled toward her from the side—a sickly green lance of necrotic energy. Tonks twisted mid-step, the bolt flying harmlessly past her as she countered with a crackling lightning bolt. The blue-white energy surged across the room, striking one of the attackers square in the chest. He convulsed violently as the lightning coursed through his body, flash-frying his insides. His heart and organs liquefied, and he collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

The Three remaining Crows engaged the enemy with brutal power to her left. Sergeant Boyd, his wand a blur, bellowed over the din, "Let none of them through!" A series of rapid-fire blasting curses punctuated his words. Each one detonated on impact, sending shards of debris and magical energy ripping through the enemy ranks. Two wizards went down instantly. One flung backward into the wall with a sickening crunch, the other crumpling as Boyd's next spell struck him squarely in the chest.

Meanwhile, Andromeda stood near the center of the room, her expression one of cold calculation. As five attackers dropped down from a breach in the ceiling, her wand flicked once, and the floor beneath them transmuted into a field of jagged spikes. The wizards landed hard, impaling themselves on the razor-sharp points with cries of agony.

But Andromeda wasn't finished. With a sharp gesture of her free hand, several couches and heavy tables shot through the air like battering rams, slamming into the impaled attackers with bone-crushing force. Their screams were cut short as the weight of the furniture drove them further onto the spikes, leaving nothing but bloodied, broken bodies in their wake.

"Hold your ground!" Boyd shouted, rallying his men as more attackers surged forward, their spells lighting the ruined hall with deadly flashes of magic.

Tonks glanced toward her mother, who gave a slight nod, both ready for whatever came next. This wasn't just a battle—it was a message. And the Blacks were making it clear: anyone who dared attack their home would pay in blood.

Tonks found herself locked in brutal, close-quarters combat, her movements swift and relentless. In her left hand, her wand crackled with residual energy from her last spell, while in her right, she gripped a sleek, curved dagger—its blade shimmering faintly with enchantment. The dagger had been a gift from Harry, crafted from alchemy steel and imbued with deadly poison from the basilisk.

Her current opponent lunged forward, aiming a jagged, black-edged blade at her chest. Tonks sidestepped just in time, dropping low as she swung her dagger in a tight arc. The blade sliced cleanly through his side, tearing flesh effortlessly. The assassin's eyes widened in shock, but he didn't have time to react. A searing, burning pain coursed through his body as the basilisk venom took hold, sending him into violent convulsions. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Tonks barely had a second to catch her breath before another wizard closed the distance, hurling a blinding curse at her. She raised her wand, deflecting it with a hasty shield charm. The impact sent her stumbling back, but she recovered quickly, meeting her attacker head-on. He swung a heavy fist toward her face, and though she dodged most of the blow, his knuckles grazed her cheek, sending a jolt of pain through her jaw.

Gritting her teeth, Tonks retaliated with a brutal upward slash of her dagger. The wizard twisted away, but not fast enough—the blade caught his arm, tearing through muscle and leaving a trail of blood in its wake. He snarled in pain, but before he could counter, Tonks flicked her wand, sending a short-range concussive blast into his chest. The force threw him backward into a shattered bookshelf, the wood splintering under his weight.

A third wizard charged from her flank, catching her off-guard. He tackled her to the ground, and for a moment, the air left her lungs in a painful gasp. Tonks struggled beneath his weight, using her elbow to drive into his ribs, forcing a grunt of pain from him. With a swift motion, she jammed her dagger into his thigh. He screamed, and Tonks used the distraction to shove him off and roll to her feet. He started to have convulsions as the basilisk poison took another victim.

Breathing heavily, her face bruised but eyes blazing with anger, she prepared for the next attacker. This was a fight she wouldn't back down from—not until every last one of them was either dead or she was.

The Three Crows fought with the ferocity of cornered wolves, their swords flashing in the dim light as more and more enemies poured through the breach. Spells crackled overhead, illuminating the chaos as steel met steel in a symphony of brutal, close-quarters combat.

Sergeant Boyd shouted orders amidst the melee, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "Hold the line! Don't let them break through!"

One of the Crows, a young man named Kellan, parried a vicious strike from a dark-robed attacker. His blade bit deep into the enemy's shoulder, but before he could follow through, another wizard closed in from his blind side. A red curse hit Kellan's leg, dropping him to one knee. He tried to rise, but a blade pierced his chest. Blood bubbled from his lips as he fell, his sword clattering uselessly to the floor.

Beside him, another Crow—Marla—fought grimly, her twin swords weaving a deadly pattern. She managed to down two enemies quickly, her blades slicing through flesh and bone ruthlessly. But she was tiring, her movements slowing. An enemy wizard lunged at her, and though she deflected his initial strike, another came from behind, driving a dagger into her back. Marla gasped, her swords falling from her grip as she crumpled.

Boyd saw his comrades fall, but he didn't waver. His sword cleaved through another enemy, and he spun around, parrying a strike aimed at his head. Blood dripped from a deep cut on his arm, but he pressed on, refusing to yield. He knew he was the last one standing, but he didn't care. He would make it costly for the enemy if this were where he would die.

With a roar, he charged forward, driving his sword into the chest of an attacker. Another came at him from the side, and he pivoted, delivering a brutal slash across the wizard's throat. But before he could regain his footing, a figure emerged from the swirling dust—a woman clad in black armor, her face hidden behind a gleaming Chinese devil mask. Her presence radiated cold menace as she moved with the fluid grace of a predator.

Boyd swung at her, but she was faster. With a flick of her wrist, her curved blade deflected his strike, and before he could recover, she delivered a swift slash across his midsection. Boyd staggered, his grip on his sword weakening as blood poured from the wound.

The female assassin tilted her head slightly as if studying him before driving her blade into his chest with cold finality. Boyd gasped, his eyes wide with pain, but he didn't fall immediately. Instead, he locked eyes with the masked woman, defiance burning in his gaze even as life disappeared.

Finally, with a shuddering breath, Sergeant Boyd collapsed, his sword falling from his hand, the sound of its impact lost amidst the chaos of battle. The last of the Crows had dropped.

Andromeda Black turned slowly. Her wand gripped tightly as her eyes locked onto the masked assassin standing amidst the carnage. The woman's devil mask gleamed under the flickering light of the still-burning debris, her stance poised and ready, but Andromeda only smiled—a cold, predatory smile.

"Finally," Andromeda said, her voice deadly calm, echoing through the ruined hall. "The head of the snake appears. You should have stayed hidden, little demon. Now, I'll show you what happens when you dare to attack a Black. You'll learn why even the Dark Lord himself feared me."

Andromeda flicked her wand without another word, and the battle erupted in a whirlwind of deadly magic. A wave of translucent force surged forward, slamming into the first line of attackers like a crashing tide, sending bodies flying through the air. Spells flew at her from all directions—curses, hexes, blasts of raw energy—but Andromeda was a force of nature, her movements fluid and unstoppable.

A wizard charged her from the left, his blade raised high, but she didn't even turn. With a flick of her wand, the ground beneath him turned to liquid, swallowing him up to his waist before hardening into stone again. His screams were cut short as another quick spell from Andromeda's wand sent a razor-sharp arc of wind that severed his head cleanly from his body.

Another group of enemies rushed her, thinking sheer numbers could overwhelm her. Andromeda twirled her wand in a complex motion, and fire erupted in a brilliant spiral around her, incinerating those who dared come too close. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh, but Andromeda didn't flinch. Her gaze remained locked on the masked assassin, who stood watching at the edge of the chaos.

"Come now," Andromeda taunted, her voice cutting through the din like a blade. "Is this the best you can do?"

The assassin darted forward, moving with unnatural speed. She closed the distance in seconds, her curved blade aiming for Andromeda's throat. But Andromeda was faster. With a sharp gesture, a blackened steel wall rose from the floor, blocking the strike. The impact sent sparks flying, but Andromeda countered with lightning before the assassin could recover. The masked woman barely managed to evade, the bolt crackling past her, striking another unfortunate wizard behind her who convulsed violently before dropping lifeless to the ground.

The assassin leaped back, but Andromeda pressed on, relentless. Her wand became a blur of motion, conjuring shards of ice that rained down upon her foes, impaling several more attackers. Blood pooled on the stone floor, the once pristine hall now a battlefield drenched in death and destruction.

The enemy ranks thinned one by one as Andromeda tore through them like a tempest. Every spell was precise, every movement deadly. Wizards fell before they could raise their wands, some cut down by summoned blades of energy, others consumed by torrents of flame. Her power was overwhelming. The very air around her charged with raw magical energy.

The masked assassin lunged again, this time from above, her blade aimed at Andromeda's heart. But Andromeda was ready. She sidestepped smoothly, slashing with a conjured whip of fire. The whip struck true, searing across the assassin's arm. The woman cried out, dropping her blade as she landed awkwardly.

Andromeda advanced, her expression merciless. She flicked her wand, and the assassin's wand flew from her grasp, clattering to the ground. Another quick motion and a razor-thin arc of wind magic sliced through the air, severing the assassin's hand at the wrist. The woman gasped, clutching the bloody stump, staggering back in pain.

Before Andromeda could finish her, another wave of attackers swarmed in, forcing her to turn her attention to them. She dispatched them with ruthless efficiency, but when she turned back, the masked assassin was retreating, cradling her wounded arm.

With a final, powerful gesture, Andromeda cast a spell that ripped the assassin's mask from her face, sending it flying into her outstretched hand. She stared at the mask for a moment, her expression cold and triumphant, before tucking it into her belt—a trophy of her dominance.

Bleeding, wandless, and defeated, the assassin stumbled through the breach, vanishing into the shadows. Andromeda lowered her wand, her breathing steady, her gaze still sharp. Around her, the few remaining enemies fled in terror, unwilling to face the wrath of the woman who had single-handedly decimated their forces.

She wiped a smear of blood from her cheek and turned, her voice carrying across the ruined hall. "Let them run. Let them tell the world what happens when you cross a Black."

At that moment, it became clear why even the darkest wizards feared to stand against Andromeda Black. She was not just a warrior—she was a titan—a force no one could challenge without consequence.

Andromeda caught a flicker of movement to her left. She turned sharply, wand raised, ready for another wave of attackers. But instead of enemies, she saw the Crows—wounded, bloodied, but alive. Slowly, they began to rise from the ground, shaking off the injuries that had moments ago seemed fatal. Their wounds, which had been severe enough to put them down, were closing rapidly, flesh knitting together before her eyes.

A smile touched Andromeda's lips, cold and satisfied. "It seems they couldn't kill you, Sergeant."

Sergeant Boyd, leaning heavily on his sword for a moment before straightening, met her gaze with steely pride. He picked up his wand, testing his grip, and gave a grim nod. "No, Regent. But we're still standing only because of the Potter special running through our veins."

Andromeda's smile deepened, this time with genuine amusement. "You can thank Dobby and Kreacher for that. They ensured you all carried injectors, enchanted to administer the healing serum even if you were unconscious."

"I plan to do just that, Regent Black," Boyd said, his voice rough but steady, his respect evident.

As the last echoes of battle faded into silence, Tonks approached her mother, her expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. She studied Andromeda as though seeing her for the first time, as though the woman before her was someone entirely different. "Mom… how did you do that? I've never seen anyone fight like that except for Harry."

Andromeda let out a low, throaty laugh, wiping a smudge of blood from her cheek. The sound was light and dangerous, like the calm before a storm. "You flatter me, daughter," she said, her eyes gleaming with fierce pride. "I fought like a Black. And one day, you will too."

Tonks frowned, her mind racing as she tried to understand what had happened. "But… it wasn't just skill. There was something else. I felt—something. Magic. It was like it was coursing through me, pulling me forward, making me faster. They seemed to slow down while I moved faster. What was that?"

Andromeda's smile widened, her gaze intense. "Ah, you felt it. The Black battle rage. It's the ancient magic of our bloodline, daughter. When we are in the heat of battle, it awakens. It guides you, sharpens your reflexes, and makes you faster and stronger. You become something more than just a witch wielding a wand."

Tonks stood silent, the memory of the fight replaying in her mind. She remembered the surge of power, the clarity of her movements, and how time seemed to bend around her, making her enemies feel sluggish. It hadn't just been adrenaline—it had been something primal, something magical.

Andromeda stepped closer, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder. Her grip was firm, grounding. "Now that you've felt it, I will teach you how to master it. This is the legacy of the Blacks—strength forged in fire and battle, magic that has kept us standing when others would fall. And once you learn to wield it fully…" She paused, her voice softening to a near whisper but losing none of its intensity. "By the gods, anyone who dares stand against you will know fear. And I will pity them."

Tonks inhaled deeply, her heart still racing from the battle, but now for a different reason. She could feel the power lingering beneath her skin, still pulsing faintly. This was her birthright, something she had never known until today—and now, she understood why her mother and the Black name were feared.

"Teach me, Mom," she said quietly, her voice steady, determined.

Andromeda's eyes gleamed with approval. "Good. You've taken your first step. Now, let's ensure the next time you feel the rage will be on your terms. And the world will tremble when it does."

As they began taking stock of the manor, the air was suddenly filled with loud, rapid popping sounds. The unmistakable noise of mass apparition echoed through the grounds as a company of Crows materialized in formation, their dark armor gleaming under the dim light. Moments later, two fast-response teams from the Ministry arrived, wands drawn, eyes sharp and ready for any lingering threat.

The Captain of the Crows, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his face, strode forward briskly. He surveyed the ruins of the once-pristine manor with a practiced eye, his expression grim. We've swept the area, " he reported clipped. "There's no one left. Judging by the magical signatures, only one escaped—and they're hurt. Badly. "Andromeda's eyes narrowed, a cold smile tugging at her lips. "Good, " she said quietly, her voice carrying an edge that sent a chill through those who heard it. "They'll remember this day. They'll know their time on this earth is short."

As if on cue, another loud pop signaled the arrival of Kingsley Shacklebolt. He moved with the composed authority of a seasoned Auror, his robes billowing slightly as he approached Tonks. "What happened here, Lieutenant Tonks?" he asked, his deep voice calm but laced with concern.

Tonks snapped to attention, her demeanor instantly professional. "My manor was attacked by unknown forces, sir. They breached the wards and engaged us directly. We held them off, and only one escaped, severely wounded."

One of the Crows, standing nearby, suddenly called out, "Careful, sir! Some of the attackers had active portkeys on them, but they couldn't use them. The area might still have disabled portkeys lying around."

Kingsley's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, glancing back at Tonks. "Portkeys that didn't work?" he asked with a hint of curiosity.

Tonks allowed herself a brief, satisfied grin. "Yes, sir. That was a little addition I made when reinforcing the wards. If the wards ever fell, they would trigger a counter-ward that blocks any portkeys not registered with an approved magical signature. Anyone trying to escape using unauthorized portkeys would find themselves stuck."

Kingsley chuckled, his deep laugh resonating through the ruined hall. "Diabolical," he said, clearly impressed. "They wouldn't have expected that. They must've thought they'd be free to escape once the wards were down. Clever thinking, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

Kingsley added that before Tonks could say anything further, "Moody's waiting for you at headquarters. The director wants a full debrief."

Andromeda stepped forward, placing a firm hand on her daughter's shoulder. "You should go, Nymphadora," she said softly, though her eyes gleamed with something darker. "Because once Harry finds out about this attack on his family…" She trailed off, her voice turning cold as ice. "Nothing will stop him from hunting down these assassins. And when he does, neither their magic, allies, or hiding places will save them."

Kingsley's expression grew serious as Andromeda continued. "They don't understand what they've done. They've marked themselves as walking corpses. Because when Harry moves, it's not just a boy seeking revenge." Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "It's the Lord of Death coming for them. And death doesn't take prisoners."

A heavy silence followed, the weight of her words sinking in. Even the battle-hardened Crows shifted uneasily, aware that this was far from over. The attackers might have escaped the wrath of Andromeda and Tonks, but none of them would escape Harry Potter.

Chapter 368 "Lord Longbottom"

Captain Longbottom strode across the scorched ground, his heavy boots crunching against the remnants of shattered stone and charred earth. The air was thick with the lingering scent of smoke and ash, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. He glanced upward, catching sight of a lone figure standing atop Raven Tower, silhouetted against the waning light of dusk. Harry Potter stood still and silent, gazing over the battlefield as if searching for something beyond the horizon.

With a quiet sigh, Captain Longbottom made his way toward the tower. The climb was long, the stone steps echoing faintly beneath his feet. When he finally reached the top, he found Harry precisely as he had seen him from below—standing at the edge of the parapet, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the smoldering remains of the battlefield.

For a moment, neither spoke. The distant crackle of the pyres rose on the wind, mingled with the low murmur of soldiers tending to the wounded and piling the bodies of the fallen—undead, orcs, and other dark creatures—onto the blazing pyres. Black smoke coiled into the darkening sky, a grim testament to the day's hard-won victory.

"It's beautiful," Harry said quietly, without turning, his voice calm but hollow. "Out there. In a way."

Captain Longbottom stepped beside him, resting a hand on the cold stone of the parapet as he followed Harry's gaze. The battlefield stretched out before them, scorched and littered with the remnants of war. "It has a certain beauty," Longbottom replied after a pause, his voice low, thoughtful. "In the way fire purifies, I suppose. But it's a harsh beauty."

Another long silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of distant flames. Longbottom glanced at Harry, noting the tension in the younger man's shoulders, the faint furrow in his brow. He had seen that look before—in men who had fought too many battles and carried too many burdens.

"Is something troubling you, Harry?" Longbottom asked gently.

Harry finally turned, meeting the captain's gaze. His eyes, usually so full of fire, now seemed tired, burdened by something more profound. He hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully, before speaking.

"There is," he admitted, his voice quieter now, laced with a somber weight. He looked back out over the battlefield, his expression distant, as though lost in thought. "We won. But … this doesn't feel like a victory. It feels like we're just delaying something worse."

Longbottom didn't press him further. He knew better than to rush a man's thoughts in such moments. Instead, he stood quietly by Harry's side, letting the silence speak for them both. The pyres continued to burn, their flames reaching skyward, casting long shadows over the broken land.

And as the light faded, Harry's voice broke the quiet once more, softer now, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "Every battle costs us something. And I wonder… how much more do we have left to give before there's nothing left of us?"

Longbottom's hand tightened on the parapet, the weight of Harry's words sinking deep into his chest. He had no answer, no reassurance to offer. All he could do was stand with him, a silent companion in the aftermath of war, as the fires burned on. Harry's voice was quiet, yet it carried a weight beyond his years. He didn't look at Captain Longbottom—no, Uncle Frank, as he sometimes called him in these rare, vulnerable moments. Instead, Harry's gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, where the dying light of the day cast long shadows over the smoldering battlefield.

"I'm thirteen, Uncle," Harry began, his tone steady but heavy with something more profound, old and tired. "And I've already led two battles against forces we should never have been able to stand against. Two mass engagements where we faced overwhelming odds, and somehow, we came out on top."

He paused, inhaling slowly as if drawing in strength from the cool evening air. "But I'm tired, Uncle. And I know… I know this isn't the end. More is coming. More battles, more enemies, more death. We can't stop it. And soon, Neville and Draco will be standing here, just like I am now. They'll wear armor, hold swords, raise their wands, and march into battle."

Harry finally turned, his eyes meeting Frank's, but no spark of youthful innocence remained in them. Only a weary understanding of the harsh realities he had been forced to confront too soon. They'll quickly learn what I've already learned—that there's no honor in battle. No glory. It's just kill or be killed.""

Frank didn't interrupt, didn't try to offer empty comfort. He could see in Harry's eyes that the boy wasn't looking for it. He was speaking the truth as he saw it, and it was a truth Frank knew all too well.

Harry turned back to the horizon, his hands gripping the stone parapet tightly as if grounding himself against the weight of his own words. "Their spark for life will dim, Uncle. It happens to all of us. The first time they take a life, something will change. They won't be the same boys they were before. But I know… I know they'll do it, no matter what I say. Even if I try to stop them, they'll find their way into battle. Because that's who we are now. "

Another long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant crackling of the pyres below. Frank could see the tension in Harry's frame, the burden of responsibility pressing down on shoulders far too young to bear.

When he finally spoke, Frank's voice was low, steady. "You're right, Harry. They'll find their way into battle to stand beside you. Not because they crave glory, but because they believe in you."

Harry's grip on the parapet tightened, his knuckles turning white. He didn't respond immediately, but Frank could see the conflict in his eyes—the struggle between wanting to protect his friends and knowing he couldn't shield them from the inevitable.

"They'll believe in me," Harry said quietly, almost to himself. "But will they forgive me when they see what battle is?"

Frank placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. "They won't need to forgive you, Harry. They'll understand. And they'll fight, not because you asked them to, but because they believe in your cause. And they'll keep fighting, even when the spark dims—because that's what we do. We keep going."

Harry didn't shrug off the hand but didn't respond either. He stood there, staring into the fading light as if bracing himself for the battles. He was thirteen years old, but he felt far older at this moment.

And as the smoke from the pyres continued to rise, blotting out the last of the sunset, Harry whispered, more to himself than anyone else, "I just hope there's something left of us when it's all over."

Frank Longbottom studied Harry carefully, noting the tension in the boy's shoulders, the hard line of his jaw, and the simmering anger in his eyes. The flickering light of the distant pyres cast shadows across Harry's face, accentuating the grim determination etched into his features—features far too hardened for someone so young.

"You did a great thing here, Harry," Frank said quietly, his voice steady but edged with the weight of what had just transpired. "You ended this battle faster than anyone could have expected. Lives were saved because of you."

Harry smiled faintly, but it was a smile devoid of warmth. There was no pride in it, only bitterness. "Yes, you're right, Uncle Frank. Lives were saved. But in doing so, I seem to have stirred up a hornet's nest back at the ICW." His eyes gleamed with restrained frustration as he reached into his cloak and pulled out a crumpled parchment. He waved it slightly before tucking it back into the folds of his armor. "A summons. Straight to the Supreme Mugwump's office. Like I'm some bloody schoolboy being called in to explain myself."

Frank raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but knowing. He could see the storm brewing in Harry—the mix of exhaustion and rage barely held in check. "You have to understand, Harry. This isn't just about the battle or what happened here." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Sebastian Delacour is the head of the ICW. He will want to be fully informed on every detail of what happened. That's not an insult to you—it's protocol."

Harry turned to face Frank fully, his eyes dark and smoldering like embers about to catch flame. "Protocol," he repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "Is that what this is? Protocol? I led forces against an army of undead and dark creatures. I handed out gold to the countries and allies that fought alongside us, ensuring they had what they needed to rebuild. And now they want to question me—as if I've done something wrong."

Frank sighed, stepping closer. "It's not about right or wrong, Harry. It's politics. You're handing out gold—Black gold—and that kind of wealth raises eyebrows. People will want to know your game, whether you're buying influence or alliances. Delacour isn't going to overlook that."

Harry's expression darkened further, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "I didn't do it for influence. I did it because it was the right thing to do. Because if we don't support those who stood with us, they'll fall when the next enemy comes knocking."

"I know that," Frank said firmly, his tone low but resolute. "But politics rarely cares about intentions. It cares about power, Harry. And whether you realize it or not, you've just shown the ICW and have a great deal of it. Enough to win battles, lead armies and distribute wealth as if you were already sitting on a throne. They'll want to know if you're a threat—or if you're someone they can control."

Harry's jaw clenched tightly, and for a moment, he said nothing, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a blade. Finally, he exhaled slowly, the anger in his eyes not entirely gone but tempered by understanding. "They can summon me all they like. Let them ask their questions. But if they think they can control me…" His voice trailed off, replaced by a cold, humorless chuckle. "They're going to be very disappointed."

Frank gave a slight nod, his expression somber. "Just be careful, Harry. Delacour's not an enemy you want to underestimate. He's powerful in ways that don't always show on a battlefield."

Harry's eyes flicked back toward the horizon, where the last remnants of smoke curled into the night sky. "Neither am I, Uncle. Neither am I."

Frank Longbottom regarded Harry with a steady, measured gaze, the flickering light of the pyres casting shadows across his weathered face. There was no judgment in his expression, only a quiet understanding born of experience—experience hard-won on countless battlefields and in the treacherous halls of politics.

"You must understand something, Harry, " Frank began, his voice low and somber, carrying the weight of what he was about to say. "You have to learn to be several people at different times. It's not a choice; it's a necessity. "Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, and the tension in his posture was evident, but he didn't interrupt. He listened, knowing instinctively that these weren't empty words—they were lessons he would need to survive what lay ahead.

"The first person, " Frank continued, his tone steady but laced with a quiet intensity, " is who you are now. Your usual self—young, whole of life, trying to hold on to what's left of your childhood. That part of you must exist, Harry. It keeps you grounded, human. Without it, you'll become nothing more than a weapon, and weapons break. "

Frank paused, letting the words sink in before pressing on. "The second self—the soldier, the leader you've already embraced that part. You've stood in the thick of battle, led others into the fray, and made the hard choices that others couldn't. That's the self who fights when the world demands it. "Harry's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, his mind turning over Frank's words.

"But the third self, Harry…"Frank's voice grew quieter and more deliberate as if each word carried the weight of a burden Harry hadn't yet realized he bore. "The third self is the hardest of all. That's the Lord—the one who must navigate the treacherous waters of politics and answer for the choices made by the soldier and the leader. The Lord must play a game where the stakes are higher than life and death—where they're legacy, power, and survival. "

Frank stepped closer, his eyes locked on Harry's, unyielding. "You must learn to play this game, Harry. It's a game every Lord must master, whether they like it or not. If fate had been kinder to you, you would have learned it slowly, over years of careful guidance. But fate wasn't kind. It dealt you a hand that forced you to learn now at a cruel and unforgiving pace. "

Harry exhaled slowly, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. He didn't want this—any of it. He wanted to be just Harry, the boy who lived and fought for what was right. But Frank's words struck a chord deep within him. He knew Frank wasn't telling him this to burden him further but because it was the truth. He didn't have the luxury of time. The world didn't care about his age or how much he had already endured. It only cared about results.

""How do I play the game, Uncle?"" Harry asked, his voice quiet but steady, carrying a note of resolve beneath the weariness. "How do I become all of these people without losing myself? "

Frank smiled faintly, but it was a sad, knowing smile. "You don't do it alone. You listen to those who have walked this path before you. You trust those who stand by your side, even when the game grows dark. And you never forget who you are beneath it all—because that's the only thing that keeps the game from consuming you. "

The firelight flickered between them, casting long shadows across the ruined courtyard. Harry said nothing, but at that moment, something changed. The boy who had stood atop that tower, staring out over the battlefield in frustration, was gone. In his place was a young man—tired, burdened, but ready.

"I'll play the game," Harry said quietly, his voice steady, his eyes gleaming with the flicker of firelight. "But on my terms."

Frank nodded, knowing full well that this was only the beginning. The boy had learned to lead in war. Now, he would learn to lead in a far more dangerous arena where enemies didn't wear armor and carry swords but wielded words and power in the shadows.

And the game was already in motion.

Chapter 369 "Adjudicator Office"

The Adjudicator stood in her office, a room designed to project an aura of control and authority. Dark oak shelves lined the walls, housing ancient tomes, official decrees, and legal documents. Her obsidian desk gleamed under the soft, ambient lighting, its surface immaculate, devoid of unnecessary clutter. Every element of the room was arranged methodically, reflecting the Adjudicator's meticulous nature.

She was the embodiment of flawless presentation. Dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit that fit her perfectly, she looked like the figure of power and order. Beneath the suit, a crisp white blouse with a high collar framed her neck, fastened by a silver brooch shaped like scales—a quiet reminder of her role as arbiter and enforcer. Her jet-black hair, cut in a sharp bob that ended just above her jawline, gleamed faintly, not a single strand out of place. Pale blue eyes, sharp and analytical, glinted behind thin, silver-framed glasses. On the desk beside her rested a pair of black leather gloves, neatly folded—a testament to her preference for maintaining control in all matters.

The door opened with a quiet click, and Colonel Athena Kostas entered. Dressed in her striking Specter uniform, she moved with the silent confidence of a seasoned warrior. Her attire was matte black, designed for stealth and intimidation. The high-collared jacket featured silver trim at the edges, and the insignia of a coiled serpent—emblematic of her rank—rested proudly over her heart. Her sleeves fit snugly, ending in reinforced black gloves that could deliver protection and punishment. Around her waist was a tactical belt lined with pouches and a holstered wand, each placed with deliberate care. Her polished black combat boots barely made a sound on the polished floor as she approached.

Kostas's demeanor was unreadable, her dark eyes alert and scanning the room, missing nothing. She stopped a few paces from the desk, her presence radiating calm strength as if prepared for anything.

The Adjudicator offered a faint smile, one devoid of warmth but perfectly polite. "Please, come in, Colonel," she said, her tone smooth and composed but with a subtle hint of command.

Colonel Kostas gave a slight nod, stepping forward with measured steps. Though she acknowledged the Adjudicator's authority, her gaze had no deference. She was a soldier hardened by battle, a leader accustomed to standing in the face of power, not bending before it.

The Adjudicator's pale blue eyes locked onto Colonel Athena Kostas as she clasped her gloved hands atop the obsidian desk. A faint smile played on her lips—not of warmth but of quiet calculation. The air in the room was heavy, charged with unspoken tension, as if the walls themselves knew the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold.

"Do you know why I summoned you, Colonel?" the Adjudicator asked, her tone smooth and controlled yet carrying an unmistakable edge.

Colonel Athena Kostas returned the smile, though hers was cold, more a gesture of acknowledgment than any form of politeness. Standing tall in her black Specter uniform, she radiated authority and composure, her posture that of a soldier who had spent years on the frontlines. "Of course," Athena said, her voice steady. "You want to know what I've learned about Lord Hadrian Potter-Black."

The Adjudicator's smile lingered as she leaned back slightly in her chair, her gaze unwavering. She studied Athena, noting every detail—the slight tension in her shoulders, the careful way she chose her words, and the guarded expression behind her calm demeanor. She's prepared, the Adjudicator thought. But there's always more beneath the surface.

"I already know about your meetings with him at Hogwarts," the Adjudicator said, her voice light but pointed. "And how things… didn't quite go as planned. I believe the word you might use is 'sideways.' It seems your Captain, Leonidas Stavros, didn't get along with him."

Athena inhaled quietly, keeping her expression neutral. "Yes, the captain had… difficulties. He was still struggling with the betrayal of his friend, who joined the Dragon Cabal. And in that meeting, he was face to face with the young man who ended that friend's life."

The Adjudicator tilted her head slightly, a glint of interest in her eyes. So, it was personal. That explains the tension. She tapped a gloved finger lightly against the desk as she considered Athena's words. "A difficult situation indeed. Emotions tend to complicate matters, don't they? Captain Stavros was likely unprepared to deal with someone like Potter-Black. He underestimated him, didn't he?"

Athena's gaze remained steady, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Stavros is a good soldier. Loyal, disciplined. But seeing his friend turn traitor and join a cult like the Dragon Cabal—he never truly recovered from that betrayal. And standing before Potter-Black, the one who brought that traitor down… it was more than he could handle."

The Adjudicator leaned forward, her smile sharpening ever so slightly. "Understandable, yes. But unfortunate. Potter-Black isn't someone you approach with unresolved emotions clouding your mind. He's clever. Observant. He reads people, Colonel, and he likely saw through Stavros's anger the moment the meeting began."

Athena didn't flinch, though the Adjudicator's words were cutting. "Perhaps. But Stavros did what he believed was right. He faced a situation that few could manage without emotion."

The Adjudicator studied Athena for a moment longer, considering her carefully. She's protecting Stavros, but she knows the truth. Potter-Black didn't just walk into that meeting—he controlled it. And that's what makes him dangerous.

"Tell me something, Colonel," the Adjudicator said at last, her voice quieter but no less intense. "What's your honest opinion of Lord Potter-Black? Should we be concerned?"

Athena didn't hesitate, her voice calm but firm. "Lord Potter-Black is not a conventional threat. He's young, yes, but highly capable. He doesn't posture or seek power for the sake of it. He acts decisively, and when he does, it's with purpose. The danger isn't in what he says—it's in what he doesn't say. He's someone who calculates every move, who observes before he strikes. And if you treat him as a mere boy, he'll be far more dangerous than any Dark Lord you've faced."

The Adjudicator's eyes gleamed with interest as she listened, taking in every word. Good. She sees it, too. This isn't just a boy playing at politics—this is someone with the potential to reshape the board entirely.

"And what do you suggest, Colonel?" the Adjudicator asked, leaning back again, her expression thoughtful. "Do we approach him as an ally? Or a threat?"

Athena's tone didn't falter. "Approach him with respect. Fear will only lead to mistakes; he will not forget or forgive us if we make the wrong move. He's not seeking conflict, but he'll fight with everything he has if forced into it. If we don't acknowledge his strength, we risk turning him into an enemy who can't be controlled."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. The Adjudicator tapped her gloved fingers again, the gesture deliberate, contemplative. "Very well, Colonel," she said finally, her smile returning. "We'll tread carefully. But next time… we'll be prepared. No surprises."

Athena inclined her head slightly, understanding the gravity of the situation. They weren't just dealing with a boy—they were dealing with a force that could shift the delicate balance of power in ways few could predict.

The game was already in motion. And now, both sides knew they had to play it carefully.

The Adjudicator leaned forward slightly, her pale blue eyes gleaming with keen interest, the subtle tension in her posture drawing the room into a sharper focus. Her low and smooth voice cut through the silence like a blade. "What does the Supreme Mugwump think of Lord Hadrian Potter-Black?"

The question hung in the air, charged, waiting to be answered. Colonel Athena Kostas didn't respond immediately. Instead, she held the Adjudicator's gaze, her mind working rapidly. Careful, she told herself. Every word matters here. She could feel the weight of the Adjudicator's scrutiny, the woman's sharp intellect poised to dissect every nuance of her response.

Athena took a measured breath, her expression remaining calm, though beneath that exterior, her thoughts raced. Delacour respects power. He fears unpredictability. And Potter-Black embodies both. He's young and capable, and worst of all, for the ICW, he doesn't play by their rules. Delacour can't decide if he's a valuable ally—or a threat waiting to explode.

She knew the Adjudicator wasn't merely curious. This was a probe, a calculated move to assess not just the Supreme Mugwump's stance but her loyalties. Answer too vaguely, and she would appear evasive. Answer too directly, and she risked revealing more than was wise.

Finally, she spoke, her voice measured and steady. "The Supreme Mugwump," Athena began, choosing her words with care, "sees Potter-Black as... an anomaly. One that cannot be ignored. He recognizes that Hadrian is no ordinary boy nor an ordinary Lord. He's a figure who moves faster than the political game expects, and that unnerves those who prefer to control the board."

The Adjudicator's lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, but something close, as though she were pleased with the answer yet waiting for more. Good, Athena thought. But not enough. She wants something more profound.

Athena paused briefly, letting the air between them grow heavier before continuing. "Delacour is cautious. He knows that Potter-Black has power—not just in magic, but in influence. He's seen the alliances Lord Potter-Black has forged, the wealth he commands, and the loyalty he inspires. And that makes him dangerous. Not because he's seeking to overthrow the balance, but because if forced, he could shift it in ways that would leave the ICW scrambling to regain control."

The Adjudicator didn't blink, her fingers steepled beneath her chin, her mind processing every detail of Athena's response. Interesting, she thought. Delacour isn't acting out of paranoia but out of necessity. He knows Potter-Black can't be ignored, leaving him with two options: neutralize or bind him to their cause.

"And what do you think, Colonel?" the Adjudicator asked softly, her voice as sharp as a dagger. "Is the Supreme Mugwump right to be cautious?"

Athena resisted the urge to stiffen under the question. She had been expecting this, yet it still carried a weight that could not be ignored. She knew her answer could shape the Adjudicator's strategy going forward—and possibly, the ICW's approach toward Lord Potter-Black.

He's right to be cautious, but he's wrong if he thinks Potter-Black can be cornered, she thought. This isn't a boy playing at power—someone learning to wield it faster than anyone expected.

After another brief pause, Athena met the Adjudicator's gaze head-on. "Caution is wise," she said carefully. "But fear will lead to mistakes. If we try to control Potter-Black without understanding him, we'll create the enemy Delacour fears. He doesn't seek war, but he won't back down from one if he's forced into it. And when it comes to battle… he's proven that he doesn't lose."

The room grew eerily quiet. The enchanted lamps' flickering glow cast long shadows along the walls. The Adjudicator didn't move or speak, but the intensity of her gaze deepened as though weighing Athena's words against the intricate web of power and politics she sought to master.

Lord Potter-Black is a threat, the Adjudicator mused silently. But not in the way Delacour fears. He's not reckless—he's decisive. He doesn't want to destroy the ICW. He wants to bend it. And if we misstep, he may succeed.

Finally, the Adjudicator leaned back, the tension in the room easing slightly, though the atmosphere remained charged. "Very well, Colonel," she said smoothly, her expression unreadable. "We'll see how this plays out.

Athena inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. The Adjudicator had gathered what she wanted for now, but the game was only beginning. Lord Potter-Black was a force none of them could afford to overlook—and when the time came, both the ICW and the Adjudicator would need to decide whether to stand beside or against him.

Chapter 370 "The Arrival"

Tonks appeared in the main hall of the Ministry of Magic in a swirl of magical energy, her boots landing lightly on the polished floor. The place was bustling as always, witches and wizards moving in hurried streams, but her focus was solely on the figure waiting for her near the Auror division entrance—Chief Auror Alastor Moody.

"Ah, there you are, lass," Moody growled, his grizzled face softening slightly at the sight of her. His magical eye swiveled around, scanning their surroundings as his normal eye remained locked on her. "How are you holding up?"

Tonks offered a tired smile, her usual energy subdued after the past day's events. "I'm fine, Moody, but my home can't say the same."

Moody frowned deeply, his scarred face creasing further. "Aye, I heard about the attack. Nasty business. So, what's the situation now?"

Tonks exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "The goblins showed up in force not long after the attack ended. And when I say force, I mean it. They didn't just send a few representatives. They brought warriors, shamans, curse breakers—the whole lot. The lead goblin told me that my manor would be fully repaired at cost within a week."

Moody's brow furrowed in confusion, his magical eye swiveling toward her as if trying to see through her words. "Why would they do that? Goblins don't offer favors lightly. What's in it for them?"

Tonks shook her head, still puzzled herself. "I was surprised, too. But my mother explained it. They're taking this personally—because of Thrain Spellblade."

Moody stopped in his tracks, turning to look at her thoroughly. His expression, which had been curious before, turned serious. "That's Harry's goblin name, isn't it?"

Tonks nodded, her expression growing somber. "Yeah. The goblins are worried that Harry might blame them for not getting my wards upgraded quickly enough. They think he'll see it as a failure on their part."

Moody let out a low growl, shaking his head slowly. "Bloody hell. Of course, they'd think that. Honor and reputation are everything to them, and if they believe Harry might lose trust in them…" He trailed off, his gaze distant, as if weighing the implications.

Tonks gave a weary sigh, crossing her arms. "I don't think Harry would blame them, but the goblins don't want to take any chances. Thrain Spellblade isn't just a name to them—Harry's one of their own, and if they think they've let him down, they'll go to extreme lengths to fix it."

Moody's lips pressed into a thin line, his magical eye swiveling once more as he processed what she'd said. "That explains why they're moving so fast. They don't just want to repair your home—they want to show Harry they'll stand with him, no matter what. It's a matter of pride."

Tonks gave a slight nod, grateful for Moody's insight. "Yeah, that's what my mum said, too. They're not just rebuilding—they're making a statement."

Moody's expression softened slightly, though the tension in his posture didn't ease. "Well, it's good they're on your side. Goblins don't do things halfway, and if they're involved, you'll have the best defenses money can buy once they're done."

Tonks smiled faintly, though there was still a hint of unease in her eyes. "I hope so, Moody. Because if this attack was a warning, I don't want to see what comes next."

Chapter 371 "Summons and Shadows"

In the elegantly appointed office of the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, Director Amelia Bones sat at the head of a large mahogany table, her expression calm but sharp, eyes betraying the storm of thoughts swirling beneath her composed exterior. Minister Cornelius Fudge and Ambassador George Lockwood sat across from her, both men waiting for the discussion to begin. The atmosphere was tense, though masked behind polite smiles and the soft clink of porcelain as Elizabeth Harrington, DirectorBones's assistant, placed a tray of tea and sandwiches on the table.

"If you need anything else, just ring, " Elizabeth said with a professional smile before quietly shutting the door behind her.

Lockwood leaned back slightly in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're one lucky woman, Director Bones, to have someone as thorough and efficient as Miss Harrington. "

Bones allowed herself a brief smile, though her eyes remained serious. "Yes, I am. And no, Ambassador, for the last time—you can't have her. "

The light chuckling that followed eased the tension in the room, if only for a moment. But it didn't last. Minister Fudge straightened in his chair, his tone becoming more serious as he said, "Head Auror Scrimgeour has just informed me about the attack on LieutenantTonks's home. "

DirectorBones's smile faded instantly, her expression turning grave. "It wasn't just an attack on my Lieutenant's home, Minister, " she said, her voice steady but carrying a hard edge. "Regent Black was there—her mother, Andromeda Black. "

The weight of her words settled heavily in the room. Fudge blinked, still trying to piece together the implications, but Lockwood's expression darkened immediately. He leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly as he shook his head. "They attacked Lord Potter-Black's family," he said quietly, understanding the gravity of the situation at once.

"Yes," Director Bones confirmed, her tone clipped. "They did."

Fudge, who had remained quiet up to that point, suddenly sat up straighter, realization dawning on his face. His ordinarily jovial demeanor vanished, replaced by a rare seriousness. "Was anyone killed?" he asked quickly. "Please tell me Regent Black survived the attack."

Director Bones turned her sharp gaze on Fudge, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You don't know much about Regent Black, do you, Minister?" she asked, her tone carrying just the faintest trace of reproach.

Fudge cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "I know she was disowned by the Black family years ago for marrying a non-pureblood."

Lockwood glanced at Fudge, a flicker of irritation crossing his features before returning his attention to Bones.

"Disowned or not, Andromeda Black isn't someone to be underestimated," Director Bones said, her voice low and serious. "Her family may have cast her out, but her bloodline is as powerful as ever. And more importantly, she survived. Whoever attacked her… didn't know what they were dealing with." "Regent Black not only survived, but from what I've been told, she was instrumental in repelling the attackers. That's why this isn't just a matter of domestic security anymore. This was a direct attack on someone tied to Lord Potter-Black—an attack on his family. And as you both know, things are never simple regarding Lord Potter-Black."

Fudge fidgeted with his teacup, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "We can't afford this kind of incident," he muttered. "If Lord Potter-Black takes this personally—"

"He will take it personally," Lockwood interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact. "There's no question about that. You should ask the Minister how far he will go in response. Because if he decides to move against those responsible, the ICW will have no choice but to get involved."

Fudge paled slightly at the thought. "Surely… surely there's something we can do to prevent that."

Director Bones's eyes hardened. "What we can do is ensure that whoever was behind this attack is found quickly, Minister. If we show Potter-Black that we're acting decisively, we might be able to prevent him from taking matters into his own hands." It won't be easy. The goblins are already involved—they're taking this attack personally, given Lord Potter-Black's ties to them. They've deployed warriors, shamans, and curse breakers to reinforce Tonks's manor. If we don't act swiftly, we risk being seen as weak or indifferent."

Fudge looked between the two of them, clearly unnerved. "We can't let this spiral out of control. If Lord Potter-Black—if Thrain Spellblade—mobilizes the goblins…"

"He won't wait for us forever," Bones said coldly. "And if he decides we're not moving fast enough, we'll lose control of this entirely."

Minister replied, "Find those responsible, Amelia, before this gets out of hand."

The room fell silent once more, the air thick with tension. Fudge swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "Understood."

"That's not the only issue we're facing," Ambassador Lockwood said, his voice conveying unease as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished table. "The ICW has requested an official meeting with Lord Hadrian Potter-Black. They want a full debrief on how he handled the war and, more importantly, how he ended it so quickly."

Fudge blinked, stunned by the statement. "Ended it quickly? From what I've heard, he did exactly that—ended the threat efficiently and ensured that everyone who fought alongside him came out ahead. How is that a problem?"

Lockwood sighed, glancing at Director Bones, who remained silent but watchful. "The problem, Minister, is that he did it without consulting the ICW. He didn't seek their approval or oversight on how to manage the aftermath, particularly when it came to distributing resources. Instead, he took the wealth he seized and used it to aid the countries invaded directly."

Fudge's face tightened, his political instincts now fully engaged. His mind raced through the implications, trying to piece together the bigger picture. "I see… So, the ICW is upset because they weren't involved in the reconstruction efforts. They wanted control, didn't they?"

"Exactly," Lockwood said, nodding grimly. "By providing direct financial aid to those countries without attaching any strings, Potter-Black effectively cut the ICW out of the process. They hoped to use this crisis to establish stronger inroads—likely in the form of concessions and agreements that would grant them influence in those regions. But Harry bypassed all that by handing out Galleons freely, with no oversight."

Fudge let out a slow breath, his expression growing more serious. "And in doing so, he undermined the ICW's authority."

"Yes," Lockwood replied, his tone darkening. "It's not just about the gold—it's about power. The ICW is expected to control the rebuilding process and dictate terms in exchange for aid. Instead, Potter-Black gave the nations the means to rebuild independently without becoming indebted to the ICW. To put it plainly, he wrecked their plans."

Director Bones finally spoke, her voice calm but deliberate. "Which is why they want this debrief. They must understand how he moved so quickly and why they were caught off guard. But more importantly, they want to reassert control—before Potter-Black's actions set a precedent they can't afford to let stand."

Fudge's brow furrowed as he considered her words. "If they feel like they're losing influence… they won't just let this go, will they?"

"No," Lockwood said, his voice firm. "They won't. This isn't just about Harry anymore. It's about power dynamics within the magical world. And right now, the ICW is trying to decide whether Potter-Black is a rogue agent they can bring to heel—or a rising power they can't ignore."

Fudge's lips curved into a knowing smile, his political instincts already working to grasp the situation's complexities. "But Harry has friends. And if the rumors are true, the Supreme Mugwump may soon become his father-in-law. That's bound to count for something."

"Yes, that's true," Ambassador Lockwood agreed, though his tone remained cautious. "He has allies—powerful ones. The Supreme Mugwump is in observation mode, choosing to watch rather than act. However, several vocal senators within the ICW are demanding action. They weren't content with waiting, so they went directly to the Adjudicator's office, trying to push her to intervene."

Director Bones's brow arched sharply at the mention of the Adjudicator. Her normally composed expression hardened. "That's… not good. If the Adjudicator becomes involved, she'll treat Lord Potter-Black like a criminal. And we all know how he responds to threats."

"Precisely," Lockwood said with a grim nod. "That's why I made it clear to both the Adjudicator's office and the Supreme Mugwump's office that I will be present at the debrief. They had no choice but to allow it. The Adjudicator, as expected, wasn't pleased with my involvement, but the Supreme Mugwump was… let's say, relieved."

"That's interesting," Fudge said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "So, the Supreme Mugwump is playing the middle game. He's holding back, waiting to see how this unfolds."

"He is," Lockwood confirmed. "And it makes sense. He knows Lord Potter-Black better than anyone else in the ICW. He fought under his command in Africa. He's seen what Lord Potter-Black can do firsthand, both on and off the battlefield."

Fudge sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Then he knows exactly what will happen if someone like the Adjudicator pushes too hard. Harry isn't someone who bends to pressure. If they treat him like a rogue agent or a threat, he'll act decisively—and they won't like the result."

"Exactly," Lockwood said, his tone growing more serious. "The Supreme Mugwump understands that Lord Potter-Black isn't just a young lord wielding wealth and influence. He's a strategist, a leader, and—if provoked—a force they can't control. That's why he's choosing to remain neutral to avoid escalating things further."

Director Bones exhaled slowly, her gaze distant as she processed the gravity of the situation. "Still, having the Adjudicator in play complicates things. Even with the Supreme Mugwump holding back, she cannot be ignored. If she decides to act independently, it could provoke a confrontation no one is ready for."

Lockwood nodded, the tension in the room thickening. "That's why my presence at the debrief is critical. I can help manage and keep the situation from spiraling out of control. And hopefully, prevent the ICW from making a mistake they can't take back."

Fudge glanced at Bones, then back at Lockwood, his expression growing more serious. "We need to tread carefully. If the ICW pushes too hard, they'll turn Lord Potter-Black into an enemy. And if that happens, they won't just be facing one of the most dangerous young lords in the magical world—they'll be facing a leader who already has the loyalty of nations and alliances they can't hope to break."

The room fell silent momentarily, the weight of the unspoken truth settling over them. Everyone present knew the stakes: this wasn't just about diplomacy or politics anymore. It was about power, respect, and the delicate balance of a world on the edge of something far more significant than anyone could see.

"You're all forgetting one critical factor," Director Bones said, her voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of warning. She leaned forward, resting her hands lightly on the table as her sharp eyes flicked between Fudge and Lockwood. "He has the Church of the All-Father on his side. Pope Benedictus Castellano personally requested his aid in Africa—and Lord Potter-Black went without asking for anything in return. That's not something we can afford to overlook."

Ambassador Lockwood stiffened, his brow furrowing in surprise. He turned his full attention to Bones. "I wasn't aware Potter-Black influenced with the Church."

Bones nodded, her expression serious. "He does. And it goes beyond simple goodwill. He's on friendly terms with the Templars and has earned the trust of the Order of the Blazing Sun—an elite order that happens to be directly under the Pope's command."

Lockwood exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair as he processed the new information. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on him. "That complicates things even further," he muttered, almost to himself. "If the ICW missteps here, they won't just be dealing with Lord Potter-Black and his allies—they could inadvertently anger one of the most powerful religious institutions in the magical and non-magical world."

Fudge's eyes widened slightly, his fingers tightening around his teacup. "You're saying the Pope himself could get involved?"

"It's possible," Bones said. "Pope Castellano holds Lord Potter-Black in high regard. The fact that Lord Potter-Black answered his call for aid without hesitation or expectation of reward tells you exactly what kind of relationship they have. The ICW may be powerful, but they're not above the influence of the Church. And if the Church decides to back Lord Potter-Black in any capacity, it'll shift the balance of power dramatically."

Lockwood's expression darkened. He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the armrest of his chair, his mind racing through the potential diplomatic ramifications. This isn't just politics anymore—a web of alliances, influence, and power plays that could spiral out of control if we're not careful.

After a long moment, Lockwood sighed and gave a weary smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You know, my life was much simpler when I spent my days in libraries, buried in books, reading and researching to my heart's content. Now, I'm trying to prevent a war between some of the most powerful factions in the world."

Fudge, Bones, and Lockwood exchanged glances, and for a brief moment, the weight of the conversation lifted as they all burst into quiet laughter at the ambassador's exasperated tone.

"Welcome to diplomacy," Bones said with a rare smirk. "Where simple problems become impossible, and impossible ones land squarely on your desk."

Lockwood chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I didn't sign up for this, you know."

"None of us did," Fudge said, still smiling faintly. "But we're here. And like it or not, we must figure out how to keep this from blowing up in our faces."

The laughter faded, but the tension in the room remained lighter now—an acknowledgment of the task ahead of them. None of them missed the irony in the situation: a young lord who should have been a mere player in the political game had become a central figure, one whose alliances could tip the scales of power in ways no one had anticipated. And it was now their job to navigate that storm without sinking the entire ship.

Minister Fudge leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped on the table as he glanced between Director Bones and Ambassador Lockwood. "Should I call Albus? Have him join this meeting? He might offer insight into what Lord Potter-Black could do. He's known the boy longer than anyone, and more importantly, he influences him."

Director Bones exhaled slowly, her expression thoughtful but tinged with reluctance. "I dislike turning to Albus whenever we face a crisis, but you're right. Lately, he's been the only one who truly understands Lord Potter-Black—and if anyone can temper him, it's Dumbledore."

Lockwood nodded in agreement. "Yes, and Dumbledore's knowledge of the key players—particularly the Supreme Mugwump and the Adjudicator—would be valuable here. His insight might give us a clearer picture of what to expect."

Bones's brow furrowed slightly. "I already asked Captain Shacklebolt to request that Regent Black hold off on informing Lord Potter-Black about the attack until we had more information, but she told me the Crows had already delivered the news." She paused, her voice lowering slightly. "Which means Potter-Black knows. And if I were to guess, he'll come here soon to get answers."

"That's all the more reason to consult the Headmaster," Fudge said quickly. "We need someone who can talk to him and keep him level-headed if this situation escalates."

Without hesitation, Director Bones leaned over and pressed a button on her desk. Moments later, the door opened, and Elizabeth Harrington stepped in, her usual efficient demeanor on display.

"What do you need, Director?" Elizabeth asked, her tone brisk yet polite.

"Please contact Headmaster Dumbledore and ask if he can come to my office as soon as possible," Bones said, her voice steady. "This is urgent."

Elizabeth smiled faintly, nodding. "It will be done." With a flick of her wand, she floated a new tea set into the room, replacing the empty one. As she arranged the tray, she added, "So that you know, Auror Chief Moody and Lieutenant Tonks will be here in five minutes for your debrief on the attack."

"Thank you, Elizabeth. Let me know when they arrive, and please show the Headmaster in as soon as he gets here."

Elizabeth smiled quickly, turned on her heel, and closed the door softly behind her.

As the door clicked shut, Fudge turned back toward Bones. "Can we stay for the debrief on the attack?" he asked, unusually serious.

Director Bones gave a slight smile, her expression softening just a fraction. "Yes, you can. It might be beneficial. It'll give you, the Minister, and the Ambassador a clearer understanding of what happened. And Ambassador," she added, glancing at Lockwood, "might also help you in your upcoming talks with the ICW. They'll want every detail when they meet with you and Potter-Black."

Lockwood gave a curt nod, his expression thoughtful. "Agreed. The more I know going in, the better chance we have of managing this situation before it spirals."

"Good," Bones said, leaning back slightly in her chair, though her posture remained upright, ready for what was to come. "Let's hope Dumbledore arrives quickly. Because once Potter-Black walks through that door, we'll need all the help we can get."

Chapter 372 "The Swan"

Harry was exhausted—body, mind, and soul. The weight of the battles fought, the alliances forged, and the endless political games bore down on him like a heavy cloak. He knew he needed a break, a moment to gather before the next storm inevitably came. If he returned straight to Hogwarts, Daphne, Tracey, Luna, and Fleur would all be waiting for him. And while seeing them again filled him with warmth, he also knew what it meant—attention, questions, and moments he would have to give when he barely had any strength left. He didn't resent them for it. He cared for them deeply. But tonight, he needed solitude. He needed silence.

Standing atop Raven Tower, Harry gazed over the smoldering battlefield one last time. The fires had long since died, leaving only smoke curling into the cold night air. He took a deep breath, the scent of ash and earth lingering in his nostrils, before deciding.

"I'll see you all at Hogwarts," he had told them earlier, his voice calm but final. There had been no arguments—only nods of understanding. They knew better than to press him when he was like this.

Later that night, as the world around him grew still and the stars blinked down from a clear, cold sky, Raven Tower vanished from the battlefield without a sound. One moment, it stood like a sentinel over the war-torn land, and the next, it was gone—leaving only a faint shimmer of magic where it had once stood.

Far away, across the sea, on a quiet hill overlooking the rugged coastline of Ireland, the tower reappeared. The ground trembled slightly as ancient magic settled into the earth, binding stone to soil again. Perched atop the windswept hill, Raven Tower looked almost like it had always been there, its dark stone blending with the jagged cliffs and rolling greenery around it.

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of salt from the nearby sea. Waves crashed rhythmically against the rocks below, their sound soothing in the stillness. Harry stepped onto the tower's balcony, the wind tugging gently at his cloak. He felt peace for the first time in days—a chance to breathe without the weight of expectations pressing down on him.

The view was breathtaking. The moon hung low on the horizon, casting a silver glow over the water, while the stars glittered like scattered diamonds across the black sky. In the distance, a small village nestled between the hills, its lights flickering faintly in the dark. Here, far from the demands of the world, he could finally be alone—just for a while.

Harry leaned on the stone railing, letting the cool wind wash over him. This place, remote and untouched, felt like a sanctuary. No politics, battles, or burdens—only the quiet rhythm of the sea and the endless sky above.

For today, that was enough.

Harry walked down a winding path carved into a gently sloping hill, the cool evening air carrying the earthy scent of grass and distant wood smoke. The path was uneven, worn smooth in places by countless feet over the years, bordered by low stone walls covered in patches of moss. Here and there, wildflowers bloomed, their delicate petals glowing faintly in the moonlight. The Irish countryside stretched before him, a patchwork of rolling green fields, craggy hills, and clusters of ancient oaks that swayed gently in the night breeze.

The sky above was deep indigo studded with stars, and the soft light of the crescent moon bathed the landscape in silver. Somewhere in the distance, Harry could hear the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a night bird. It was peaceful, serene—exactly the kind of escape he had sought.

As he continued down the path, the scent of smoke grew stronger, mingling now with something richer—food, freshly cooked and hearty. Curious, he followed the aroma until the path rounded a bend, revealing a small village in a hollow below the hill. Its thatched-roof cottages were arranged in a loose circle around a cobbled square, their windows glowing warmly with amber light. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, rising into the still night air. The village seemed untouched by time, a place where the world beyond moved slower, more gently.

Harry's eyes were drawn to a building near the edge of the square—a pub. It stood slightly apart from the other cottages, its thick stone walls weathered by years of wind and rain. A wooden sign hung from a wrought-iron bracket above the door, swinging slightly in the breeze. Painted in faded gold lettering was the name The Swan, beneath which was a simple image of a white swan gliding gracefully across a dark pond.

The pub's exterior was charmingly rustic, with ivy climbing the walls and wrapping around the small, leaded windows. A pair of lanterns flanked the heavy oak door, flames flickering behind glass, casting a soft glow on the cobblestones below. Wooden benches and barrels were scattered around the front, some occupied by locals enjoying a late-night drink. Laughter and the low hum of conversation drifted out from within, accompanied by the faint sound of a fiddle playing a cheerful tune.

Harry stood for a moment, taking it all in. The village felt alive but calm, its rhythm slower, more grounded than the chaos he had left behind. With its worn charm and welcoming glow, the pub seemed to beckon him closer—a place where, perhaps, he could forget, if only for a little while, the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.

With a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Harry took a deep breath, savoring the scent of peat smoke and freshly baked bread mingling in the cool night air. He started down the last stretch of the path toward the village square, feeling a sense of quiet anticipation for the first time in what felt like ages.

Harry pushed open the heavy oak door of The Swan, the faint creak of its well-worn hinges blending with the hum of quiet conversation and the soft strains of music filling the room. As he stepped inside, the warm air hit him, carrying the comforting scents of wood smoke, aged oak, and something savory simmering in the back—a stew, perhaps.

The pub's interior perfectly reflected its exterior—aged, welcoming, and rich with character. The stone walls were uneven, showing the marks of time and countless winters endured. Dark wooden beams crisscrossed the low ceiling, their surfaces polished smooth by years of smoke and hands brushing against them. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron hooks, casting a soft, flickering glow over the room, and a large stone hearth dominated one wall, the fire crackling and sending shadows dancing across the floor.

Scattered throughout the room were wooden tables and sturdy chairs, mismatched yet fitting perfectly in the rustic charm of the place. Each table bore signs of years of use, from faint scratches to the occasional burn mark where someone had carelessly rested a pipe. At one table near the hearth, a few older men sat nursing their drinks, their laughter low and gruff, sharing stories that seemed as ancient as the pub.

Near the fire sat a young man, his fingers deftly strumming the strings of a worn guitar, the notes blending smoothly with the room's warmth. His eyes were half-closed, lost in the rhythm of his playing, while the fire's soft glow painted his face in hues of orange and gold. Across the room, in a far corner, a fiddle played a lively, almost mischievous tune. The source of the music was a brightly colored redhead, her curls wild and vibrant, her fingers moving with practiced ease over the strings of her instrument. Now and then, she would glance up, a playful glint in her eyes as if daring the room to join in her music.

Behind the bar stood a man with a thick gray beard, wiping down a mug with a rag that had seen better days. The shelves behind him were lined with bottles of all shapes and sizes—whiskey, mead, and local brews. Their labels faded but were familiar to the locals who frequented the place. Above the bar, an old wooden sign hung, carved with the words Welcome to The Swan, beneath which was the same image of a swan that hung outside.

The floor beneath Harry's feet was made of uneven flagstones, worn smooth by generations of footsteps, and scattered here and there were thick woolen rugs in muted colors, adding warmth to the space. The entire room felt alive with history, every corner whispering of countless nights spent in good company, stories told, and memories made.

Harry took a slow breath, letting the warmth and atmosphere settle over him. There was no urgency here, no weight of expectation—just the simple, comforting rhythm of a village pub on a quiet night. He moved further into the room, unnoticed by most, except for the barkeep, who gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment.

This was exactly what Harry had needed—a place far from the battles and burdens of his world, where he could lose himself, if only for a little while, in the quiet hum of laughter, music, and firelight.

Chapter 373 "The Old Man"

Sitting at a table near the bar was an old man, alone but seemingly content. His thick, woolen coat hung loosely on his once-broad frame, and his weathered hands, marked by years of hard labor, rested on a mug of dark ale. His face was lined with deep creases, the kind etched by both time and countless stories, and beneath the wild tufts of white hair peeking out from under a worn, flat cap, a pair of sharp, pale blue eyes gleamed with quiet curiosity.

As Harry stepped further into the pub, the old man looked up and smiled warmly. His voice, thick with an Irish lilt, carried across the room like the soft rumble of distant thunder. "Come in, young lad. No need to linger by the door. Have a seat."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the man's directness, but something about the invitation felt genuine, comforting. He smiled politely, shaking his head slightly. "Thank you, sir, but I wouldn't want to disturb your evening."

The old man chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that hinted at a once-powerful voice now softened by age. "Ah, lad, it's been too long since someone's disturbed me. Sit down. You'll do me no harm."

Something in the man's tone—an easy kindness mingled with a hint of melancholy—made Harry reconsider. With a nod, he approached the table and pulled out a chair, the wood creaking slightly beneath him as he sat. The warmth of the fire crackled nearby, and the low hum of conversation continued in the background, blending with the soft strumming of the guitar.

The old man studied Harry carefully, his ancient eyes taking in every detail—the slight weariness in his posture, the way he carried himself with a quiet strength, and something deeper, something hard to place. Despite his years, those sharp eyes hadn't lost their edge; they missed nothing.

"You've been through a bit, haven't you?" the old man said, his tone thoughtful, not prying. "Seen things most lads your age wouldn't dream of."

Harry smiled faintly, lowering his gaze to the table for a moment. "You could say that," he replied quietly.

The old man nodded as if he already knew. "Aye, life's got a way of throwin' weight on young shoulders. But no matter how heavy it feels, you keep walking, eh?"

Harry met the man's gaze, surprised by the wisdom in those simple words. "Yeah… something like that."

The old man lifted his mug, taking a slow sip before setting it down again with a soft thud. "I'm Seamus O'Connell," he said, offering a hand that was gnarled and strong despite the years. "Used to be a farmer, back when these hands had strength. Now I sit here, drink my ale, and watch the world turn."

Harry took the offered hand, feeling the calloused grip of a life spent working the land. "Harry," he said.

Seamus's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as he released Harry's hand. "Well, Harry, welcome to The Swan. It's a good place for those who need a bit of peace. And you, lad—you look like you could use a little peace."

Harry smiled a genuine smile this time. "Yeah. I could."

"Then you've come to the right place," Seamus said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes still studying Harry as though reading a story only he could see. "Tell me, lad, what brings you to our quiet little corner of the world?"

Harry didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the window, where the hills stretched out into the night, bathed in moonlight. He felt no rush to respond for the first time in a while, no urgency pressing down on him.

"I needed a break," Harry said, his voice quiet but honest. "From… everything."

Seamus nodded slowly as if he understood far more than Harry had said. "Aye, well, you've found it. For now, at least." He lifted his mug again, gesturing slightly in Harry's direction. "Here's to quiet nights and rest before the world starts spinnin' too fast again."

Harry picked up the mug of water Elizabeth had placed in front of him earlier and lightly clinked it against Seamus's. The old man smiled, satisfied, as they drank in companionable silence, the warmth of the fire wrapping around them like an old, familiar friend.

Harry hesitated, staring down at his hands as if the answers were written on the scars on his skin. His fingers traced a jagged line across his palm—a reminder of a fight he'd rather forget.

"I didn't keep my head up because I wanted to," Harry said quietly. "I did it because there wasn't another choice. You fall behind. You get eaten alive. That's what life taught me."

The old man leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. His eyes, a pale shade of blue, glinted with something more than sympathy—understanding.

"Aye, life's a cruel teacher," the old man said, setting his ale down gently. "But the fact that you're sittin' here means you didn't let it break you. You've got strength, lad, the kind forged in fire. Tell me, what's weighin' on that heart of yours so heavily that you'd seek counsel from an old fool like me?"

Harry sighed and glanced out the window. The streets outside were dim, lit by the flicker of streetlamps, and the night felt as cold as the memories pressing on his mind. He didn't know why he was opening up to this stranger, but something about the man's calm presence felt... safe.

"I keep wondering if it's all worth it," Harry admitted. "Fighting, surviving, losing people. You try to do the right thing but always pay a price. And I don't know how much more I've got left to give."

The old man chuckled softly, not out of mockery but with the kind of laugh that came from years of knowing exactly what Harry was talking about.

"Ah, lad. That's the burden of those who care too much in a world that cares too little." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "But it's worth it, if for no other reason than this—you don't fight because you'll win every battle. You fight because not fightin' means lettin' the darkness win. And if there's one thing I've learned in all my years, it's that even the smallest light can hold back the deepest night."

Harry was silent momentarily, the old man's words sinking in like the first warm rays of dawn after a long, cold night.

"How do you do it, then?" Harry asked. "How do you keep going when the losses keep piling up?"

The old man's eyes grew distant as though he were looking into a past only he could see. "You don't carry it alone, lad. You find people who'll walk with you and shoulder a bit of the weight when it gets too heavy. Friends, family—those who matter. And if you're lucky, you'll find someone who makes the fight worth it and reminds you why you started in the first place."

He picked up his ale again and raised it slightly toward Harry as if offering a silent toast. "And when you can't find those people, you hope they're out somewhere. You fight on, not just for yourself, but for them too."

Harry nodded slowly. He didn't have all the answers yet, but the old man's words made the load slightly lighter.

"Thanks," Harry said quietly. "I... needed that."

"Aye, we all do, lad," the old man said, taking a long, slow sip of his ale. "We all do."

The old man set his ale down again, his gaze steady but kind. "Now, don't go thankin' me too soon, lad. Life's a tricky business, and it has a way of twistin' what you think you know. Let me ask you somethin'. What keeps you goin' when everything feels like it's fallin' apart?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I don't know," he admitted after a moment of thought. "Maybe... stubbornness. Maybe because I don't want to disappoint people, sometimes it feels like I'm just trying to keep moving because stopping would mean losing everything I've fought for."

The old man smiled faintly, nodding like he'd heard this answer. "Aye, stubbornness is a fine enough fuel for the short run. But if you're runnin' on nothin' but grit and a fear of failin', you'll burn out, lad. You need somethin' stronger—somethin'''''' worth livin' for, not just fightin' against."

Harry frowned. "Like what?"

The old man chuckled. "That's the thing, lad. You have to find that for yourself. For me, it was my family. Lost 'em long ago, but they gave me a reason to keep standin' tall even after they were gone. For you... it could be anything. Maybe it's the people you've still got left. Maybe it's somethin' you haven't found yet."

Harry thought of his friends—those he had fought beside, those he had lost, and those still by his side. He thought of how many times he had questioned whether it was worth it, only to push forward anyway.

"But what if I don't know what that is?" Harry asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I never find it?"

The old man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Then you keep lookin'. And while you're lookin', you remember this—you're still breathin', still standin', which means you've still got a chance to make somethin' better. It doesn't have to be big. Even small things, like lendin' a hand or sayin' a kind word, can be enough. You won't always see the difference it makes, but trust me, lad, it matters."

Harry was quiet, letting the words settle. He wanted to believe the old man was right, but doubt gnawed at him. "And what if it never feels like enough?"

"It won't," the old man said plainly, his voice steady but warm. "That's the truth of it. You'll always think you could've done more, saved more, fought harder. But you do what you can, and you live with it. Not because it's easy but because it's right. Harry, the world's full of darkness, and you might be unable to chase it all away. But you can push it back, even just a little, for someone else."

Harry looked down at his hands again, feeling the weight of the old man's words. They weren't comforting in the usual sense—they didn't promise an end to the struggle or an easy path forward. But they felt real, like solid ground beneath his feet when the world crumbled.

"How do you... deal with it?" Harry asked after a moment. "The regret, the feeling that it's never enough?"

The old man smiled softly, lines crinkling around his eyes. "You learn to forgive yourself, lad. It takes time, and sometimes it feels like it'll never come, but you keep tryin'. You remember that you're only human, and no human ever walked this earth without leaving some regrets behind. You don't let the regret drown you—you let it remind you why you care in the first place."

Harry nodded slowly. He didn't have all the answers he needed, but he felt he wasn't completely lost for the first time in a long while.

"Thanks," he said again, this time with more conviction. "I mean it."

"Aye," the old man said, lifting his mug again. "And if you ever find yourself needin' more words from an old fool, you know where to find me."

Harry managed a small smile. For the first time in what felt like forever, it didn't feel forced. Maybe he didn't have all the answers. Perhaps he never would. But for now, he had enough to keep going.

And for now, that was enough.

Elizabeth walked over, balancing two steaming plates of shepherd's pie in one hand and two frothy mugs of ale in the other. Her steps were light, but there was a grounded confidence in her movements, like someone who had spent years weaving through crowded taverns without spilling a drop.

She set the plates down gently in front of Harry and the old man, the aroma of savory meat and buttery mashed potatoes filling the air. The rich scent lingered, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke from the hearth behind them.

"Looks like the two of you could use more than just words," Elizabeth said warmly. Her voice carried a musical lilt, inviting trust without demanding it. She placed the mugs down with a soft thud, the amber liquid sloshing beneath the rim. "Deep conversations like that always go better with a full belly and ale in hand."

Her eyes shifted to Harry, and for a moment, her expression softened as if she could see through his carefully constructed walls. "And you, lad, you'll find that ale has a way of loosening the tongue. It takes down the walls we spend so much time building up. Sometimes that's what we need, just a bit of honesty, even if it stings a little."

Harry shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Elizabeth gave him a knowing look, then turned with a practiced grace, her skirts swishing softly as she walked away toward another table. Before disappearing into the crowd, she tossed a final comment over her shoulder with a cheeky grin.

"You'll never find a more truthful lad than one with a drink in him. Drunkards don't know how to lie properly—only fools do."

As Elizabeth disappeared into the sea of patrons, Harry stared at the plate before him. The old man chuckled, a low, hearty sound that seemed to vibrate through the wooden floor.

"She's right, you know," the old man said, picking up his fork. "Sometimes we need a bit of somethin' warm in our bellies and a splash of ale to remind us we're alive."

Harry looked at the ale, then back at the old man. Slowly, he picked up his mug, the weight of it unfamiliar in his hand. He wasn't much of a drinker, but at that moment, he figured Elizabeth might have been onto something. A bit of honesty—no matter how rough it tasted—might be precisely what he needed.

"Cheers, then," Harry muttered, raising his mug slightly.

"Cheers, lad," the old man replied, clinking his mug against Harry's with a soft thunk. And for a moment, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the tavern buzzed with quiet life, Harry's weight didn't feel quite so heavy.

As Harry and the old man dug into their steaming shepherd's pies, the warm, hearty flavors helping to ease the chill that still clung to Harry's bones, a quiet melody rose from the corner of the tavern. The lad by the fire was strumming a worn guitar, fingers deftly plucking the strings as his voice—soft but rich with emotion—filled the room.

He sang with a haunting simplicity, his voice carrying the bittersweet weight of the song:

"Of all the money that e'er I had,
I spent it in good company...
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas, it was to none but me..."

The firelight danced off the lad's face as he continued, his eyes distant, as though lost in the memories of a life far older than his years. A few patrons leaned back in their chairs, their conversation quieting as they listened. Even Elizabeth paused in her rounds, a tray balanced on one hand, her gaze softening as the song drifted through the air.

Harry, fork halfway to his mouth, felt the tune settle over him like a blanket. There was something in those words, something raw and true, that made his chest tighten. He didn't know why, but it stirred something deep inside him—a longing he couldn't quite name.

The old man noticed Harry's reaction and a knowing look crossed his face. Setting his fork down, he wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned forward slightly, his voice low but steady.

"Songs like that, lad—they're not just words strung together. They're pieces of life, carried through time, passed from one soul to another. They remind us of what we've lost... and what we're still fightin' for."

Harry blinked, his throat tight. He wanted to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

The old man continued, his eyes fixed on Harry with quiet intensity. "Life isn't just about survivin', lad. It's about rememberin'. The people you've lost and the battles you've fought are all part of you now. But you can't let its weight drag you down. You've got to carry it, but you've got to live, too. That's what they'd want for you."

The lad at the fire sang on, his voice rising slightly, filled with a wistful hope:

"Of all the comrades that e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away...
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay..."

Harry set his fork down, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face. The old man's words hung in the air, mingling with the song in a way that made the moment feel... timeless.

"But how do you do that?" Harry asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do you live when the past always pulls you back?"

The old man's gaze softened, and he slowly sipped his ale before answering. "You don't forget, lad. You carry it with you, but don't let it own you. You honor the past by livin' the life they didn't get to. You fight the battles worth fightin', you find joy where you can, and when you can't... you hold on. Sometimes, that's all you can do."

The song was nearing its end now, the lad's voice dipping low, almost like a farewell:

"But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I'll gently rise and softly call,
Good night, and joy be with you all..."

As the song's final notes faded into silence, the lad briefly lowered his guitar, his eyes meeting Harry's. There was no judgment there, only quiet understanding as if the boy somehow knew the burden Harry carried.

The old man raised his mug in a quiet toast to the lad. "Good song," he said simply before turning back to Harry. "Remember this, lad. The past shapes you, but it doesn't define you. The choices you make now and the people you stand beside will show who you really are. You've got a long road ahead, but you're not walkin' it alone. Don't forget that."

Harry picked up his mug, its weight feeling less unfamiliar now. He clinked it lightly against the old man's with a faint smile. "I'll try."

"That's all anyone can ask, lad," the old man said, lifting his mug in return. "Now, eat up before that pie goes cold. You'll need your strength for whatever comes next."

As Harry returned to his meal, the fire crackled warmly, and the tavern slowly came back to life, conversations resuming, the hum of laughter and quiet chatter filling the air once more. But for Harry, something had shifted. The weight of his past was still there, but now... it didn't feel quite so heavy.

And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could keep moving forward.

Harry listened quietly as the final notes of Shawn Evans' song faded into the room's warmth. The lad by the fire rested his guitar gently on its stand, a few patrons offering quiet applause. Harry couldn't help but feel the lingering melancholy of the tune, as though the echoes of it still hung in the air.

The old man noticed Harry's thoughtful expression and leaned forward, his grin returning. "Shawn's got a good voice, doesn't he? He comes in here most evenings after work and keeps the place alive with his songs."

Harry nodded. "Yeah… he's good. You don't hear music like that too often."

The old man's sharp eyes twinkled with mischief. "Well, you said earlier you could play, didn't you, lad?"

Harry hesitated. "I mean… I can. I haven't played in a while, though."

The old man leaned back, crossing his arms with a knowing smile. "It doesn't matter how long it's been. A tune's still in you if it ever was. Music's funny like that—it doesn't go away, waits for the right moment to return. And I reckon this is one of those moments."

Harry chuckled nervously, unsure if he could go through with it. "I don't know… I'm not one for playing in front of people."

"Nonsense," the old man said, waving a hand dismissively. "Look around—no one's expectin' a show. This is the kind of place where a song's just a song, somethin' shared, not judged. Go on, lad, give us a tune. You might surprise yourself."

After a moment of quiet thought, Harry smiled, the corners of his mouth quirking as he pushed himself to his feet. "Alright, I think I've got a song for you."

He went to the bar, where the bartender—a stocky man with a kind face—was wiping down glasses. Harry nodded toward the guitar hanging on the wall behind him. "Mind if I borrow that for a bit?"

The bartender grinned, clearly pleased by the request. "' Course not. It's been a while since we've had someone new playin'. Here you go, lad." He handed over the guitar with care, patting it lightly. "Treat her well."

Harry took the guitar, feeling its familiar weight in his hands. He tested the strings, plucking a few notes to get a feel for the instrument. Then, as he turned back toward the fire, he caught Shawn Evans' eye.

"You alright with me taking a turn?" Harry asked with a friendly nod toward the young lad.

Shawn smiled and leaned back in his chair, gesturing toward the fire with an easy shrug. "Be my guest. Always room for another song in this place."

Harry sat on the stool near the hearth, adjusting the guitar in his lap. He glanced toward the old man, who gave him a slight nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Harry began to strum a soft, steady rhythm. The tavern gradually grew quieter as the melody took shape, the patrons turning their attention to him.

After a moment, Harry began to sing, his voice low but clear, the lyrics carrying a bittersweet warmth:

(Verse 1)
I walked into a quiet room, the fire burning low,
A weary heart, a restless mind, with nowhere left to go.
An old man raised his mug to me, a twinkle in his eye,
"Sit a while, lad, rest your bones. Let the world pass you by."

He said, "We've all got heavy burdens, some too hard to bear,
But it lightens just a little when there's someone there to share.
You won't always know the answers, won't always understand,
But it's easier to carry when you've got a steady hand."

(Chorus)
Carry on, my friend, though the road is dark and long,
There's a fire that keeps on burning, and it pulls you ever on.
Raise a glass to those you've lost and the ones still by your side,
May your heart be open and your soul be free to ride.

The soft strum of the guitar filled the quiet tavern, each note resonating with a kind of unspoken truth. Harry's voice grew stronger as he moved into the next verse, finding his rhythm and letting the song flow from him naturally.

(Verse 2)I picked up an old guitar. The wood was worn and smooth,
With trembling hands, I found the chords, a simple, steady groove.
I sang of all the battles fought and scars that never heal,
Of finding hope in shadows and the strength to always feel.

(Chorus)
Carry on, my friend, though the road is dark and long,
There's a fire that keeps on burning, and it pulls you ever on.
Raise a glass to those you've lost and the ones still by your side,
May your heart be open and your soul be free to ride.

(Bridge)
So if you find yourself alone, with shadows creeping in,
Remember voices from the past and where you've always been.
There's always light to guide you through, no matter how it fades,
You'll find your way; hold tight and face the coming days.

(Chorus)
Carry on, my friend, though the road is dark and long,
There's a fire that keeps on burning, and it pulls you ever on.
Raise a glass to those behind you and the ones you've yet to meet,
May your path be steady and your song be ever sweet.

Harry looked around the room as the final notes faded into the air. There was no grand applause, no loud cheers—just a quiet, respectful silence, as though the song had left something unspoken in everyone's heart. The old man smiled broadly, raising his mug in a silent toast.

"Well done, lad," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of pride. "Takes courage to share what's in your soul like that. And if you ask me, you've got a gift—don't let it gather dust."

Harry smiled back, feeling lighter than he had in days. He returned the guitar to the bartender, who nodded approvingly. As he sat back down at the old man's table, the warmth of the fire and the quiet hum of conversation wrapped around him once more.

For the first time in a long while, Harry felt at peace.

As Harry set the guitar back in its place and returned to the table, he noticed Shawn Evans watching him with curious eyes. The lad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and asked, "Where'd you learn that song? Never heard it before."

Harry paused, a bit taken aback. "I didn't learn it," he said with a slight shrug. "I… just made it up."

There was a moment of quiet surprise before Shawn grinned. "You just made it up?" he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've got a knack for that, mate. A song like that, people swear it's been sung for generations."

Harry chuckled, a little embarrassed by the praise. "I guess it just… came to me. Don't know where it came from."

Shawn stood and made his way over, extending a hand. "Name's Shawn, by the way. That was brilliant, mate. Mind if I, uh, borrow that song sometime? Wouldn't mind adding it to my set."

Harry shook his hand, smiling. "Sure, go ahead. It's yours now, too."

"Thanks. You've got real talent—don't let it go to waste," Shawn said, giving him a nod of respect before heading back to his seat by the fire.

Harry returned to the old man's table, where the old man was watching him with a satisfied grin. He raised his mug in a silent toast once more. "Told you a song was waitin' to come out of you, lad. You didn't just play—you gave us somethin' real tonight."

Before Harry could respond, Elizabeth carried another pair of ales. She set them down on the table with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with genuine admiration.

"That song…" she began, pausing to find the right words. "It wasn't just a tune, Harry. It felt like... it came from somewhere deeper. Like you were singin' what we all feel but can't say out loud."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by her earnestness. "I… didn't think about it. Just sort of happened."

Elizabeth smiled, a touch of warmth in her gaze. "That's how you know it's a good one. The best songs aren't written with the head—they're pulled straight from the heart. And yours hit home."

She patted his shoulder lightly before turning back to her rounds. "Keep it up, lad. You've got a gift."

Harry sat back, still processing her words. The old man watched him quietly for a moment before speaking again. "You see, lad? It's like I said earlier. Sometimes, what we carry inside is too heavy for words, but suddenly, people understand when you put it into music. They feel it, too. And that's worth somethin'."

Harry nodded slowly, letting the old man's words sink in. He hadn't expected any of this when he walked into the tavern. All he'd wanted was a quiet place to rest, but now, something felt different—lighter, easier.

"Thanks," Harry said softly, looking between the old man and Elizabeth's retreating figure. "For pushing me to play. I didn't know I needed that."

The old man smiled again, raising his mug for a final toast. "We all need a little push now and then. And remember, lad—when things feel too heavy again, you've got music and people. Don't carry it all alone."

Harry clinked his mug against the old man's, a quiet gratitude settling over him. He didn't have all the answers, but for now, he had something better—a moment of peace, a song shared, and the feeling that, somehow, he was on the right path.

Chapter 374 "The Call"

A few hours later, the warmth of the tavern wrapped around Harry like a comforting blanket. The fire crackled softly, and the low hum of conversation filled the air. For a fleeting moment, he had nearly forgotten the weight he always carried. But peace never lasted long.

The door creaked open, and a cold air swept through the room. Instinctively, Harry looked up. Three young men entered, clad in traditional Irish clothes, but Harry didn't need to see more. He knew what they were. Wizards—Crows, to be exact, their presence was as unmistakable as the tension that suddenly gripped the room.

They spotted Harry immediately and made their way toward him with purpose, their expressions grim. The tavern grew quieter, eyes flicking between the strangers and the young man they were approaching.

"Sir," the one in front said, his voice low but urgent. "You're needed. It's important."

Harry clenched his jaw, the familiar weight of duty settling back onto his shoulders. He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and tried to push down the frustration rising in his chest. He had only just begun to feel something close to normal again. And now, the world was demanding more of him.

The old man quietly watched and gave Harry a small, knowing smile. "The world never waits for anyone, lad," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "And it seems your time of rest is over."

Harry hesitated, reluctant to leave the warmth, the quiet, the fleeting sense of peace. But he knew he couldn't stay. He never could. With a hesitant nod, he stood, every movement heavy with the burden he had carried for far too long.

"Guess it never really was my time to rest," Harry murmured.

"No," the old man said gently. "But maybe someday."

Harry stood slowly, the moment's weight pressing on him as he walked toward the bar. The warmth of the fire lingered on his back, but it couldn't keep the chill of duty from creeping in. He reached the bar, removing a small, well-worn pouch from his belt, the soft jingle of coins barely audible over the murmur of the tavern.

The bartender looked up, wiping his hands on a cloth, his brow raised in curiosity. "What kind of payment do you accept?" Harry asked, his voice steady but laced with something unspoken—gratitude, perhaps, or regret for having to leave so soon.

The bartender smiled kindly. "Gold, if that's what you're askin'. But you don't owe anything, lad. The old man already covered your share."

Harry smiled faintly, but there was something resolute in his eyes. "I owe more than a meal, more than ale. I owe you, the old man, and everyone here far more than you'll ever know." He set the pouch down on the bar with a soft thud, its weight undeniable.

"What's this, then?" the bartender asked, puzzled.

"Take what I owe you for tonight," Harry said quietly. "And the rest… use it for the old man. Until it's gone, his meals, his drinks, everything. He doesn't pay anymore."

The bartender stared at Harry for a long moment, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer—respect, perhaps, or understanding. "You've got a good heart, lad. Not many would think to do somethin' like that."

Harry glanced back at the old man, watching from across the room, his eyes gleaming with quiet pride. "You all gave me something tonight that I haven't felt in a long time—a reason to breathe a little easier. You reminded me what it means to keep going."

The bartender nodded slowly, his voice quiet when he spoke. "I'll see to it. And wherever you're goin', know you've got a place here when you need it."

Harry gave him a grateful nod, then turned to leave. But as he walked toward the door, the old man softly said, "Thank you, lad."

Harry paused, looking back one last time. "No. Thank you."

With that, he stepped into the cold night, the world's weight settling back on his shoulders. But this time, it didn't feel quite as heavy. Behind him, the fire still crackled, the laughter still lingered, and the warmth of that small tavern stayed with him—something to carry with him on the long road ahead.

The bartender and Elizabeth exchanged uneasy glances as they leaned closer to the old man, the firelight casting long shadows across their faces. The tension from Harry's departure still hung in the air as though the room hadn't settled back into its easy warmth.

Elizabeth crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. "Who was he, really?" she asked quietly, her voice low so the other patrons wouldn't hear. "He didn't seem like just another traveler passing through."

Seamus, the bartender, nodded in agreement. "I thought he was just some young lad, lost and rough around the edges. It looked like he hadn't known peace in a long while. But then… he leaves enough gold to cover your meals for months? That's not something a broke wanderer does."

The old man stayed quiet, gazing into his half-empty mug as though searching for answers in the amber liquid. Finally, he spoke, his voice thoughtful and distant. "I have no idea who he is. At first, I thought he was just a weary soul, maybe a young soldier trying to find his way like I once was. Feels like a lifetime ago now."

He paused, rubbing a calloused hand over his chin. "But those eyes… were the same as many I saw back then. The eyes of young men who'd seen things they couldn't leave behind. Soldiers' eyes."

Seamus frowned. "Those young men who came for him… do you think they're part of the IRA? They didn't look like ordinary folk either."

The old man shook his head firmly. "No, they're not those kinds of boys. Their posture, their movements—they were trained, but not for that sort of fight. They weren't carrying themselves like men lookin' to stir trouble. They had a different purpose, something heavier."

Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. "If they're not IRA, then who are they? Wizards?"

The old man exhaled slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "Could be. It would explain a lot, wouldn't it? The way he carried himself… he wasn't afraid, just reluctant. As someone called back to a fight, he thought he'd left behind."

Seamus shook his head, his fingers tapping lightly on the bar. "Strange sort, that one. He leaves behind enough gold to keep you fed for months, doesn't ask for anything in return, and disappears like he was never here."

Elizabeth smiled softly, her eyes distant. "He might've looked rough around the edges but had a kind heart. You don't do something like that unless you know what it's like to go without. He might've been a soldier once, but he's something more now."

The old man leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile forming on his lips. "Aye… whatever he is, he's fightin' a battle most of us can't see. And if you ask me, he's carryin' more than his share of the burden."

Seamus sighed, glancing toward the door where Harry had disappeared. "Think we'll see him again?"

The old man shrugged, his eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight. "If he finds his way back here, it'll mean he's lookin' for something more than a warm meal. And when he does, we'll be here, same as always."

Elizabeth nodded. Her voice was soft but confident. "A place like this… it stays in your heart. He'll come back someday when he's ready."

The old man smiled, raising his mug slightly. "To the lad, wherever he's headed. May he find his way."

Seamus and Elizabeth clinked their mugs with him in a quiet toast. And though none of them knew where Harry's path would lead, they all silently hoped he'd find his way back to them one day—back to the warmth of the fire, the comfort of a quiet room, and the promise of a place where the weight of the world could be set down, if only for a little while.

"What's happened that you came looking for me?" Harry's voice was low and calm on the surface, but an unmistakable edge beneath it was like a blade just waiting to be drawn.

The corporal, a young man with sharp features, stepped forward stiffly, his posture rigid. "Sir, Regent Black was attacked… at her daughter's new manor."

Harry's eyes widened, and in an instant, his expression darkened. He stepped forward, his movements swift and purposeful. The temperature in the woods seemed to drop, and a palpable pressure filled the air. All three Crows froze, their breathing labored as they felt Harry's magic radiate outward—raw, furious, and utterly overwhelming. It pressed down on them like an invisible weight, each pulse growing stronger, making it almost impossible to move or speak.

"Are they alive?" Harry's voice was a whisper but carried more menace than any shout.

The corporal swallowed hard, barely able to get the words out as the magic tightened around them like a vice. "Y-yes, sir," he stammered. "Regent Black nearly wiped them out herself. Seven Crows were hurt, but… no KIA."

Harry didn't move for a long moment, his magic pulsing like a thunderstorm ready to break. The raw, unrestrained power was coursing through the air.

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white. His eyes burned with barely contained fury, his mind racing with thoughts of the attack of those who dared to harm Regent Black and her daughter.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to rein in the storm swirling within him. The pressure in the area eased, and the Crows gasped, finally able to breathe again.

Before anyone could react, Harry vanished. One moment, he stood before the three Crows, fury radiating from him like a living force—and the next, he was gone. No sound, no flash, no ripple of magic. Just... gone, as if the air itself had swallowed him.

The three Crows exchanged uneasy glances, each one visibly tense. None of them had seen anything like it before, which was saying something, given their line of work.

"Did… did he just—?" one of them started, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the words.

The corporal shook his head slowly, still catching his breath from the overwhelming pressure of Harry's magic moments ago. "I feel sorry for whoever attacked Regent Black," he muttered grimly. "They don't know what's coming."

Without another word, the three of them prepared to follow. In synchronized movements, they vanished with loud pops, their sudden departures echoing through the woods.

Author's Note:

I want to take a moment to thank everyone for reading and supporting my story. This chapter serves as a bit of a breather, slowing things down while laying the groundwork for what's to come. New enemies will soon emerge, and tensions will escalate as different factions react to Harry's actions. World-building takes time, and it often requires several chapters to fully reveal how each event ripples outward—how victories, even when hard-won, can disrupt the delicate balance of power. I'm trying to show that while Harry may win battles, those victories come with unintended consequences that upset others and spark new conflicts. I know this slows the pace a bit, but it's all part of building a world that feels real, with stakes that matter. Thank you for being patient, and stay tuned—things are about to get much more intense!