Chapter 1: Departure from New York and a Family Meeting

The explosion at Morland Holmes' office had been swift and devastating. In the chaotic aftermath, NYPD launched an immediate investigation, scouring through debris for any lead. No group had claimed responsibility, and there were no obvious suspects. Morland himself had been shaken but unhurt—alive only by a stroke of luck.

Sherlock and Joan had arrived at the scene not long after, the air still thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning upholstery. While the police worked the case, Sherlock had already begun piecing together the puzzle. The blast had been professional—precise, deliberate. It was no mere business rival making a power play; this was something deeper, more insidious.

Days passed, and the investigation continued with little progress. Then came Sherlock's deduction: Joshua Vikner. His father's organization had been infiltrated, and Vikner had made his move. It was an attempt to remove Morland from the equation entirely, eliminating him as an obstacle to the shadowy network he sought to control.

When Sherlock finally confronted Morland with the truth, the elder Holmes had remained composed, but there was an edge to his voice.

"He won't stop," Sherlock had told him. "Vikner doesn't make empty threats."

"And what do you suggest I do?" Morland had asked, his tone measured.

"Leave. You built this empire, but you're no longer safe in it."

For once, Morland listened. Unlike in another world, where he might have fought to reclaim his power, he chose to leave. He withdrew from New York, not with a public declaration, but with quiet precision—assets transferred, arrangements made. By the time Vikner realized it, Morland Holmes was gone.

But he did not disappear entirely.

From the moment he stepped off his private jet in London, he had one goal in mind. He wasted no time with pleasantries or unnecessary delays. Instead, he made a single demand.

A meeting with Harry Potter, his adopted son.

The crisp morning air carried a lingering chill as Morland Holmes stepped out of his car and took in the sprawling expanse of Potter Manor. The estate, nestled deep within the countryside, was a picture of old-world grandeur. The gates had opened the moment his car approached, a silent testament to the kind of security in place—not unexpected, considering the owner.

Morland had spent years navigating power structures, both political and criminal, yet the magical world still had its mysteries. He was familiar with influence, with wealth, with the weight of a legacy that extended across centuries. But Potter Manor was different from the cold estates he had known. There was warmth here, a sense of something deeply personal and well-lived.

The doors opened before he could reach them. A house-elf in a neatly pressed uniform bowed slightly and gestured for him to enter.

"Master Potter is expecting you, sir."

Morland stepped inside without hesitation. The manor's interior was refined but not ostentatious. The furniture, the carefully curated bookshelves, the understated magic that hummed in the air—it spoke of a man who had power but did not wield it for mere spectacle.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Morland turned as Harry Potter approached, his presence both casual and commanding. He had filled out with age—his shoulders broader, his stance more assured. The glasses remained, but his hair was tamed just enough to appear intentional rather than unkempt. Those green eyes, however, were unchanged—sharp, watchful, assessing.

"Father."

"Harry."

There was a beat of silence. Morland had always been precise with words, while Harry had learned over time that silence could be just as powerful.

"Come in," Harry finally said, stepping aside. "My children are eager to meet you."

Morland followed him deeper into the house, his sharp gaze taking in the details. The manor was not a mere status symbol; it was a home.

They entered a sitting room where three children sat, their expressions varying from curiosity to cautious skepticism.

"This is James, Albus, and Lily," Harry introduced, gesturing to each in turn. "My sons and daughter."

James, the eldest, had his father's messy hair and an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes. Albus was quieter, more observant, and his green eyes held an intensity that was unsettlingly familiar. Lily, the youngest, watched Morland with a frankness that reminded him of Harry himself.

"A pleasure," Morland said smoothly, inclining his head. "I confess, I have little experience with children."

James grinned. "That's okay, Grandfather. We've got enough experience for both of us."

Morland raised an eyebrow at the title but did not correct him.

Harry only chuckled. "I did warn you."

A house-elf appeared, setting down tea and biscuits before vanishing just as quickly. Morland observed as the children interacted with their father, their dynamic easy and unforced. Harry had built something here—something stable.

Eventually, Harry glanced at his children. "Why don't you three give us a moment?"

James groaned but didn't argue. Lily whispered something to Albus before the three of them left, leaving the two men alone.

Harry gestured toward a study adjacent to the sitting room. "Let's talk.

Once seated, Harry leaned back in his chair, regarding Morland with that same unreadable expression.

"I imagine you didn't come all this way just for a family reunion."

Morland clasped his hands together. "No, but it would have been remiss of me not to see you after so long." His gaze flickered to a framed photograph on the desk—one of Harry, much younger, standing beside a red-haired woman.

"Ginny Weasley," Morland noted.

Harry followed his gaze and sighed. "Yes. We were married."

Morland took a sip of his tea. "I take it that's past tense for a reason."

Harry exhaled, nodding. "It didn't last."

Morland didn't press. He simply waited.

Harry gave a wry smile. "Our careers, mostly. I was an Auror; she was a professional Quidditch player. Both of us were constantly traveling. Before we knew it, we were more focused on our work than on each other."

Morland hummed in understanding. "Regret?"

Harry considered the question. "No. We had good years together. But we were better as friends."

A moment of silence stretched between them before Morland finally said, "And yet, despite your career, you chose to settle here."

Harry nodded. "After I left the Aurors, I needed a change. The Hit Wizards were... different. More direct. Less bureaucracy."

"And then?"

"I rose through the ranks," Harry said simply. "Now, I handle things on an international scale."

Morland studied him. "A far cry from the boy I once met."

Harry smiled faintly. "People change."

Morland didn't argue the point. Instead, he set his empty cup down and regarded Harry carefully.

"There are things we need to discuss. But I believe that conversation is best left for tomorrow."

Harry met his gaze, searching for something in the older man's expression. After a long pause, he nodded.

"Tomorrow, then."