"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

— attributed to Edmund Burke

A warm autumn evening fell gently upon the ancient streets of Bremen, paved with stone and cobblestones older than memory. Golden-crimson beams from the setting sun reflected lazily off the glass panes of miniature three-story houses. Trees reluctantly shed the remnants of their foliage. Children played cheerfully, while adults, tired from work, strolled leisurely homeward.

What could possibly disturb this tranquil scene?

Explosion

It shattered the serenity. Car alarms wailed into the evening air. People turned their heads anxiously—children with curiosity, adults with apprehension.

But nothing further occurred. Life, frozen briefly by uncertainty, resumed its steady flow. It was only later that the evening news grimly announced:

"Martial law has been declared."

*

"Esteemed Lords of the Wizengamot…"

Harry's voice rang out — steady, cold — beneath the vaulted stone arches. He didn't rush. He wanted them hanging on every word.

"Today marks the darkest day in our history. A threat not seen in four centuries rises against us."

*

One Day Earlier

11:35 PM

The Head of the Auror Office for Magical Britain and Ireland sat alone in his dimly lit office, savoring a fine cigar. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke a moment, tasting its bitterness, then exhaled slowly. Completing the ritual was a sip of exquisite American Firewhiskey, dating back to the last Goblin Rebellion.

She entered quietly, gliding through shadows cast by velvet-covered antique chairs and the heavy, intricately carved gothic desk—a menacing creature in the flickering fireplace glow.

"Enjoying yourself?" teased the familiar voice of Hermione Jean Weasley, Minister for Magic.

Potter turned, greeting her with a faint smile.

"Is it true?" he asked immediately. "We're creating an army?"

"Tomorrow, once the Wizengamot passes the decree," Hermione sighed deeply, perching on the armrest. Her gaze locked onto the glowing embers. "History repeats itself… Secret councils, endless wars."

"We've prepared for this moment for thirty years," he replied firmly, determination clear in his voice.

Hermione leaned over his shoulder, pressing her lips fiercely against his.

"You better believe it," she whispered, breaking away.

"Fresh parchment, cut grass… I always loved your scent," Harry remarked softly.

"Lilac and gooseberries?" Hermione mocked gently. "Don't lie, Mister Chosen One. Your wife and daughter await you at home. Rest up—you'll need your strength tomorrow."

He shrugged dismissively, a shadow briefly crossing his expression. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd rather be anywhere but home."

Hermione paused, her expression softening. "Harry, things have been difficult. Stressful times affect everyone—families especially."

"And what about Ron? He doesn't know?"

"Oh, I beg you. Ronald's blind to everything but his own deamed reflection."

"I can imagine that " Harry mumbled, and then continued: "So, goblins took over in Austria. Now we are at the edge of the rebellion of our own. What do we do? What about the gold? If the goblins side with the rebels, our entire financial system collapses. You know it."

"Everything is under control, Auror Potter."

"It better be. I can't keep order with Aurors alone—not even with the Unspeakables' support."

"That's my concern now," she reassured quietly. "Tomorrow the goblins will receive an offer they can hardly refuse."

She kissed Harry's lips once more.

"Go home, Potter. We have a big day tomorrow. You and Ginny will get through it."

Harry nodded slowly, forcing a hollow smile. "Of course we will."

But as Hermione vanished into the emerald flames, Harry's eyes darkened, fists tightening at his sides. He knew better. They wouldn't "get through it." His family, his so-called home—they were the chains suffocating him slowly.

*

Potter Residence,

Later That Evening

Lily Potter sat stiffly at the edge of her bed, knees pressed tightly against her chest, staring blankly at the clock on the wall. It was late, too late, and still her father hadn't returned home. Her heartbeat quickened with every ticking second, the sound echoing loudly in her head like a maddening drum.

Then she heard it: the sharp crack of Floo in the hallway, followed by the familiar heavy footsteps that sent shivers cascading down her spine. Her father's footsteps. She instantly recognized them—controlled, powerful, cruel.

"You're late," came her mother's weary voice from downstairs. Lily's breath caught in her throat.

"Am I?" Harry's voice replied, dripping with icy indifference. "I wasn't aware I had a curfew in my own home, Ginny."

Lily crept silently toward her bedroom door, pressing her ear tightly against the cold wood, desperate yet terrified to hear every word.

"Harry, please," her mother's voice trembled, strained yet defiant. "You've been gone for hours—no messages, no explanations. Lily was worried sick."

"Oh, she was worried?" Harry mocked sharply. "Or did you tell her to be worried? You're always turning her against me, making me the villain."

Ginny's voice cracked with disbelief. "Turning her against you? She sees it herself, Harry. We both see what you've become."

Lily flinched, a familiar sinking dread pooling in her stomach. Her hands started shaking violently, her nails biting into her palms.

Harry laughed coldly—a cruel sound devoid of warmth or humanity. "What I've become? I'm the one holding this pathetic family together. Without me, you're nothing."

Lily squeezed her eyes shut, the viciousness of his words slicing deeper than any knife could. She hated herself for being weak, for hiding upstairs instead of protecting her mother. She felt trapped, useless, broken.

"I can't do this anymore," Ginny whispered desperately, her voice trembling yet firm. "I won't let you keep hurting us. If you can't change, Harry, Lily and I are leaving."

A terrifying silence followed. The seconds stretched into an eternity, punctuated only by the pounding of Lily's terrified heart. Slowly, she opened the door just a crack, her body paralyzed yet needing desperately to see.

Below, through the railing, she glimpsed her mother—pale, exhausted, standing bravely opposite her father. Harry towered over her, his wand gripped tightly, his eyes cold, empty, dangerous.

"You think you can take my daughter away from me?" he hissed softly, voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "You truly think you can leave?"

Ginny raised her chin defiantly, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Yes."

For a fraction of a second, Harry hesitated. But then cruelty overtook his features, and Lily saw clearly that whatever remained of her father had finally broken.

"Then you leave me no choice."

He raised his wand, eyes locked mercilessly on Ginny. Lily wanted to scream, to run forward, to stop it—but her body wouldn't obey, frozen in horror.

"Crucio."

Her mother collapsed, screaming in agony, writhing helplessly on the polished wooden floor. Ginny's screams echoed endlessly, louder and louder - Lily never knew one can possibly scream so loud! - and she screamed with her mother.

And then Lily's world shattered.

'Not real. Not real' - she thought to herself.

Lily's vision blurred, sounds muffled, reality fracturing around her. Her heartbeat vanished into an oppressive silence, her limbs numb and lifeless. She stumbled backward, clutching desperately at the wall. Her mother's screams echoed distantly, distorted, unreal—this wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.

Lily fled blindly back into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her and collapsing onto the floor. Tears streamed down her face, chest heaving painfully, unable to breathe. Her body shook violently, curled into a tiny, broken ball.

She wasn't here. This wasn't her life. This wasn't her family.

Closing her eyes, Lily desperately tried to pull herself away, to escape inside her mind. And suddenly, strangely, it worked. She felt herself drifting upwards, detached from her trembling body below. A strange, numb peace spread through her, washing away the pain, the terror, the unbearable reality.

From high above, Lily watched the sobbing girl curled on the floor. She was someone else now, floating quietly, safely distant, watching everything unfold below with cold detachment.

The girl on the floor wasn't her. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

Yet deep within her mind, in the darkest, hidden corner of her shattered consciousness, Lily knew the truth. This was her family, and tonight something inside her had died, permanently broken by a monster she'd once called father.

*

Present day

Gringotts Bank, London,

8:45 AM

Hermione sat rigidly before the grand mahogany desk, her eyes fixed carefully on the goblin opposite her. Goldfang, Chief Cashier of Gringotts, steepled his long, claw-like fingers thoughtfully. Torchlight flickered across his face, sharpening his already severe features.

"Minister," Goldfang said softly, a faint growl beneath his polished tone. "Your proposal is certainly… intriguing. Yet, I must ask plainly: do you think Gobbles are so easily bought?"

"Not bought," Hermione corrected firmly, holding his gaze. "This is about mutual benefit and fairness. Goblins—"

"Gobbles," Goldfang interrupted pointedly, eyes narrowing slightly, "prefer their own term, Minister. Goblin is your people's invention."

Hermione took a short breath, nodding diplomatically. "Gobbles, then. Gobbles appreciate fair trade better than anyone. And that is precisely what I offer—true equality, ownership rights, recognition long overdue."

Goldfang leaned forward slightly, a humorless smile revealing his sharp teeth.

"Shug rash dug." The guttural words were spoken with quiet bitterness. Seeing her confusion, he translated coldly: "Broken promises of humans. Your kind always promises much, delivers little."

Hermione steadied her voice, determination hardening her gaze. "Not this time. Full recognition, true equality. Your own wealth, under your control—not merely custodianship, but genuine ownership."

Goldfang's smile broadened sardonically. "Minister Weasley, khuruk Gobblar. Gold has always belonged to Gobbles. We forged it, we enchanted it, and we gave it value. Offering us our own gold back as charity? Frankly, it's insulting."

Hermione's jaw tightened slightly, yet she remained composed. "Then please speak openly. What precisely do your people desire?"

Goldfang's dark eyes glittered dangerously as he replied firmly, in carefully chosen Gobbledegook.

"Gobble grot, Gobble rukar. Gobble pride, Gobble vaults—our honor, our wealth. Recognition alone is meaningless without true power. If you are sincere, grant Gobbles seats upon your Wizengamot."

Hermione rose swiftly, barely suppressing visible frustration. "You know as well as I do that's impossible. Neither our Lords nor the International Confederation would ever accept such terms."

Goldfang leaned back comfortably, fingers tapping rhythmically, eyes fixed upon her with mocking amusement.

"Then your offer is worthless. Grashrash Gobble dug. Humans bring Gobbles nothing but sorrow. Minister, I advise you: think very carefully about your next step."

"I... I will raise this topic on a Confederation meeting today. I thank you for your time, Chief Cashier."

Hermione turned sharply toward the fireplace, grasping a handful of Floo powder. As she lifted her hand, Goldfang spoke quietly behind her, a rare sincerity beneath his cold tone.

"Minister Weasley, among all humans, you alone have earned a small measure of respect from Gobbles. But do not mistake respect for weakness. Remember clearly: Vrashgar khuruk."

Hermione hesitated, casting a brief glance over her shoulder. "Meaning?"

Goldfang's expression hardened, his voice grim. "A war for gold, Minister. And such wars rarely end in peace."

Hermione threw the powder into the flames, emerald fire roaring to life. Her voice, though firm, was heavy.

"Ministry of Magic, Atrium."

She vanished into the swirling green fire.

Goldfang stared quietly at the empty fireplace, whispering to himself bitterly, "Vrashgar khuruk... May your ancestors show you mercy, Minister. You'll surely need it."

*

Bremen, Germany,

1:15 PM

Hermione arrived at Bremen's city center via Portkey, quickly smoothing out her robes to regain composure. The historic German city was hosting this year's emergency gathering of the International Confederation of Wizards, urgently convened to address the escalating goblin rebellion sweeping across Austria and threatening Europe's fragile magical peace.

Passing familiar narrow streets, Hermione stepped into the nearby Starbucks, eager to reclaim some normalcy amidst political chaos. The comforting scent of freshly ground coffee beans and sweet pastries momentarily eased her tension.

"Einen Latte Macchiato und ein Stück Käsekuchen, bitte," the woman requested in fluent German, her voice calm but carrying the quiet authority of someone used to commanding rooms full of men.

Hermione loved Starbucks—not for the name, but for the cheesecake. There was something defiantly human about carving out a quiet moment for herself, amidst chaos.

The young barista smiled. "Darf ich nach Ihrem Namen fragen?"

"Hermy," she replied instinctively, a faint blush rising as she remembered the nickname from an old Bulgarian lover, who once lived in Germany — one Ron never knew existed.

Moments later, savoring her cheesecake and coffee, Hermione crossed the lively old-town square, heels clicking across cobblestones as she made her way past Bremen's gothic town hall. At the square, tourists huddled around the bronze Town Musicians statue, palms rubbing the donkey's legs for luck. Approaching the bronze statue of the famous Bremen Town Musicians, she paused briefly, smirking mischievously.

"Piertotum Locomotor," she whispered softly, causing the statue to momentarily stretch and shift.A harmless rebellion—her quiet middle finger to the world.

An Auror dressed in traditional German robes—dark-blue shirt, leather suspenders, a waistcoat, and an overly formal felt hat—shot her an annoyed look. Hermione smiled apologetically and quickened her pace.

"Politics is corrupting me," she thought, not without irony, as she approached the fenced-off St. Peter's Cathedral. A black cat sat lazily atop the construction barrier, tail flicking. The mundane sign read Renovation works, entry forbidden until next month. She didn't break stride. Hermione walked straight through the illusion.

Immediately, six Bremen Aurors materialized, wands drawn. They wore no red robes, no flowing capes. Only black culottes, dark blue cotton shirts, fitted vests. German. Efficient. Severe.

"Your wand," one of them barked.

Hermione handed it over, bored. "Careful. She bites."

The Auror weighed it and sighed. "Thanks for not animating Roland."

Hermione allowed a sharp smile. "I leave the posturing to insecure men."

The Auror blinked but gave a curt nod, returning the wand.

She declined the translator, slipping past the wards, scanning the gathering wizards with a practiced eye.

A familiar voice called out warmly behind her, low and amused: "Still causing trouble, Granger?"

She turned to find Bill Weasley approaching, his long hair pulled back loosely, silver earring gleaming softly, scars catching the midday light.

"Some things never change," Hermione teased gently, falling into step beside him. "And it's nothing in compare to what the chinese ambassador done to the London Eye last year. The deamed thing blinked for two hours... it's good to see you, Bill."

"Likewise," he smiled softly, eyes shadowed by fatigue. "Thought I'd catch you before the wolves start circling. Fleur's already inside."

Inside, the cathedral loomed vast and cold, protective enchantments pulsing faintly through ancient stone. In the crowd, full of strongest mages from all over the world, mislnisters and ambassadors, a women stood near one of the stained-glass windows, arms crossed, posture rigid, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the altar.

Fleur. Beautiful. Immaculate. Looking twenty at most, though Hermione knew she was pushing forty-four. There was something unnatural about that beauty. Dangerous.

"You're late," Fleur called sharply, golden hair catching the light. "Tu es en retard."

"Fleur," Bill called gently.

She turned sharply, golden hair shimmering in the fractured light. For a moment, her beauty was almost otherworldly—Veela blood gleaming beneath porcelain skin. But her eyes were sharp, cold, focused entirely on Hermione.

"Tu es en retard," Fleur hissed. "I was beginning to think you'd avoid me altogether."

Hermione forced a diplomatic smile. "I would never. Coffee first, politics after."

Fleur's lips curled—something between a sneer and a smile. "Hmm. You always were pragmatique, Granger."

Bill shifted awkwardly, but Fleur didn't even glance at him. "Rumors are flying, Hermione. La France entend tout. Is it true? Britain is mobilizing?"

Hermione's jaw clenched. "We're not here to discuss classified British strategy, Minister."

"Nous sommes alliés!" Fleur snarled. "We swore loyalty, Hermione. Sisterhood. Friendship. And you spit on that?"

Hermione's laugh was sharp. "Sisterhood? Spare me. You inherited power, Fleur. I fought tooth and nail for mine."

Bill tensed. "Hermione—"

But Fleur turned on him, eyes flaring gold. "Tais-toi! You think standing there like her obedient mutt makes you noble? It makes you pathetic."

"I'm here because someone has to act like a fucking adult," Bill growled back.

"You think I asked for this?" Fleur snapped. "Tu es stupide. I inherited this mess, like everything else. And now Britain drags us all back into hell."

"We are not at war—yet" Hermione said quietly. "But the goblins... they want seats in the Wizengamot. Full power. It's impossible."

Fleur scoffed, voice sharp enough to cut. "Impossible? Rien n'est impossible, not if you're desperate enough to prevent the war." She stepped closer, her presence oppressive, her French accent thickening. "Traîtresse. We are supposed to be allies. If you prepare for war, France deserves to know. I deserve to know!"

Bill finally snapped, voice low but strained. "Fleur, enough. Hermione's trying to stop this."

Fleur whirled on him, eyes burning gold for a heartbeat. "Tais-toi! You think I don't see it, William? You stand here like some obedient dog while your Ministry plays with fire. You always defend them—elle especially."

"I'm here because someone has to be the adult," Bill growled back. "You're Minister now, Fleur. Try acting like it."

Her face froze, eyes glittering like ice. "Don't you dare. You think I ever wanted this? Tu es stupide! I inherited this mess—like everything else. And now I get to watch your precious Britain drag us all back into the abyss."

Hermione stood her ground. "I don't start wars, Fleur. But I sure as hell will finish one if pushed."

Fleur's mouth twisted—half snarl, half sneer. "Traîtresse. Just know—when the blood spills, it's women and children who drown first."

Hermione's voice was ice. "Don't you dare talk to me about blood. I've buried more friends than you've smiled at."

Fleur flinched but covered it quickly. "The Austrians are here. Delegation's full of ghosts—names of people who should be dead. I'm handling it."

Bill moved to follow, but she cut him off. "Reste ici. Stay. Watch her back—someone should."

Without another word, Fleur spun on her heel, her heels echoing coldly against stone as she disappeared into the northern wing.

Hermione stood frozen, the weight of it all pressing on her chest. Watching Fleur vanish, she thought grimly, Politics truly is corrupting... though with Fleur, it runs in the blood. Her father was Minister once. Maybe no one escapes this game.

Bill sighed. "She's right about one thing. This ends in blood."

"It always does," Hermione murmured.

Gathering herself, Hermione moved toward the cathedral's heart, nodding absently to the Aurors guarding its ancient, carved doors. Just as she placed her hand upon the heavy brass handle, her gaze caught something peculiar—a black cat perched atop a nearby fence, watching her intently.

Hermione smiled faintly, briefly distracted by the cat's piercing green eyes, oddly reminiscent of Harry's.

Then, in an instant, darkness shattered the calm.

Explosion.

A wave of heat and shattered glass slammed into her, tearing through robes, through flesh, through bone. The air itself screamed as metal and stone rained down. Hermione was tossed backward, a doll flung carelessly from the shelf. For one terrible moment, gravity forgot her; then remembered with brutal clarity.

*

She hit hard. The world spun, colors smearing into blood and smoke. Somewhere, distantly, she tasted iron—her own. Breath torn from her lungs, Hermione clawed at the cobblestones, fingers scrabbling blindly for her wand, the only anchor left in the collapsing universe.

Her vision was chaos. Red and black, blurring together like ink spilled across wet paper. Hermione's hand crawled toward her wand, fingernails scraping desperately at stone and dirt. Everything hurt, everything burned.

A shadow loomed, blocking out the fractured sky.

Someone knelt beside her, patient and calm, untouched by the madness. A man, dressed in robes white as bone, robes that seemed grotesquely pure amidst all this carnage. His presence was wrong somehow, dreamlike in its inevitability.

That jawline. Those eyes. The same haunted look.

Her lips trembled. "Harry…?"

The boy—no, the man—leaned in. Close enough for her to smell him. Cedarwood. Home.

His voice was soft, almost kind. Almost.

"Not him."

She froze, understanding too late.

"You were the last chain on his neck." A pause. A smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm here to break it"

A wand pressed against her temple.

The flash of green was the last thing she saw.

And all she could think, as the world slipped away, was Gods… he has Harry's eyes.

*

Harry dreamt of the Basilisk again.

Twelve years old, standing ankle-deep in the cold, slick stone of the Chamber of Secrets. Facing the blinded beast—wounded, defeated, begging.

In his right hand, Gryffindor's sword trembled.

The serpent pleaded for mercy.

It found none.

A single perfect swing—goblin-forged steel cutting through scales, muscle, bone. The head hit the ground with a sickening thud. Blood burst forth like a geyser, scalding hot—searing his skin, filling his mouth, burning his lungs as he screamed.

And then—he woke.

To the shrill screech of the magical alarm clock.

Bloody mornings.

Harry had never cared for them—even before the dreams. But now… mornings were unbearable. They were a reminder. A mirror.

A quiet tally of everything broken between him and Ginny.

Once, he'd woken to her laughter. Then — to her sighs. Then — to her silence.

Now, she climbed over him like he wasn't even there, muttering curses on her way to work. Until one morning, Harry had simply gotten up—walked out. First to the couch. Then to the guest room. The house was big enough. And cold enough.

He cursed under his breath, stripped, and stalked into the shower.

Thirty minutes later, red Auror robes pulled tight, Harry sat alone in the kitchen. Espresso. Cigar. A glass of water. The speech.

In less than an hour, the emergency Wizengamot session would begin — full mobilization of every wand capable of holding itself steady. The Ministry's men would back it. The old families would cheer, already tasting blood and counting gold.

Gold. Power. Blood. It had always been the same currency in magical Britain.

While he fed them their war, Hermione would still be clinging to her last, stupid hope—parleying with goblins, offering compromise where none would be accepted. She'd leave that meeting empty-handed, rush to the Summit, demand sanctions, threaten invasions.

But by tonight — it would be done.

For the first time since Grindelwald, Britain would have an army. A real one, not some fanatic order, not a terrorist organization, not a ministry puppets hardly able to remain order. Army.

And the goblin gold would die.

No more dragon-forged coins. No more goblin bankers leeching off wizard blood. Only Ministry-issued bonds. His wealth. His power. His future.

For the first time—the Britain would belong to wizards again. To him.

*

Visengamoth halls,

Ministry for Magic

6:45 PM

Harry's voice rang out — steady, cold — beneath the vaulted stone arches. He didn't rush. He wanted them hanging on every word.

"Today marks the darkest day in our history. A threat not seen in four centuries rises against us."

He paused — watched the old men shift nervously in their seats. He let the silence stretch — the chamber hung on his every breath.

"As you know, Austrian magical and Muggle settlements in the Alps have fallen. Burned. Slaughtered by goblin raiders. Not men. Beasts."

"They hunt Muggles for sport. Feast on the flesh of pureblood children. They rape our daughters. Enslave our sons. And when there's nothing left… they eat them."

A ripple of horror. Eyes widened. Fingers clenched on gilded benches.

Harry's tone softened — calculated, almost mournful.

"For years, Minister Weasley and I worked to unite this fractured land. The great old families — once rulers, now protectors. The liberals — those who survived the war and still believed in peace."

His eyes scanned the hall — the Malfoys, the Boneses, the Greengrasses, the battered remnants of the once-proud progressives.

"You trusted us. And we gave you peace."

A beat. A shift.

"But peace… is dead. The Minister… is dead. Murdered. Cowardly. Struck down by traitors in foreign lands while fighting for our survival."

A gasp. Whispers. The smell of fear — and opportunity — thick in the air.

Harry stood taller, voice rising like thunder.

"The Confederation is gone. Britain stands alone. And we will not fall."

He drew breath — deep, steady.

"As of this moment, I assume full emergency powers — by right of blood, by right of war. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, under Susan Bones, stands with me."

Susan gave the smallest nod — the last puppet falling into place.

"I ask the Wizengamot — will you stand with me?"

A heartbeat of silence.

And then — one by one — hands rose. Dozens. A hundred.

Approval. Unanimous.

The chamber erupted. Applause thundered against stone walls. Cheers. Fists pounding wood.

Old families smiled thin, cold smiles. Liberals wept — but clapped. Because Harry was all they had left.

Harry let the sound wash over him — felt it seep into his bones.

Beneath his sleeve, the parchment burned against his skin.

It's done.

She won't stand in your way again.

Your son.

*

Harry stumbled from the Floo — soot still clinging to his robes — and froze.

The smell hit like a curse.

Sharp. Bitter. Unmistakable — the stench of piss, shit, and something worse. Death. Human death.

The house was dark. Silence — thick, suffocating. The house was clean. Too clean. And then he saw her.

Ginny's body hung in the center of the room — swaying gently, like some obscene pendulum.

The rope creaked softly with every shift of air, as her body swayed — slow, almost rhythmic. Bare feet dangling inches above the floor. Hair falling like a red veil over her face.

For a long, breathless second, Harry just stood there — staring.

"Fucking dramatic, Ginevra." he muttered, voice flat.

No rage. No grief. Only mild irritation. Just… annoyance.

"Well played. You finally grew a spine."

He lit his wand. The pale light painted her skin sickly yellow. Lips blue. Eyes open — wide, bulging, blood vessels burst. Hair brushed smooth, nightgown spotless, the knot tied neat and professional. Bare feet dangling inches off the polished floor, toes pointed like a dancer's — swaying, just barely.

"You waited, didn't you?" Harry whispered coldly. "Made sure the girl wasn't here. Even dead… still a good little mother"

On the table:

A folded letter.

"You cleaned up," he muttered. He read the note — two lines.

"Lily's safe. With Mum. Don't worry — you won."

He poured himself a drink — didn't even look at the body again. Harry smiled — cold, cruel.

I suppose, you were right… I win."