Rip and Tear?
"Well? What the fuck are we waiting for?!" A voice demanded as it slammed its fists onto the desk. Under normal circumstances, such a brazen challenge wouldn't have gone unanswered.
He shared her desire for a righteous crusade.
Every instinct in him roared at him to take up the sword and the shield, march down Slughorn's house of horror and set it ablaze.
Set it ablaze with unceasing holy, sanctimonious fury, and scatter the ashes.
He wanted to drag the fat rat out of his den of excess and iniquity and shove him into the deepest, darkest hole of Azkaban. The likes of which from where he would never taste a drop of wine, never stuff his gullet with a hearty meal, or feel sunlight on his skin.
Such actions weren't without precedent either.
He had once stormed one of the most secure places in the ministry with nary a thestral and a squad of suicidal teenagers. Once, he had faced down an ancient basilisk with one and a half wand.
"Oi?!" The voice demanded and Harry shot a withering glare. Tonks balked at that, that was clearly unexpected. She snorted in frustration before dropping on the opposite chair with a huff.
Of course, the consequence of that said suicidal charge shouldn't be forgotten either. Sirius died due to his stupidity and brashness. He failed to properly assess the situation, gotten his friends into a monstrous risk, and pissed all over the Order's hard work of 12 months.
No, he needed to be better this time.
He needed to think.
Think. Think. And think.
Whatever had happened to Myrtle, could not possibly worsen due to his inaction over the next few hours. However, brash action would most certainly lead to his death. Slughorn would never allow her the chance to testify before an Auror committee. If cornered, he would eliminate her first and claim insanity as a defense.
Narcissa looked at him in an equal measure of bewilderment and curiosity. No doubt she shared Tonk's view about his silence. However, she preferred to remain observant – outsourcing the outburst part of the play to Tonks.
The tiger would stalk its prey some more and remain crouched for now. The buffalo basilisk was simply not vulnerable enough for him to strike as of yet.
"She is right, you know," Narcissa spoke, daring to break the uncomfortable silence. Judging by her surprised look, Tonks clearly wasn't expecting this from Narcissa.
Harry narrowed his eyes at the duo, as they locked eyes.
Were there new developments he wasn't aware of?
Still, sisterly tussle was the least of his concerns right now.
Slughorn was clearly in league with Voldemort. He wasn't a death eater. That much Harry knew for sure. So how far did the rabbit hole lore go between the teacher and his favorite prodigy?
A facilitator.
The bridge between Voldemort and the old world. The one who whispered in drawing rooms, who passed names, who watched monsters rise and smiled because they had once sat at his table. Apparently sharing the limelight was at the core of his existence. Regardless of how many innocents perished to power the limelight.
Narcissa brought him back to the main problem.
"Harry," Narcissa asked again. "What are we going to do?"
"We," Harry finally spoke up, harshly emphasizing the word. "Are going to do nothing."
Both Narcissa and Tonks looked at him in bewilderment. Just before Tonks was about to unleash another rant, Narcissa placed a gentle hand on her forearm. Tonks violently pulled her arm and glared daggers at Narcissa.
Something definitely happened. Harry mused as the two sisters had a starring match before turning their attention to him.
The why remained unspoken. Harry responded before somebody could ask him that.
"Because there's a high probability Slughorn is linked to someone far more dangerous," Harry said, his tone flat. His eyes met Narcissa's. She gave a small nod.
Message sent. Message received.
Tonks caught it and exploded.
"Again, with this secrecy shit between you two!" she spat. "Once again I'm left out of the loop while you two scheme in the dark and bleed each other's veins in secret lessons."
"Tonks, this something we really don't want you involved with. These are dangerous people not above murdering, obliviating, or worse-" Harry started.
"Well I'm not a fucking kid, Harry. And in case you have forgotten," She pointed at her pale sister, "You are not with her. You are with me. ME. She isn't the one who saved your life from Snape. It was ME."
She leaned over the desk, glaring directly into his eyes.
"So, unless you forget, I was the one who saved YOUR life. Not her! If she had her way, you would've been fucking poisoned to death!" Tonks screamed, smashing her hands on the table.
"Highly unlikely," Narcissa muttered from behind her.
"Shut the fuck up," Tonks shot back and Narcissa raised a single brow, as if disappointed in the tantrums of a spoilt toddler she is forced to babysit.
"Calm yourself, both of you, now!" Harry demanded, pointing Tonks back to her empty chair.
"There's only one of us that needs to calm down here, Valemont," Narcissa muttered and Harry shot her a warning glance and she thankfully shut up. He felt the onset of a pounding headache and gently massaged his temples in response before he glanced up.
"If you must know…. Our enemy is a very dangerous, dark sorcerer who leads a terrorist organization of like-minded degenerates. In short, they're blood supremacists who believe in the rule of Sacred 28 over Great Britain. Their founder claims himself to be the last remaining heir of Salazar Slytherin," Harry said and to her credit, Tonks gave him her undivided attention.
"They are dark mages of the vilest sort. Necromancy? Infanticide? Genocide? Slavery? Torture? Trust me when I say this – there is no deed too foul for them. No action too far off in pursuit of their goals. Half of them would make Gellert Grindelwald look like a saint," Harry continued on.
"Then all the more reason to storm Slughorn's house," Tonks said.
"No!"
His voice cracked through the room like a thunderclap. Both women flinched. He immediately brought a hand to his mouth, took several deep breaths.
"I'm sorry," he said, quieter now. "It's just… Narcissa and I have a history with these people."
"Wow. Another bond between you two," Tonks muttered.
"They murdered my parents."
Silence.
Tonks looked down, shame creeping into her face. She fidgeted with her gloves. Her voice was a whisper.
"I'm sorry, Harry."
Harry shrugged. "The point is these people are devious beyond measure and their roots extend deeply into the bureaucracy, intelligentsia, and the press. If Slughorn dies without testifying, the whole incident will be narrated as the deluded ramblings of a pedophile."
He looked at them again, "Make no mistake about it, their stealth and operational efficiency is second to none. My parents hid under a fidelius charm, and these bastards had spies amongst people whom they considered family. They didn't last beyond a single month."
I still haven't done anything about that rat bastard, wormtail.
Harry noted the difference.
Narcissa focused on the magical implications. The flaw in the system. The threat.
Tonks focused on the human cost. The betrayal. The grief.
Night and day.
He smiled, just faintly.
"Which is why," he said, "we're going to bait them. Draw them into the open. The Dementor gambit failed. They're scrambling. Debating escalation. Now's our chance to retaliate. Peel the masks off. Expose them for what they are."
He turned to Narcissa.
"I'm going to need some money. And one of your family's good wines."
Buttering Up
"Sweetheart?! A guest for you, one of your students!" the woman announced and smiled at him again. "Can I get you anything, dear?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Crouch," Harry said politely, bowing his head to the woman.
"Well, if you need anything, just call an elf and they will be with you shortly," she said, affectionately patting his cheek before walking outside.
Harry watched her go until she was a respectable distance, then pulled out his wand and began casting privacy spells. Barty raised an eyebrow at his antics but thankfully didn't demand an explanation — or worse, arm himself. Mad-Eye most certainly would have reacted immediately to such shenanigans.
But then again, Mad-Eye didn't have a wife, due to what he called, "Potential security risks! A wife is more likely to slit your throat in your sleep than a lamia! Check the statistics!"
Chances were either Barty was supremely confident in his ability to neutralize Harry, or he trusted him. Both were troubling possibilities.
Barty folded his newspaper with an exaggerated swagger, took off his glasses, and looked at him. "You were neither expected nor invited."
"I apologize for dropping by unannounced, Professor," Harry said.
"I am no longer your professor, Valemont," Crouch said. "Also, you visited during summer. Either you are the most boring person alive..."
Crouch trailed off at that. The implication left standing.
Harry reached into his pocket and presented it to Barty.
"A vintage. Italian-made," Crouch commented, examining the bottle. "First, you pull up uninvited. Now you're trying to bribe me. Had you done this yesterday, I would have had you arrested."
Harry grinned at that. "Speaking of that, how is retirement treating you?"
"Two days left in the Corps. They take a savage pleasure in throwing me towards the most inane of tasks. Last week they wanted me to shadow rookies to ensure nothing went off. I refused to show up," Barty said, unblinking eyes glaring into Harry.
"Oof," Harry muttered. "My condolences."
"Hm, yes, true," Barty muttered. "Which brings me to the next question."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Why would the most troublesome student of Hogwarts, heir of a long-decrepit house, show up to darken my door unannounced... march inside and place privacy charms?" Barty said.
Harry really wanted to see how far off this would go. He missed having Mad-Eye around. He wondered if the vibes would be the same.
"Maybe I am just here to assassinate you on behalf of a Dark Lord?" Harry grinned, and Crouch snorted in amusement at that.
"That would make you the fourth assassin who tried a hit on my life and most certainly the worst," Crouch said.
"Who was the best?" Harry asked.
"A narcotics smuggler from a noble family. Degenerate ran roughshod in India and Brazil, flooding Knockturn Alley with all sorts of filth. This was back when I served in the International Confederation Against Dark Magic," Crouch said. "He sent a transfigured banshee to me in a gift box."
"How did you survive?" Harry asked.
"My instructors reinforced me to always mind my surroundings," Crouch said. "Coincidentally, this should have been a lesson I drilled into you. Clearly, I failed."
Crouch pointed toward a wall behind him, and the illusion melted away to reveal a dead-serious Mrs. Crouch with a bow leveled at him.
"A bow and arrow?" Harry asked.
"Iron ingot, thrice blessed by a fae's mischief. Left under a full moon for an hour to... marinate," Crouch said.
Harry looked unimpressed.
"You are very welcome to raise your shields and block if you are unimpressed, Valemont," Crouch said. "So, enough with the bullshit now."
He waved his hand, and his wife came and slowly removed Harry's wand from his robe and left.
"Why are you here?" Crouch asked.
Harry sighed before taking a deep breath to prevent himself from grinning. Fuck what Sirius said — Crouch had serious balls on him. Harry was very satisfied about his selection. No doubt he would give Tom hell.
"What if I told you... I had a way to make you once again a legend in the Corps?" Harry said. "Or better yet, the minister of magic?"
"You came all this way," he said, voice clipped, "cast half a dozen privacy wards, performed a minor comedy routine, and wasted thirty minutes of my retirement... for this."
He flicked a finger at the unopened dossier Harry had laid on the table.
"Allegations without evidence. Theater without substance. I'm not in the mood for it, Valemont. Not today."
Harry didn't flinch.
"My intel is legitimate," he said evenly.
Barty gave him a thin, dangerous smile.
"Legitimate intel by a boy not old enough to shave doesn't mean legal evidence. No judge in the Wizengamot would sign off on a search warrant for Horace Slughorn — not without ironclad proof and twelve witnesses. And even then, they'd require the signatures of three senior department heads and a small virgin sacrifice."
Harry tilted his head. "That's very specific."
"It's the law," Barty said.
Harry tilted his head, smiling faintly. "Really? I find it hard to believe a man like you doesn't have one or two holdovers in the judiciary. People who remember what you did in the drug runners and freaks left out in the open after Grindelwald fell. People who'd sign a slip just to get back in your good graces."
Crouch's gaze narrowed.
"I know how the game is played, sir," Harry said. "And I'm not here to play fair."
Barty folded his arms. "Even if I had the pull — which I don't — and even if I cared, which is a long shot, why would I burn political capital chasing a Felix Felicis dealer with tenure? You want me to make an enemy out of one of the most connected potioneers in Britain for what? A headline? A pat on the back? A citation?"
Harry's eyes gleamed with triumph. Checkmate.
"No. I want to make you the minister of magic."
"You take Slughorn, and you don't just bag a criminal. You open the first door to something bigger. You follow the rot. And at the end of that path? You find the ones who organized the attack on Hogwarts."
Crouch didn't interrupt. That was as close to interest as Harry was going to get.
Harry continued. "You free Professor Orla Vinsmere. The public face of the Hogwarts Dementor debacle. The one everyone's too afraid to name. She's not a villain. She's a scapegoat. I don't doubt her complicity in the attack. But she wasn't the one who organized. Somebody wanted that woman silenced and removed her from jail…."
"I'm aware of her case."
"Then you know it's political."
Crouch's silence was confirmation enough.
"The Dementor attack shattered trust in Dumbledore. Even the muggleborn parents are filing petitions. The ministry is circling. The Prophet smells blood."
Harry leaned forward, eyes steady.
"You become the man who solved it."
"You want me to run a rogue operation. Interrogate a protected academic. Violate three standing statutes."
"No," Harry said. "I want you to redeem the Auror Office. You once ran it with pride. Now you get to drag it back from the pit. Purebloods will back you for restoring order. Halfbloods will respect your record. And muggleborns will call you a man of action instead of Archmage Hollow – you will be the man who saved children. Nobody will be able to begrudge that."
"And what does that give me?"
"Standing," Harry said. "The political capital to reshape the Ministry. To bring back the departments Dumbledore crippled. Like HIT."
Crouch froze.
"You couldn't have known about HIT."
Harry's smile sharpened.
"I did my reading. That department was your design. You built it for threat response, and Dumbledore shut it down before it could do its job. Said it was excessive. Said it was too aggressive."
Crouch's eyes narrowed to slits.
"This time, you get to prove he was wrong. That the threat is real. That you were right all along."
"And what is this threat exactly?" Crouch asked.
Harry's voice grew quiet.
"You follow this lead far enough, and you'll uncover something monstrous. An ideology. People are already preparing for a war. They killed my parents to cover up the truth. I believe they have taken to calling themselves Death Eaters."
He looked Crouch square in the eye.
"It will make Grindelwald look quaint."
Then — finally — he reached out and opened the file.
He read for less than a minute before shutting it again.
"You still haven't given me proof," Crouch said, voice shattering Harry's hopes. "What you've given me is teenage angst dressed up in field reports. Guilt. Grudges. Suspicion. You're asking me to burn half of my credibility on a theory."
Harry exhaled through his nose.
Then dropped a leather sack onto the table.
It hit with a dense, metallic thud. Gold gleamed through the opening, spilling just enough to be unmistakable. No counterfeit, no goblin vouchers. Raw Galleons.
Crouch's expression darkened.
"What the hell is this?"
"A safety deposit," Harry said. "For you."
Crouch growled, "Explain. Carefully."
"If you won't act out of pride, or duty, or vengeance — then I want you to act out of practicality. You won't see the good you could do by being the minister of magic. Fine! Then let me give you a retirement gift."
Crouch's eye twitched at hearing the word, minister.
"You know how public service ends," Harry continued. "One headline, two memos, and a thank-you plaque. Wages that vanish in months. You've got medals. Commendations. But no pension large enough to survive with a wife and kids."
Harry nodded toward the bag.
"That's enough to buy a small hamlet near Hogwarts. Far enough from the cities. High enough ground. Wardable. Sustainable. And if I'm wrong, you'll live there for the next twenty years while the next Dark Lord tears Britain apart."
Crouch didn't blink.
"I'm that confident in my lead" Harry said. "Confident enough to pay your silence and your inaction in advance. Or you could consider it as collateral if the lead turns out to be false and they laugh you out of the ministry"
Harry leaned back, hands behind his head, "Regardless of what happens, you will atleast be a homeowner in this austerity ridden shithole."
Still, Crouch said nothing.
Harry let the words sit.
"You think I'm wrong?" he asked. "Then take the gold. Walk away. Grow old. I've just bought your safety."
"And if I'm right?"
Harry smiled.
"I hear the hot tub in the minister's mansion is large enough to accommodate many women at once. And the food? Out of this world. The opportunity to stick to Dumbledore? That's priceless!"
Then Crouch reached out — not for the gold, but for the file again.
And kept reading.
"I'll make inquiries. Quiet ones. No authorizations. If Slughorn so much as hiccups in the wrong direction, I'll come down on him like the wrath of Merlin."
Somewhere far off, he could feel just the barest of nods – a proud one – from Narcissa.
The Truth Shall Set Us Free
Rita Skeeter paced, arms folded tightly over her chest, her quill twitching nervously in her pocket.
"You're not asking me to write an article," she said. "You're asking me to start a war."
Narcissa, lounging in an old green-backed chair with perfect posture, sipped from a porcelain cup of coffee she hadn't touched in fifteen minutes.
"No," she replied calmly. "I'm offering you a debut."
Rita stopped pacing. Her brows knit.
"Do you have any idea how this will look? I'm still in school. If I publish something like this without permission from the Prophet, they'll—"
"They'll talk about you." Narcissa set the cup down with a soft clink. "They'll whisper. They'll scoff. And then they'll read it. Besides, you are writing for the Hogwarts's gazette not The Prophet."
Rita didn't move.
Narcissa stood slowly and approached her, heels clicking softly on the stone floor. She stopped a few inches away – placed comforting hands on her shoulders.
"You know what happens to fresh graduates with talent and nothing else?" she asked. "They rot in basement cubicles. Fetching coffee. Proofreading obituaries while pimply interns get hand-me-down assignments from bored editors who never had half your fire."
"I don't want to rot," Rita muttered.
"No," Narcissa said. "You want to be seen. To be feared. To walk into a press room and silence it with a raised brow."
Rita's lips pressed into a thin line.
"This article," Narcissa continued, "will not just earn you ink. It will headline you into your career. You'll graduate next year already famous. Already dangerous."
Rita blinked. "You're talking like it's guaranteed."
"It is," Narcissa said, tilting her head. "Because I'll fund it. Resources. Autodictat quils, machines, inkpots, or paper - I'll make sure you're well-funded. You'll have a cushion under you and glass shoes on your feet."
Rita hesitated. "What if it backfires?"
Narcissa's eyes gleamed.
"Then you'll have every household in Britain reading your words. Some with fury. Some with awe. But none with indifference. All notoriety is good. Indifference is where showmanship goes to die."
There was silence.
Then Rita reached into her coat and slowly drew out her dictaquill.
The tip glowed red.
"I want quotes," she said. "Real ones. And evidence. Not just a whisper campaign."
Narcissa smiled.
"Oh, Rita. You're finally starting to think like a Black."
DEMENTORS BREACH HOGWARTS WHILE MINISTRY HIDES BEHIND PAPERWORK
By Rita Skeeter, Senior Correspondent (Provisional)
It was supposed to be a normal evening. Owls arriving with letters. Cauldrons cleaned. Homework delayed. Instead, Hogwarts witnessed the worst security failure in its long and storied history — and the Ministry of Magic wants it buried.
On the eve of what was expected to be a routine term, a group of Dementors — yes, Dementors — breached the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Ten children were attacked by soul-sucking Dementors on what should have been a normal school evening.
This is not a drill. This is not wartime. This is now.
And the Ministry of Magic doesn't want you to know.
In what can only be described as a catastrophic breach of security, multiple Dementors were spotted gliding through the courtyards and corridors of Hogwarts Castle — the very institution our children are told is the safest place in the magical world.
Ten students collapsed. Ten children nearly kissed. Ten souls nearly devoured.
And where was the Ministry?
Plotting optics.
According to internal sources, Minister Millicent Bagnold refused emergency Portkey transport for the comatose students — not because of magical limits, not because of protocol, but because she feared "raising suspicion among Muggleborn families."
In other words: saving face mattered more than saving lives.
As of today, the students have awakened and are expected to make a full recovery. But this miracle is not owed to the Ministry. Nor to the Auror Office. Nor to the Hogwarts administration.
It is owed to a fifteen-year-old boy.
Harry Valemont — a fourth-year student with no departmental badge and no auror training — was the only one who acted. Eyewitnesses confirm he cast multiple Patronuses, personally repelled Dementors, and triaged two victims before faculty even understood what was happening.
Let me be clear: he saved the school. The Ministry didn't.
The supposed most powerful wizard in the world, Archmage Dumbledore didn't.
A child did.
And what has the Ministry done in the aftermath?
Not issue a public apology.
Not open a formal investigation.
Not even admit the incident happened.
The Hogwarts Gazette reached out to the Headmaster's office for comment. We were told Albus Dumbledore was "unavailable."
Unavailable — while students were left to convulse in the arms of screaming classmates. Unavailable — while dark creatures hunted through our ancestral halls. Unavailable — while the mothers and fathers of this country went another day without knowing their children were nearly torn from them.
Is this the legacy of Albus Dumbledore? The "greatest living wizard" missing during the worst attack on Hogwarts in a generation?
What exactly are we paying for? The school has raised its tuition by a record four percent this year — the highest increase since 1907 — allegedly to improve infrastructure and safety. And yet, when safety was needed most, it failed in the most grotesque and spectacular way.
So I ask:
What next?
Will it be werewolves tearing through countryside wards while the Werewolf Registry Office hosts luncheons?
Will it be a vampire coven discovered feeding in the bowels of the ministry's foreign office amidst galas?
Will a dark lord rise again from within the very foundations of the Ministry, groomed by these same hands that now fold quietly into robes of cowardice?
The public deserves more than apologies. It deserves answers.
The children of Hogwarts deserve more than prayers. They deserve justice.
And if the Ministry won't answer the call — perhaps it's time the rest of us did.
— Rita Skeeter
Rita burst through the hedgerow like a Bludger at full speed, hair wild, parchment fluttering in her arms like wings.
"It's sold out!"
She spun in place, her boots kicking up grass and crushed petals. "Every copy! From Feldcroft to fucking Hogsmeade!"
Tonks, stacking crates of bottled anti-possession potion, blinked. "You actually printed more than fifty?"
"Three thousand," Rita breathed. "Gone. Obliterated. Do you know what that means?"
Above them, two school owls swooped past overhead, dragging an enchanted banner that shimmered in bold red letters:
DEMENTORS BREACH HOGWARTS WHILE MINISTRY HIDES BEHIND PAPERWORK
Harry gave a low whistle. "Subtle."
Rita grinned like she'd just cracked open Gringotts. "People from as far as Cragscroftshire are swarming Diagon Alley. Bainburgh is rationing copies to 'one per household.' I had to bribe the Hogwarts printmaster to run two more shifts overnight."
Tonks tilted her head. "Didn't you print it under Hogwarts Gazette?"
"Yes. And Hogwarts Gazette is now the hottest paper in the isles," Rita declared, planting both fists on her hips. "Already ordered two more tonnes of blank paper. Press schedule is locked. I've got a dictaquill set up to do daily dispatches. And I sent a howler to the Prophet's editor suggesting he retire early to avoid the coming storm."
Harry coughed into his sleeve to hide the smile.
"Oh, and Narcissa," Rita added, rifling through her bag, "here's the invoice."
She unfurled a scroll of parchment that unspooled like a red carpet. Six feet. Seven. The numbers shimmered in elegant gold ink. Decorative margins, unfortunately not optional.
Narcissa's eye twitched. Just once.
"I may have... upgraded to war-grade owl post and hired three elves for sorting."
Rita gave a sheepish grin. "But it was worth it."
Narcissa accepted the scroll between two fingers and folded it with agonizing elegance.
"I've always wanted to see how close I could get to embezzlement without Walburga rising from the chair to hex my ovaries," she said dryly.
Rita squealed and hugged her from the side. Narcissa allowed it, just barely — a small mercy, from a woman who tolerated neither ink smudges nor sentiment.
Observations
"Wards. Tracers. Cloak barriers keyed to known bloodlines," Harry muttered. "Please tell me you check for all this? It's the trademark of these death eaters."
Behind him, Crouch sighed audibly.
"Merlin's balls, Valemont," he said. "We were doing this before you were born."
Harry didn't flinch. "I'm just being careful."
"Careful is fine," Crouch said, voice flat. "Paranoid is tiresome."
A blonde woman across the room, dressed in practical field leathers, glanced up from her maps and smirked. "Thank you, sir," she said. "He's been talking for twenty minutes and he's not even inside yet."
"Lara," Crouch said without turning. "Make sure he doesn't vaporize himself when we step across the threshold."
"Yes, Captain."
Harry grumbled but stepped back from the scrying mirror. "Just trying not to get dementor'd this time."
Then the door creaked open.
The room shifted.
A new presence entered. Not loud. Just… dense.
He was tall. Just over six feet. Blonde, broad-shouldered, with muscle coiled beneath a simple black cloak. Old scars marked his cheek and temple, half-faded but clear in the right light. His eyes were sharp. Not cruel, but far from kind.
He grinned.
The temperature in the room dropped a degree.
Crouch smiled. Crouch actually smiled.
"Ah," he said, stepping forward, clasping the man's arm. "Valemont, meet Reinhardt Edelmar. First captain of HIT. Made his name cleaning out the vampire covens in Eastern Europe back when the Confederation still had teeth."
Reinhardt turned and seized Harry's hand in a grip that could have crushed bone.
"You are ze one who killed dementors?" he said, voice like gravel under boot. "Is good. Good spine. Spine is important."
Harry forced a smile and nodded, barely resisting the urge to shake out his hand once Reinhardt let go.
Then the door opened again.
A short woman stepped in. Sleek, efficient black robes. Chin-length bob cut framing a pale face. And glasses — massive, circular lenses tinted rose red like they had no business existing outside a carnival.
She wore them like they were invisibility cloaks.
"Hello," she said breezily. "I'm Myrcella."
Harry blinked. "Are those—?"
"Yes," she said before he finished. "And I like them."
Before he could process that, Reinhardt turned to Crouch, tone shifting.
"We've tracked Slughorn three days. His movements are irregular. No social calls. No clear patterns. He's not even pretending to hide what he's hoarding."
Myrcella nodded, already pulling a scroll from her satchel. "We took samples from the external chimney vents and drain runoff last night. Essence of copperroot. Shimmerroot. Chopped cauldronbone sediment. Enough residue to suggest industrial-scale potion work."
"Not domestic volumes," Crouch said.
"Not even close," she confirmed.
Harry and Crouch exchanged a look.
Slughorn was hiding something. Something big.
Then the door opened again.
Four men entered. All grinning. All scarred. All silent, until one raised a hand and said with reverence, "Captain."
Crouch nodded once, firm.
"Squad."
Reinhardt clapped one of them on the back.
"I cannot tell you how happy I am," he said, still grinning, "to have the whole family back together."
Crouch didn't say anything at first.
But his eyes swept over them, calculating, and finally — softly — he said:
"Let's bring the hammer down."
Today Was a Good Day
Tonks was curled against Harry's side, nuzzling her nose into the curve of his neck, occasionally letting out contented little sounds that made Narcissa's left brow twitch ever so slightly.
"You've done well," she said at last. "In one stroke, you've thrown the Dark Lord closer to exposure than he ever wished to be. And you've gained a powerful ally inside the Ministry."
Harry offered her a modest smile and patted Tonks gently on the back. She purred like a cat and snuggled in deeper.
"I couldn't have done it without you two," Harry said. "You both held the knife steady."
"A little more than that, I'd wager," Narcissa said. "Was opening MystiTech Ventures part of your plan all along?"
Harry blinked. "How did you know about that?"
She gave a thin smile. "Lucius was boasting over supper yesterday about tracing the Gazette's parent company to a firm registered in Vermont. MystiTech Ventures, LLC."
Harry groaned and rubbed his forehead. "I still don't know how they knew that name."
Tonks popped a lollipop into her mouth and chimed in, voice baby-sweet, "Because I found it."
Harry blinked at her.
Tonks beamed. "You wwot tha dumb fake name in one of your ledgers at Ollis. Said it was ya alias when dealing with annoying customers that were extwa meanie. I never forgot it."
Harry owlishly blinked at her.
"I listened when you ranted, y'know," she said, smugly twirling the stick between her fingers. "I just had to do a teensy weensy name search in the Gazette filings. And ta-da. Mystery solved. You're welcome."
Harry stared. Then laughed.
Tonks puffed up with delight, nose wrinkling. "Mmm-hmm. I'm a genius. Say it. C'mon."
Narcissa let out a long, regal sigh.
"I raised a demon," she muttered.
"Hekate help me. Outwitted by my own."
He leaned down and kissed Tonks on the forehead. She beamed wider.
A brief paused followed before Harry spoke again.
"For the times that are coming," Harry said, voice turning serious, "we need gold and soft power. Nothing sells like news. And if we get rich fighting a dark lord, who's going to complain?"
"I might," Narcissa murmured dryly. "Considering I fronted the initial bill."
Harry turned to her.
"Which is why I was saving this."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a rolled scroll, bound with red wax. He held it out to her.
She took it warily, broke the seal, and began to read.
Tonks leaned in to look too, lips smacking on her lollipop.
Narcissa's eyes widened — just slightly. "This is…"
Harry nodded.
"A full third share in MystiTech. Fully notarized. Equal voice on investment decisions. Backdated to the day of the first Gazette issue."
Narcissa blinked once, slowly. "You... you didn't have to."
"I never leave a man behind," Harry said, then winked. "Or a witch."