This was the worst moment of his entire career.
Ten Death Eaters. Ten. Gone—vanished as if they were nothing more than smoke on the wind. A massive struggle, signs of forced entry as someone shattered most of the wards upon entry, dark magical traces left behind. Empty cells, destroyed corridors, and a sickening void where once the most dangerous prisoners in the wizarding world had been contained, a massive hole in the side if the prison.
They'd slipped past the Dementors.
Past the Dementors.
Without a single Patronus.
That, more than anything, turned his blood cold. It shouldn't have been possible. Azkaban's protections were absolute, airtight, a fortress of despair. And yet, someone had broken in—and more alarmingly, had broken in, and then out again—with precision, power, and terrifying intent.
This wasn't the work of some unhinged Dark wizard acting alone. No, this was surgical. Tactical. Coordinated. This was an operation—well-planned and flawlessly executed—by someone who wore the mask of the Death Eaters but clearly operated on another level entirely.
And now here he stood, in the middle of a crowded office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, with only two hours—if that—before the entire wizarding world would know the truth. Fudge was already in damage control mode, sending out press statements half-composed of lies and half-truths, but he knew it was a losing game. Secrets like these didn't stay buried for long. Someone always talked. Whether for a few galleons from The Prophet, or just out of sheer incompetence, someone would slip—and when they did, the panic would be impossible to contain.
"Forget about chasing the Death Eaters for now," said Amelia Bones, voice level but steely with authority. "They'll resurface eventually—when they need food, shelter, new robes medical potions, healers. They're a symptom, not the source. What we need to focus on is who broke them out."
Across the room, Scrimgeour let out a scoffing laugh. "And when we find them, Amy, what then? Invite them in for tea and ask politely who tore through the bloody gates of Azkaban?"
"Would you rather we flail around blindly?" she shot back. "You saw what they left behind. This wasn't just powerful—it was deliberate. They knew what they were doing."
"They even hurt two Dementors," muttered Percival Weasley, who looked like he was about to be sick. "I—I don't know anyone who could do that, apart from—well, possibly…"
He trailed off, the words hanging heavy in the air.
No. No, he would not let that name be said.
Not here. Not now.
Not after he'd spent the last year undermining every word Dumbledore spoke, every dire warning, every grim prophecy. He'd dismissed them all—publicly. Declared the old man a liar to half the wizarding world. If someone uttered that name now, it would undo everything.
And so, before he could think better of it, he barked, "Sirius Black!"
The words rang out far louder than he'd intended. A dozen heads turned to stare at him, stunned.
Even some of the portraits lining the walls seemed to freeze.
"Sirius Black," Fudge repeated, his voice firmer now, grasping for the only thread of plausibility that wouldn't reduce the Ministry to a punchline in tomorrow's Prophet. "The man's escaped before. Has a vendetta. Knows Azkaban like the back of his hand. Who's to say he didn't orchestrate it?"
A beat of silence followed—uneasy, thick with disbelief. Confusion lingered in the air like fog. Doubt, sharp and cold, crept into the eyes of every witch and wizard in the room.
But that ship had already sailed, hadn't it? The moment the Dementors had failed. The moment the walls of Azkaban had cracked. Fudge knew he couldn't stop the truth anymore—not entirely. But he could contain it, guide it. Control the story. Shape what people believed.
"…Sirius Black?" Proudfoot echoed dubiously, his brow furrowed. "He was last seen in Romania, wasn't he? Months ago. And no one's even confirmed if he still has access to a wand. Is he even strong enough to—?"
"Of course he is!" barked Dawlish, the seasoned Auror rising to his feet with a clenched jaw. "He split open an entire street and blew up thirteen people with one spell!"
"Thirteen Muggles," Proudfoot shot back, arms folded, skepticism etched across his face. "Not exactly an awe-inspiring display of magical combat, is it? Now, if he'd leveled part of Diagon Alley and taken out thirteen Aurors? Maybe I'd be worried. But Muggles—come on—"
"Enough. You shut up," Scrimgeour said, voice like steel, cutting through the air with finality.
The room froze.
Scrimgeour didn't yell. He didn't need to. When he spoke, people listened—or risked being flattened by the weight of his gaze. He fixed Proudfoot with the look of a lion about to pounce, his yellow eyes narrowing into slits.
Cornelius Fudge felt his collar suddenly tighten, sweat beading at his temple. Scrimgeour wasn't a politician. He was a warhound, barely leashed, and it was moments like this that reminded Fudge that his leash was slipping.
"Minister," Scrimgeour continued, slowly and deliberately, like each word was a drawn blade, "Are you certain this is the story you want to push? That Sirius Black—the Ministry's most infamous escapee—is behind the largest breach in Azkaban's history?"
Scrimgeour's tone dropped, deadly quiet now.
"Because if you're wrong—if the public finds out they've been misled—this won't be like last time. There will be no easy scapegoat. No excuses. No erasing it. So before we go forward, I ask you plainly… Is this the narrative your administration is prepared to defend?"
Cornelius Fudge swallowed hard. He was not a brave man, nor a cunning one. He had never thrived on risk or gambled on uncertainty. He was not Dumbledore or Scrimgeour or even a young, sharp-eyed Amelia Bones. No, Cornelius Fudge liked comfort. Order. Control. He liked knowing where every piece of the puzzle was at all times.
The Ministry had always been his sanctuary. A neat, polished kingdom of memos, meetings, and Ministry-mandated smiles—a world where everything made sense, where everything could be controlled with the right word, the right handshake, the right law signed in flowing ink. Here, Cornelius Fudge was not just a man—he was Minister. He basked in the applause, the deference, the carefully curated illusion of invincibility.
He liked being Minister. No—he loved it. He loved it too much to risk losing it now.
Even if that meant bending the truth. Even if it meant telling a lie so plausible, so convenient, that everyone would believe it… at least until they didn't.
There was comfort in the weight of his robes, security in the familiar creak of his office chair, and power in the nods of approval from those who mattered. He relished the perks—the owls bearing expensive wines from foreign dignitaries, the invitations to exclusive events, the polite laughter of his peers at jokes he scarcely understood himself.
He enjoyed how people leaned in when he spoke, how they watched his expressions for cues, how even the most ambitious figures in the Wizarding World kept one eye on his favor and the other on his approval ratings. He had become not just a public figure, but a symbol of something the post-war wizarding world craved: normalcy, stability, predictability.
And yet, even as he polished that image daily like a prized trophy, the cracks had started to show. First in whispers. Then in headlines. Now in the undeniable truth that screamed from the walls of Azkaban and echoed through every frightened household in Britain.
Fudge had never ascended to power because he was the most qualified. He knew that, deep down, even if he never admitted it aloud. He had risen because others had stepped aside—because Dumbledore, for reasons still unclear to him, had refused the post. In the aftermath of the war, the public had been fragile, yearning for peace and eager to believe that the horrors of Voldemort were behind them. When the election came, the alternative to Fudge had been a candidate with a family tied, albeit distantly, to the Death Eaters. And so, Fudge had seemed the safer option—the cleaner face of the future.
He had promised order. Promised quiet. Promised that everything would return to how it once was, without the mess of reckoning or justice or uncomfortable truths. People had clung to that promise. And Fudge had believed it, too—had convinced himself that if he could just smooth over the past, tuck it away neatly, pretend it had been vanquished entirely, then maybe it truly would be.
Azkaban had become his corner of denial, the fortress that contained everything he didn't want to see. A place where the unsightly remnants of war could be hidden, not erased, but ignored. The dark mark left on their world, buried behind iron gates and soul-stealing guards.
But now, that darkness had slithered back into the daylight.
The prison had been breached.
The things meant to stay buried—twisted remnants of a darker age—had clawed their way out, defying the iron bars and ancient wards meant to contain them. They had not returned humbled or reformed. No, they had emerged wilder, angrier, more brazen than ever. And now, not even the most polished lie, no matter how soothing or well-constructed, could coax them back into their shackles.
Cornelius Fudge stood alone in his office, the dim glow of the enchanted lamps casting long shadows across the walls. He was no longer the smiling man on the front page of the Daily Prophet, waving cheerfully beside foreign dignitaries and announcing another uneventful week in wizarding Britain. That image, that illusion of control and peace, was crumbling—fast.
He stood at the edge of something vast and terrible: a precipice between action and denial, between confronting the horror and continuing to pretend it did not exist. The escape from Azkaban was not some isolated incident. The destruction left in its wake, the Dementors that had been injured and weres till recovering—none of it could be dismissed as a fluke or blamed on a rogue cell.
And deep down, in a quiet place he rarely visited, Fudge knew the truth: the Death Eaters were returning to old patterns. Their shadows had begun to stretch across the world again, subtle and steady. And this time, there was no Boy Who Lived to save them from what was coming.
He had failed.
Failed to listen to Amelia Bones when she requested more Auror resources. Failed to heed the warnings from Kingsley Shacklebolt, from Dumbledore, even from his own inner circle. He had waved them off, patted them on the shoulder, smiled as he signed budget cuts and handed out platitudes.
"Azkaban is secure," he had said.
"There is no war coming," he had promised.
But now, he stood on shifting sands, the tide of chaos already reaching his ankles.
The worst part? It was too late to fix any of it. The story had already taken root in the minds of the people. And stories, once they gained momentum, were harder to control than even the darkest spell. The public would never forgive him if they discovered the truth—that Sirius Black and the mass breakout were unrelated, that he had ignored every sign until it was too late.
They would not see a Minister who had tried to protect them. They would see a man who had failed at every turn. Who had buried the warnings and built a throne atop denial.
He rubbed a hand across his face, sweat clinging to his brow despite the chill in the air. Fear throbbed in his chest, but he buried it. That was the only thing he knew how to do anymore—bury, hide, perform.
He would weather the storm. He always had.
The Aurors would scramble. The press would roar. Whispers of You-Know-Who would swell like a tide beneath the surface. But Cornelius Fudge would hold the line, even if it was made of sand and smoke.
Control the story. That's all that mattered now.
"Tell the Prophet," he said at last, his voice gravelly with strain. "Tell them Sirius Black orchestrated the Azkaban breakout."
There was a long pause. The aide standing by the door hesitated, then bowed and left the room.
Fudge turned to the darkened window, watching the reflection of his own face staring back at him.
It wasn't leadership, not really. But it was survival.
And that, he thought bitterly, had always been enough.
"Seven, eight, nine… come on, Nev, you can do it!"
Neville Longbottom gritted his teeth, arms trembling as he struggled to push the barbell upward. His face was as red as a ripe tomato, sweat rolling down his forehead in thick rivulets.
"It's… too heavy," he gasped out, barely managing to keep the bar from crashing down on him. "I can't finish this!"
"I'm not letting you quit that easy, Nev," Harry said firmly, standing behind him, ready to assist. "C'mon, one last push! You've got this."
With a grunt that sounded more like a battle cry, Neville forced the weight up, muscles burning with the effort. Harry quickly grabbed the bar, helping him rack it back into place. He noticed that Neville had cheated a little, using more of his upper body than his arms, but decided to let it slide. Progress was progress.
Neville sat up, chest heaving as he reached for his water bottle. He gulped it down like a man stranded in the desert, then glared at Harry with an exhausted but half-amused expression.
"You… are a demon," he panted between gulps. "How do you do this? This is inhuman."
Harry chuckled, wiping his own face with a towel. "You did great, Neville. I couldn't do five sets of ten reps in a row like that when I started off. How are you so strong?"
Neville gave a weak, sheepish grin. "Can't be weak… and good in Herbology," he muttered, still catching his breath. "Too many… plants like to… tussle with you."
Harry snorted. He supposed it made sense. Some of the magical plants in Professor Sprout's greenhouse could strangle a grown man in seconds if he wasn't careful. Devil's Snare, Snargaluff pods, even Venomous Tentacula—Herbology wasn't exactly for the weak.
Despite the lingering soreness in his muscles, Harry felt oddly content. It had been a few days since the mass breakout from Azkaban, and while the news itself had been horrifying, he couldn't deny that he was enjoying the chaos it had caused for the Ministry.
Yeah, he was still furious that Umbridge had been praised for handling the Acromantula situation, but that irritation was nothing compared to the sheer schadenfreude of watching Cornelius Fudge struggle under public scrutiny.
Oh yes, Minister, you did a wonderful job handling the giant Acromantula invasion at Hogwarts. Truly masterful.
Now, would you mind explaining HOW TEN OF LORD VOLDEMORT'S MOST LOYAL SERVANTS ESCAPED THE MOST IMPENETRABLE WIZARD PRISON IN THE WORLD?
Fudge was on fire from the media.
Of course, he was blaming it all on Sirius, which made Harry's blood boil, but the sheer inconsistency in the official story was making it difficult for anyone—even the most gullible of Fudge's supporters—to believe him.
Questions were piling up faster than Fudge could answer them.
How had Sirius, a single fugitive, managed to break out ten Death Eaters—when it had taken him thirteen years to escape on his own?
Why now? Why all at once?
And how was it that Sirius, a wizard who reportedly still did not have a wand, had caused all the destruction the Daily Prophet was reporting?
Harry had seen the photos himself.
The burned-out corridor. The shattered stone walls. The twisted wreckage that looked less like the remains of a prison break and more like the aftermath of a war zone.
Whoever had orchestrated it wasn't just powerful—they were terrifying.
More powerful, Harry thought, than Sirius could ever be. He'd never seen his godfather duel with a wand firsthand, but everything he'd heard—from Remus, from Mad-Eye, even from Dumbledore—suggested that Sirius had been skilled, certainly, but not legendary.
And yet... the Warden of Azkaban had managed to drive off an entire team of Death Eaters single-handedly.
The Daily Prophet had only mentioned him in passing—"A mysterious and unnamed warden repelled the hoodlums appropriating the garb of a long-dead terrorist organization." Hoodlums? Harry nearly laughed. As if the Death Eaters hadn't crashed the Quidditch World Cup less than a year ago. As if Voldemort's resurrection hadn't happened at all.
Still, the question remained: how did someone become the Warden of Azkaban? Was it an assignment? A punishment? Did they hold auditions?
His thoughts were interrupted.
"Harry?" Neville asked, his voice steadier now, his breathing calm. "Do you really think this'll help me become a better fighter?"
Harry turned to look at him.
Neville had changed. Ever since Bellatrix Lestrange—the woman who had tortured his parents into madness—escaped Azkaban, something in him had hardened. At D.A. meetings, he pushed himself further than anyone else. More spells. More drills. More desperation. It was clear he wasn't just trying to learn—he was preparing to be an active fighter in the war.
But Harry could see the cracks forming. Neville was teetering on the edge of pushing himself too far.
That's why he'd invited him to train in the Room of Requirement gym. Not just in magic, but physically—weights, endurance, reflexes. Something he could see and measure. Something he could control.
"It helps," Harry said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Being stronger means you're not helpless without your wand. Speed helps with spellcasting. Better stamina means you don't tire out halfway through a duel. All of that makes you a better fighter."
Neville was quiet for a moment, then asked, "What's it like? Fighting them, I mean. Fighting Him."
Harry froze. The question hung in the air like a fog.
Of course Neville wanted to know. He was going to fight the person who destroyed his family. Why wouldn't he ask the only student who had stood against Voldemort and lived?
Harry sat down on the bench and took a deep breath. "It's... scary," he said finally. "Terrifying, really. You can't walk into it thinking, 'I've got a list of spells, I'll be fine.' It doesn't work like that."
He looked up, locking eyes with Neville.
"When the curses start flying, and you don't know what half of them do if they land… when you're trying to decide if you should dodge or cast a shield, and either choice could be your last—there's no calm. There's no strategy. Just instinct."
Neville listened silently.
"You think your training has prepared you. But then you're surrounded—three people, all older, all crueler, all stronger—and they do not care that you're a kid. They don't hesitate. You're an obstacle to them. They wouldn't blink at cutting you down if it meant that they got praise from Voldemort."
Harry's voice dropped, his tone more serious than ever.
"You have to watch every shadow," Harry said quietly. "Make sure your spells don't hit someone you didn't mean to hurt. And you have to decide—fast—whether you're just trying to knock someone out... or whether you're trying to stop them permanently."
He didn't say it to scare Neville, but the truth had to be said plainly.
It wasn't a choice Harry had ever wanted to make—and in some ways, he was grateful he hadn't had to. Quirrell's death hadn't been intentional. Harry hadn't even known what would happen when he touched him. The memory of it still haunted his dreams: the smell of burning flesh, the way the man had screamed. But it had been a reaction, not a plan. A defense. And it had saved his life.
Second year had been easier, if only in comparison. Tom Riddle had been a memory, not flesh and blood. A phantom wearing a schoolboy's smile. And the basilisk—it might've had eyes and fangs and a terrifying presence, but it wasn't human. Killing them hadn't left a mark on his conscience.
Third year was... different. He hadn't really fought, not in the way people imagined heroes did. But he had stopped a murder. Sirius and Remus had wanted to kill Wormtail, and Harry had stepped between them. He still didn't regret it. Even after everything that followed, even after Wormtail escaped and rejoined Voldemort. If Ron and Hermione had been in Sirius and Remus' shoes, he wouldn't have wanted them to carry the weight of blood on their hands, not even for revenge. That was the real reason he'd insisted Wormtail live.
Then there was the maze.
The third task had been more annoyance than danger. The blast-ended skrewt, the acromantula—he'd handled them well enough. Magical creatures, even intelligent ones, were easier to face. There was no moral grayness in defending yourself from monsters. But the graveyard… that had been different.
That had been war.
The graveyard had shown him how helpless he truly was in the face of absolute power. Voldemort hadn't just wanted to kill him—he had wanted to humiliate him, to break him. He'd forced Harry into a duel that was never going to be fair, and the circle of Death Eaters had watched, silent and ready, waiting to see a child die at their master's hand.
And Harry had run.
He didn't feel shame in that anymore. He'd been outmatched, outnumbered, and alone. The only thing that had saved him was the unexpected: the twin cores, the golden thread of Prior Incantato. If not for that, he would've died there. He was sure of it.
And the sprint for the cup… spells had rained down on him like fire. He couldn't deflect all of them. Could barely dodge. Every curse aimed to cripple him, slow him, trap him until Voldemort could finish what he'd started.
He had survived—but survival was not the same as winning.
When Harry finished speaking, a heavy silence settled between them. Neville stared at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape—not with awe or admiration, but with something far heavier.
The look on his face told Harry everything. The hero-worship was gone.
What replaced it wasn't disappointment, but the stark, sobering realization of what being a "hero" truly meant.
No glory. No spotlight. Just decisions made in seconds. People dying because you acted too slowly—or didn't act at all.
"The spells I'm teaching you," Harry said quietly, his voice low and level, "the movements, the reflexes—they'll help in duels. They'll keep you safe in a classroom, maybe even in a fight with someone who wants to scare you, not kill you."
He leaned forward, letting the gravity of his words land.
"But real battles? The kind where one curse, one breath too late, means someone dies?" He shook his head. "That's different. It's chaos. You freeze, or you move. You win…or someone else bleeds for it."
Neville swallowed, hard. His voice was softer now, more unsure. "I…I think I understand. Not everything. But…it's like I'm seeing the outline of a picture. A really big, really complicated one."
Harry gave him a tired, lopsided smile. "That's more than most do. Just…for your sake, Neville, I hope you never see the whole thing colored in."
"Can we please stop having meetings at midnight?" Harry asked, rubbing at his eyes, bleary with exhaustion. "I don't think I can keep doing this much longer."
Malfoy raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow, while Fred and George exchanged matching grins. Lee Jordan chuckled, and Harry felt the back of his neck grow warm under the weight of their amusement.
"Aww, is ickle Harrikins getting sweepy?" Fred cooed mockingly. "You want some treacle tart and warm pumpkin juice before we tuck you into your nice cozy bed?"
"Oh, sod off," Harry muttered, rubbing his temples. "All I'm saying is, we could at least try to have these meetings during daylight hours. After classes. You know, like normal people. It's not like we're doing anything illegal—we own this business."
"Yeah, but something tells me if we started talking about this in public," Lee chimed in, "we'd have another five Educational Decrees slapped on us. Probably one about 'Inappropriate Entrepreneurial Behavior' or whatever ridiculous thing the toad thinks up next."
Draco snorted, the sound cutting through the air. "As if she has the time anymore. Between the Acromantula situation and the Azkaban breakout, she's barely even at the castle."
It was true. Dolores Umbridge had thrown herself—robes and all—into her campaign to clear the Forbidden Forest of the giant spiders, and whatever free time she had left was spent desperately clinging to influence at the Ministry. As a result, their Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons were now being led by a young, enthusiastic Auror named Damian Sharpe.
Unlike the parade of Ministry stooges Harry had met in his life, Sharpe actually seemed to like his job. He encouraged spellcasting, ignored Umbridge's ban on practical magic, and let them test their skills on animated training dummies. For the students in the DA—especially the ones who'd joined early and trained hard—it was like validation. Their spells earned them House points regularly now, and they walked into class with their heads held high.
Harry leaned back in his chair, letting the hush of the abandoned classroom settle around them. It was funny, in a way. At the start of the year, they'd thought Umbridge would be the mountain they'd have to climb, the villain they'd have to force out of the castle with brute force and clever planning. Now? They barely saw her.
Desperate to show the Ministry wasn't crumbling after the mass escape from Azkaban, Umbridge had immediately demanded the destruction of the Acromantula nest in the forest. The fallout had been... messy.
Hagrid had taken it the worst.
("They're people too!" he'd sobbed into his oversized tankard one night in his hut. "I'm sure if they just sat down and talked it ou', they'd realize they had loads in common!"
"Yeah," Hermione muttered under her breath at the time. "Like their mutual love of draining the life out of anything that dares cross them.")
Harry had tried not to laugh. He really had. It felt cruel—downright heartless, even—but Merlin help him, there was something tragically hilarious about Hagrid trying to play peacemaker between the Ministry of Magic and a colony of man-eating arachnids.
It had all started when a small army of Ministry officials had descended upon Hogwarts. Half the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, a handful of Aurors, and several Hit Wizards, all rallied under Umbridge's iron rule, had marched into the Forbidden Forest with grim determination and war in their eyes.
They hadn't expected the forest to fight back.
They were surrounded on all sides by hostile, uncooperative, and occasionally carnivorous opposition. The centaurs viewed them as invaders and responded with ambushes in the dark. Dugbogs lurked in the underbrush, snapping at ankles with their foul, toothy maws. Unicorns—normally the gentlest of creatures—reared and kicked in panic. And then there were the trolls.
Apparently, trolls lived in the forest.
Why? How? No one had answers.
But they were very large, very grumpy, and had taken to lobbing trees like javelins to "discourage" further intrusion.
But worst of all, the Acromantulas.
The giant spiders were smart, vicious, and terrifyingly patient. They'd wait until the Ministry teams were distracted—perhaps checking a map, tending a wound, or just pausing for breath—then they'd descend silently from the canopy and snatch up the nearest wizard. They hadn't killed anyone yet, but a few unfortunate souls had lost limbs. One poor bloke was still in St. Mungo's after an Acromantula tried to pull him in half like a wishbone.
And as if that weren't bad enough, something even bigger was stalking the forest. No one had seen it clearly, but the signs were there—trees uprooted, the undergrowth flattened, strange roars echoing through the night. Whatever it was, it terrified everything else. Even the Acromantulas gave it a wide berth.
Through all this, Harry couldn't help but wonder what Umbridge was actually doing. She certainly claimed to be involved. She held meetings. Gave orders. Spouted rhetoric about "regaining control of Hogwarts' land." But Harry doubted she'd stepped a foot into the forest. Still, she returned each night to the castle drenched in sweat and so exhausted she could barely shriek at students.
From the way she carried on, you'd think she'd been single-handedly dueling Acromantulas in a dramatic last stand, wand blazing, robes billowing in the wind.
Harry wasn't exactly furious with Draco anymore—but he certainly wasn't warm toward him either. His anger had cooled into something more brittle and quiet. Ron, predictably, was keeping his distance, and Hermione—doing what Hermione always did—was carefully listening to both sides, clearly trying to broker peace between them.
The problem was Draco wasn't apologizing. Not really. Harry could see the logic in what he'd done—it had kept Umbridge tangled in bureaucracy, weakened her hold on Hogwarts, and in a roundabout way helped the school return to something close to normal. But that didn't erase the fact that Draco hadn't said anything beforehand. And more than anything else, Hagrid had been collateral. That stung.
This was the first time the two of them had met since all of that. No lessons. No tension. Just…a gathering.
"So, lads, speckled gits, and blond toerags," George said cheerfully, throwing his arms wide as if conducting a formal event. "Welcome to the first-ever Weasley Wizard Wheezes Shareholders and Owners Meeting!"
"Wait—Lee has a share?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "No offense—well, maybe a little—but I paid four thousand galleons for a seat at this table. There's no way Jordan managed that."
Fred shrugged, all nonchalance. "Technically, he's not a full partner. But he's been with us since our third year, helped us refine products, run underground sales, and test all the dangerous ones we didn't feel like trying ourselves. So he owns one percent of the company as a founding contributor. Close enough to count."
"Besides," George added, passing out sheets of parchment, "his suggestions for the Ton-Tongue Chews probably saved us at least two lawsuits."
Fred grinned. "Now, on to the exciting part—our numbers."
The parchment was a well-organized business summary, charmed for easy reading. Columns of figures danced beside projections, with neat categories and handwritten notes scribbled in the margins.
"Business is booming," George said, puffing up slightly. "Our flagship lines—Skiving Snackboxes, Extendable Ears, and Wildfire Whiz-Bangs—are still our top sellers, especially with exam season coming up. We can't keep them on the shelves."
"We've also completely sold out of Ten-Second Pimple Vanishers," Fred added. "We'll need to brew more by the end of the week. It's fast becoming a favorite among teens and insecure Ministry interns."
George tapped his parchment. "We're negotiating with a Peruvian supplier for a stable import of Instant Darkness Powder, but that's proving tricky with current port regulations. "We've got a working prototype of the Decoy Detonator ready for field testing," George reported, tapping the parchment in front of him. "Development cost: one hundred and fifty galleons. Projected retail price: seven galleons per unit. The profit margin's massive—this could be our next flagship product."
Fred's grin turned predatory. "But the real moneymakers? The Animagus Rings and Inanimagus Rings. Over five hundred pre-orders for each—and that's before we've even officially launched to the public!"
"The Ministry's the one that placed the preliminary order," George added, a note of pride in his voice. "They pulled them straight from our internal catalog for testing—loved them. Now they want full supply contracts. The Auror Office and the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol—they're all lining up. I guess they're not playing around, not with the Death Munchers out on the loose."
"We'll need to scale up production," Fred mused, already planning. "Expand the workshop, bring on five or six more enchanters. Maybe subcontract some of the basic spellwork to licensed spell-wrights in Diagon Alley."
"There's a breakdown on the back of your parchment," George said, pointing to the last page of the report, "outlining projected profits if we maintain this pace for the next two quarters. Barring another Dark Lord incident, we're looking at a 40% revenue increase by next Christmas."
Even Lee Jordan, who had started the meeting with mild skepticism, was now leaning forward, eyes scanning the figures with growing interest.
"Hang on," Lee said, blinking, "these rings—can they actually turn you into an Animagus? Like, properly?"
"Well," Fred said, with a shrug, "sort of. They're not permanent transformations, obviously. The Inanimagus Rings let you shift into an inanimate object of your choosing—quill, rock, goblet—for up to ten minutes. We used silver as the base material—it's expensive, but it holds the enchantment longer. That let us raise the price for the Ministry."
"And the Animagus Rings?" Harry asked.
"Same concept, different execution," George explained. "Those use gold as the base—bit pricier, but they allow a full animal transformation. You pick from a selection: prey animals for stealth, predator animals for combat, aquatic forms for water travel, and birds for flight. Ten-minute duration. We're hoping that the movement-based ones will become a viable alternative to Apparition, Floo, or Portkey travel, for mostly short distances."
"We're sourcing gold and silver from the Muggle world," Fred added. "It's significantly cheaper than wizard-forged metals. A bit harder to bind the enchantments at first, but the savings make it worth it."
"They're compact, easily concealable," George said. "The Ministry loves how discreet they are. And I heard we got another major contract recently?"
Draco, who had been quietly reviewing his own notes, nodded. "Yes. An order directly from Headmaster Dumbledore. Twenty Animagus Rings, plus a full set of every enchanted weapon I've developed so far, including those not mentioned in the catalogue."
George gave a low whistle. "Well then. That settles it—we'll make that our top priority. If Dumbledore is impressed, it could lead to international commissions. Fred and I will help you wrap it up by week's end."
Harry blinked. "Wait, Dumbledore? He's actually buying from you?"
Draco lifted his chin, trying not to look too smug. "I produce quality, Potter. The Headmaster simply recognizes good craftsmanship when he sees it."
"Ickle Drakey-kins is-"
"Weasley," Draco said coldly, eyes narrowing, "I will scalp you if you ever call me that again."
"-is apparently good enough at making gear that's not only useful, but just weird enough to make people curious," Fred said cheerfully, completely unfazed. "And with how many ideas he's got bouncing around in that blond head of his, we've been thinking about expanding."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Expanding the shop? This early?"
He wasn't a business expert by any means, but years of listening to Uncle Vernon rant about Grunnings—about profits, overhead, and long-term risk—had given Harry a passing familiarity with how businesses worked. And from what little he knew, expansion usually came after a business had proven itself stable.
"Yeah, we know it's risky," George said with a shrug. "But Draco's catching up to us on the idea front—fast. We haven't had a proper sit-down about it yet, but I'm guessing you came up with more inventions during break?"
Draco nodded, eyes bright with excitement. "I did. One of them's called Spells in a Can. I got the idea from Muggle London—some women carry small chemical canisters for self-defense. Why not do the same with spells? Enchant a container, make it unbreakable, store a spell inside that can be released with a press of the nozzle."
"That's brilliant," Fred said, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "He's the biggest prat we've ever met—but Merlin's balls, the kid's got ideas. We were thinking of making a security line as a department inside WWW, but honestly? With stuff like this, it makes more sense to start a sister company."
"Yeah," George agreed. "The Rings we've been selling are useful, but this stuff—this is real defense gear. We're not comfortable selling half of it to a bunch of school kids, but to trained witches and wizards? That's a different story."
"We've already got a location in mind," Fred added. "One of our assistants at the Diagon Alley shop mentioned that an old candlemaker's looking to sell her place. With all the Death Eater news, she's thinking of leaving the country. We could buy the property for cheap if we move fast."
"It's cozy," George said, "but the layout looks perfect for a workshop. Good ventilation, decent privacy. We could have it up and running by summer."
Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful. It was… jarring, in a way—seeing Fred and George like this. The same trademark smirks and snappy jokes were there, but now they sat on top of something else—something sharper. Strategic. Calculated. Purposeful. Businessmen wearing the mask of pranksters.
And Draco?
He didn't just fit in—he belonged. This world of negotiations, market foresight, and innovation was familiar ground to him. This was what he had been bred for: power, influence, and the art of turning ambition into something tangible.
Lee let out a long, impressed whistle, breaking the silence. "Blimey. Never figured you had it in you, Malfoy. Always pegged you for the type to throw money at the brains and take the credit—not get your hands dirty in the workshop."
Draco leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, that ever-present smirk sharpening into something more dangerous. "Everyone sees the name. Malfoy. My mother's a Black, my father's a Malfoy—so they assume I was spoon-fed everything. That I've never had to work for anything. But what they forget," he said, voice low and confident, "is that I inherited more than just the family name."
He tapped the side of his temple lightly.
"My father gave me cunning. My mother? Madness. Together, they make for a very effective combination. I don't just want a shop, or a brand. I want an empire. A finger in every cauldron, a stake in every industry. Magical commerce, enchantment tech, potioneering, research—I want it all. This?" He gestured around them. "This is the beginning."
Harry exchanged a look with the twins—Fred was grinning, George whistling under his breath.
"Well," Fred muttered, "looks like we picked the right madman to go into business with."
The meeting stretched on for nearly an hour and a half. Fred and George, practically vibrating with excitement, dove deep into their vision for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. With colorful diagrams, scribbled notes, and the occasional enchanted puff of smoke for flair, they laid out their plan to become the dominant prank and joke shop in wizarding Britain.
Their primary target? Zonko's. The legendary Hogsmeade establishment was floundering, its charm dulled by age and stagnation. Fred and George were determined to overtake it—then replace it.
"If all goes well," Fred said, grinning, "this time next year, Zonko's will be ours in everything but name."
"We'll buy out their stock, maybe even the building," George added. "Turn it into our flagship store. Zonko's had a good run, but it's time for some fresh blood."
Harry found himself surprised, both by their ambition and by something else: there were no laws in the Wizarding World to stop this kind of business maneuvering. No anti-monopoly regulations, no watchdog organizations. Just... ambition and galleons.
Then again, it made sense. The Wizarding World had never gone through an Industrial Revolution. There were no assembly lines or mass production facilities for wands, potions, or brooms. Everything was bespoke, crafted, and passed down.
Everyone in Britain still bought their wands from Ollivander. Broomstick companies came and went—Cleansweep, Nimbus, Firebolt—but they were scattered, more like artisans than corporations.
Zonko's was the only real competitor Fred and George had. And their plan wasn't just to outperform it.
They were going to consume it.
It was fascinating. Ingenious. And, if Harry was honest with himself... a little terrifying.
He shifted in his seat, a knot forming in his chest. Fred, George, and Lee had their futures mapped out, detailed down to the product lines and marketing angles. Draco—Merlin help him—was already looking at investment figures and expansion projections. They had vision. They had goals.
And Harry?
He said he wanted to be an Auror. But that had never really been about purpose—it was about survival. Being an Auror meant learning how to fight, how to protect, how to endure, for his inevitable bouts with Voldemort. But beyond that, when one day, the man was long dead and in the ground... what did he want after that? What did he want to build?
The truth was, he didn't know.
The meeting finally wrapped up. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as students stood, voices rising in chatter as they dispersed. But Harry didn't move. Not until he caught sight of Draco standing near the back, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he listened to Lee Jordan discuss potential supply chains.
Harry swallowed and walked over.
"Hey," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "You mind if we talk for a bit?"
Draco turned to him slowly. His eyes narrowed, skeptical. Evaluating. For a moment, Harry thought he might refuse.
But then he nodded once, curtly.
"Fine," he said. "Let's talk, Potter."
The dungeons were miserably cold this time of year. Professor Snape always claimed the low temperatures helped preserve potion ingredients longer, and maybe that was true—but it didn't change the fact that every breath Harry took came out in a puff of white mist, and his fingers were stiff with cold even inside his robe pockets. It would've been nice to have this conversation somewhere warmer, but ironically, the dungeons were one of the few places in Hogwarts where he and Malfoy could speak without interruption. No nosy Gryffindors, no smug Slytherins. Just stone walls and silence.
Draco was leaning against the rough cobblestone wall, arms crossed over his chest like a coiled serpent ready to strike. He, of course, gave no indication that the chill bothered him at all.
"Well, spit it out, Potter," Draco said coolly. "What is it this time? Come to lecture me again?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before finally speaking—his voice low, steady.
"When I was little," he began, "I was told never to ask questions. Not about where I came from. Not about my parents. Not about the scar on my head. The Dursleys—my aunt and uncle—they told me that my mum and dad were drunks. That they were nobodies. That they died in a car crash because they were careless, pathetic people."
Harry's hands clenched in his pockets.
"For years, I hated them—my parents, I mean. Hated them for leaving me with people who treated me like a burden. Hated myself for apparently not being good enough to live for. My aunt didn't even keep photos of them in the house. I didn't know who I looked like more, which one gave me their nose or their eyes. I didn't know if they would've cared about me doing well in school, or whether they would've remembered my birthday."
He looked up then, met Draco's gaze. His voice cracked, just a little.
"And then Hagrid showed up. Took me away. Told me I was a wizard. That I belonged here, in this world. And in one night, I found out everything I'd ever been told was a lie. My parents weren't drunk vagrants. They were war heroes. They died trying to protect me from Voldemort. They didn't leave me because they were weak—they died because they were strong enough to stand against something truly evil."
Draco's expression had changed. The sneer was gone, replaced by something more cautious—something uncertain.
"That's why I get... so angry when people keep things from me," Harry continued, his tone firming. "Why I get upset when people lie to my face for 'my own good.' Because that's what the Dursleys told themselves. That they were doing the right thing. That hiding the truth would make things easier for all, magic killed my mother and her family, so obviously, magic would kill me too if it became a part of my life. That's why they had to stamp it out of me."
He took a deep breath and looked at Draco squarely.
"It's why I lost it on you," Harry said, voice low with guilt. "I'm sorry for drawing my wand on you. That wasn't right. But I figured... I owe you an explanation. Because whether we like it or not, we're in this war together. And I don't want us at odds."
Draco didn't respond at first. His expression was unreadable—no trace of mockery or pity, and Harry was grateful for that. Pity would've felt worse than anger. Instead, Draco just looked... uncertain. As though he couldn't quite figure Harry out.
"...Why the hell would you tell me that?" Draco asked suddenly, voice sharp.
Harry blinked. "Because I owed you? I thought... I didn't think it was wrong."
"No, you absolute fucking—ugh!"
Draco spun away and began pacing furiously, hands clenched at his sides. Harry instinctively took a step back, confused by the sudden surge of frustration.
"You didn't owe me anything!" Draco snapped. "You're right—I kept something from you. Something important. And yeah, it gave us an edge, but it probably cost your friend his job and any shred of respect he had left in the eyes of the Wizarding World. You were right to be furious! You had every reason to hex me into next week. You should still want to hex me!"
"But you're my friend," Harry said simply. "I didn't want you thinking I hated you."
Draco froze in place, staring at him like he'd grown another head. "You are so... Merlin's saggy left nut, Potter. Why are you like this? How does someone grow up in such a shitty place and still turn out like you?"
Harry tilted his head, confused. "Are you mad at me for forgiving you?"
"Yes!" Draco shouted, throwing his arms up. "Because none of this makes any damn sense! Everything about you contradicts what I was taught! You don't just give away pieces of yourself like that—not in this world. You don't just hand over your vulnerabilities to someone who could use them against you!"
His voice dropped an octave. "Have you even told Granger and Weasley this?"
Harry hesitated. "No. I mean, I think they've figured bits and pieces out, but... not everything. Not like I told you."
Draco stared at him, stunned. "Then why me, Potter? Why the bloody hell would you trust me with something like that?"
Harry met his gaze steadily. "Because you needed to hear it. Because I thought it might help you understand why I reacted the way I did. And maybe because... you're not who you used to be."
Draco laughed, bitter and humorless. "You really think I've changed that much?"
"I do."
"I'm still Draco Malfoy," he hissed. "The same prat who called your best friend a Mudblood. The same kid who laughed about a monster murdering Muggleborns in the school. The same spoiled little pureblood who mocked Cedric Diggory's death just to get under your skin."
Harry didn't flinch. "I know."
"And I still want to run the wizarding world one day," Draco said, voice rising again. "Not for some noble cause—but because I want power. I want influence. I want people to listen to me. I've even thought about buying the twins' shop from them, and I haven't ruled it out yet. I'm greedy. I'm manipulative. I'm not a good person."
Harry shook his head. "You keep saying that. But you're here. You stayed. You've decided to fight with us when you don't have to. You're trying, Draco. That counts for something."
Draco looked away, jaw clenched. "You're wrong about me."
"Maybe," Harry said quietly, eyes thoughtful. "But I'd rather be wrong for giving someone a chance… than be right for giving up on them."
Draco turned to him, the shadows playing across his pale face, eyes suddenly sharp with something dangerous—testing.
"Oh really?" he said, voice low and almost silky. "And what if I told you that everything—everything—from the moment I first spoke to you on the train, was a lie? That this entire friendship, this alliance… was a carefully constructed ruse. A ploy to get you alone. Right here. Right now."
His voice dropped to a whisper, deadly and precise.
"Look around, Potter. No one knows we're down here. Your friends are fast asleep, none the wiser. I could stun you where you stand. Hand you over to my father's master. Deliver the Boy Who Lived to the Dark Lord himself. I would be praised, exalted. Elevated above Bellatrix. I'd be his right hand, his favored."
He took a step closer, eyes boring into Harry's. "Look me in the eye, and tell me—honestly—that what I'm saying doesn't make you doubt me. Not even a little."
Harry blinked, unfazed. His voice was calm. Certain.
"It doesn't."
The tension snapped like a drawn bowstring. The mask of menace dropped from Draco's face, leaving behind something rawer.
Confusion. Hurt.
Vulnerability.
"Why?" he asked, voice cracking slightly. "Why not? I have every reason to turn on you. I've hated you for years. My family's on thin ice with the Dark Lord. Turning you in—it'd save them. It'd give me everything I ever wanted. Influence, safety, power… all of it."
Harry took a slow step forward, his eyes steady.
"Because I've seen the way you talk about Voldemort. The way your jaw tightens when someone mentions his title—The Dark Lord. The way your voice shifts when you say it—like the word itself is poison. You may have hated me, but you despise him, Draco. Not just for what he's done to your family, but for what he's done to you."
Draco didn't respond, but his fists clenched at his sides.
"You hate him for making you feel small. For tearing your life apart. And yet…" Harry's voice softened. "You didn't run. You didn't grab a sack of galleons and vanish across the Channel. You went home. You risked your life just to gather information—information that could get you killed or disowned. Everything you were raised to value—riches, reputation, the Malfoy legacy—you're putting it all on the line."
Harry's gaze didn't waver. "You're still helping us. Still planning to sell weapons to Dumbledore, weapons that could help change the tide of this war. And do you know what else you said?"
Draco looked up, his expression unreadable.
"Every time you've talked about the war ending," Harry continued, "you didn't say you hoped Dumbledore would win. Or the Ministry. Or the Light Side in general. You said me. That I would win."
He smiled faintly. "You put your faith in me. And that, Draco… that's why I trust you. Because even with everything stacked against us, you still chose me. How could I not trust someone who's willing to risk everything for the belief that I can win?"
For a long moment, Draco said nothing. His arms were crossed, his jaw tense, as if he was fighting a war inside himself. Then, barely above a whisper, he said:
"…You're insane."
Harry let out a quiet laugh. "Maybe. But Hermione once told me she read about a philosopher who said insanity and bravery were cousins. I guess I just inherited both."
Draco scoffed, shaking his head with a disbelieving huff. "You Gryffindors. You're all bloody mad."
They sat in silence for a bit, the tension easing into something more thoughtful. Then, unexpectedly, Draco spoke again—this time more quietly, more honestly than Harry had ever heard him.
"Do you know why I hated you?"
Harry blinked. "...No, actually," he admitted after a moment of thought. "I mean, I always figured we just rubbed each other the wrong way. That first meeting at Madam Malkin's, you gave a really bad first impression. And on the train, you tried to act like some sort of royalty. But yeah... I don't think we ever talked about it. Not really."
Draco looked away, almost ashamed. "That day on the train… it was the first time anyone had ever told me no. Ever. Not tutors. Not friends. Not anyone outside my family. And even my parents only said no when it was something dangerous or… embarrassing."
He paused, the weight of his words settling into the space between them.
"All my life, I was taught that my name—Malfoy—meant something. That it opened doors. That people would fall over themselves to be in my good graces. I genuinely thought that the famous Harry Potter would obviously want to be my friend. I had money, influence, a pureblood name that stretched back centuries. To me, it was inevitable."
Harry listened, not saying a word, just letting Draco speak.
"But then you said no. You turned me down in front of my friends. And not just that—you stood up for Weasley, someone I'd never even met, but had been told my whole life was beneath me. You laughed at everything I thought made me superior. You made friends with Mud—Muggleborns." Draco corrected himself quickly, glancing at Harry. "You played fair when I cheated in Quidditch. You risked your life standing up to the Dark Lord while I was being told to kneel at his feet."
Draco's voice trembled, just slightly. "You shattered everything I thought I knew."
Harry said nothing, letting him speak.
"I hated you for it," Draco continued, eyes fixed on the floor. "Because you made me feel… scared. You made me realize that so much of what I'd been taught—about blood, about loyalty, about what makes someone worthy—was hollow. And the worst part? Deep down, I knew you were right."
His hands clenched at his sides. "I wasn't brave enough to defy my father. I wasn't strong enough to stand alone. I hated you… because I wanted to be you. To have friends who stuck around because they chose to. To be someone who didn't have to use his family name like a shield."
He looked up, finally meeting Harry's gaze. "I was jealous. Plain and simple."
There was a long silence. Then Harry, voice quiet and sincere, asked, "Do you want to be friends?"
Draco blinked. "Didn't you already say we were?"
"No, I mean properly. Like… let's redo the train ride. No sneering, no acting like you're better than everyone."
Draco smirked faintly. "That part hasn't really changed. I just decided I ought to be able to back it up first."
"Prick."
"Arse."
They grinned at each other—tentative, but real. Then Harry took a step forward and extended his hand.
"Hi. I'm Harry Potter. What's your name?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Merlin, you are such a dork."
"Stop whining and work with me here," Harry said, trying not to laugh.
Draco gave a dramatic sigh, then took Harry's hand with a smirk of his own. "Nice to meet you, Harry Potter. My name is Draco Malfoy."
Harry grinned. "Nice to meet you, Draco. Wanna be friends?"
There was a beat of silence. Then Draco squeezed his hand, just slightly.
"Sure, Harry. Let's be friends."