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Chapter Text

Personal Journal Entry – Harry James Potter

I am not long for this world. The flesh of my arm rots under ancient curses that no counterspell can hold back for long. My magic flares at odd times now, no longer answering to discipline or control. My wife lies in the bed behind me, sleeping restlessly despite the wards we layered over this place — a remote highland refuge buried in the stone like an afterthought. She twitches sometimes. Her phantom limb must ache tonight.

There is no glamour left to peel away. No curtain to draw back and find innocence underneath. I know what I’ve done. I remember every act, every cut, every flicker of ritual flame. And still, I would do it all again. I would walk through the fire blindfolded and smiling if it meant unmaking them — if it meant seeing her smile without that edge of caution, if it meant Susan could look into the mirror without searching for what the war carved out of her face.

I write this not for legacy, nor vindication. If anything, this is an obituary for the man I used to be — and a warning to the one I must become again.

They took everything from me.

Not all at once. That would’ve been too easy. Too obvious. They carved it away in slivers — a memory here, a fragment of power there, always hidden beneath the robes of friendship and the rhetoric of “the greater good.” It began before I even set foot in Hogwarts, before I held a wand, before I understood that I was a tool forged for someone else’s war.
And all the while, I smiled and thanked them.

I thought I was lucky to have friends. I thought Dumbledore was kind. I thought Ron was loyal. I thought Hermione was brilliant. I thought Ginny loved me.
I thought wrong.

The first memory came during a soul-mapping ritual I attempted alone, deep in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. I had a theory — one I’d pursued for years — that memory loss from Obliviation wasn’t just magical erasure, but soul damage. I never expected to uncover a splinter of myself caught in the weave of my own core, screaming wordlessly in a voice I barely recognized. When it broke loose, I collapsed in the runes. Bled from the nose, ears, and mouth. My magic nearly imploded.
But I saw it.
I saw a room I never remembered being in. I saw Dumbledore’s hands pressing down on my chest as he whispered an incantation in a dialect older than the stones of the castle. I saw Hermione waiting beside him, eyes wide with something between excitement and worship.
I saw my body twitch under the spellwork, and I saw a thread of golden light twist away from my skull and sink into hers. My memory. My mind. My gift.

And I remembered her words so many years later — that her memory had always been her greatest asset. That it was why she became the youngest Minister in history. That I had always been forgetful, hadn’t I?
It didn’t end there.

There were other rituals. A channeling performed in the dead of night, while I slept in a cupboard, curled around a blanket as thin as paper. Dumbledore's magic threaded into me while Ron stood nearby, his expression blank but expectant. I saw the glowing tether between my core and his — a siphon of raw magical potential, twinned to my output like a parasite.
I saw the moment my gift for Parseltongue, untrained and wild, was mutilated into something broken.
Cut.

They took the part that could speak to dragons.
You read that right.
Salazar Slytherin’s legacy in my bloodline ran deeper than they ever allowed me to understand. They judged it too dangerous, too unstable, too “dark” for a child to bear. So they carved it out like infection. But that power wasn’t malignant. It was mine.

I might’ve accepted all of it, if they’d just told me the truth.
Instead, they gave me friendship like poisoned honey. They trained me to trust their hands even as they marked me with ritual scars I couldn’t see. I became the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Endured, and the Weapon Who Served — always smiling, always grateful, always fooled.

Then came Ginny. The wife in name, the liar in truth. She brewed potions in secret — not to harm, no. That would’ve made it easier to see. She brewed contraceptives, slipped into tea, soup, water. I drank them for years, thinking I was sterile, thinking something in the war had broken me.

I wanted children.She wanted trophies.

She was rising through the Quidditch leagues, becoming the face of Britain’s post-war pride. Motherhood was never on the cards for her — not when it could wrinkle a press photo or delay her sponsorships. But she couldn’t tell me that. So she stole my choice, just like the others.

I left. Quietly. Without dramatics. I filed for magical annulment under clause 4A: Uninformed Consensual Deception. She tried to spin it to the press. It didn’t matter. I had already begun my work.

I needed back what was mine.

The reclamation ritual wasn’t written in any modern tome. It was a hybrid — ancient blood rites bound with temporal echoes and soul resonance. I spent two years building it, piecing it together from ruins and forgotten family grimoires. I performed it on the summer solstice, when the walls between self and self were weakest. I drugged them first — Ron and Hermione — stunned them in their own home, laid their bodies on a ritual circle drawn with silver and ground thestral bone.

I remember the smell of it.
When I pulled the magic from them, it wasn’t violent. It was surgical. I reclaimed what they took — the focus, the memory, the raw spell power that had once been mine by right. It flowed back into me like water seeking its source.

Hermione began to unravel first. She remained Minister, for a time, but her competence frayed under the pressure. Without that unfair advantage, she found herself drowning in the machinery of the office. She was smart. But not brilliant. Not without my mind behind hers.

Ron, on the other hand, collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. His dueling skill vanished overnight. He stumbled through Auror duties. His core, starved of borrowed strength, sputtered like wet tinder. Magic still came, but it was a whisper — barely enough to lift a quill, let alone hold a line.

And Molly Weasley noticed.
She had been there the night Ron was gifted. She had seen the ritual. She recognized the signs.

Her howler didn’t reach me — the wards burned it to ash before I touched it. But I heard the whispers. I saw the meetings. The Order of the Phoenix, such as it was, gathered again in dark rooms. Not to plan a revolution or fight dark lords — no. Just to protect their illusion of moral superiority. To pretend that what they did had been necessary, justified, for the good of all.
They feared what I might do next. 

I took my distance.
I met Susan again during an assignment in the Department of Mysteries. She was already Head of the DMLE — young, respected, scarred but resolute. She asked about a relic. I answered. And somehow, in the spaces between words, we started healing.
But not alone.
Daphne entered our lives like a blade through velvet, entirely unbothered by the mythology of Harry Potter. At a Ministry gala, of all places. She asked me a question no one else ever had: “Do you like being the one everyone owes?”

The three of us became indivisible. Aligned. Each of us had lost something to the system. Each of us had refused to remain broken. And together, we were strong.
But strength breeds fear.
Hermione — desperate, addicted to what she had once possessed — used her authority to begin a campaign of slow, suffocating retaliation. I was locked out of my office. Susan was reassigned. Daphne was charged with conduct unbecoming a Lady of the Wizengamot. Lies. All of it.
We chose exile. We were hunted.
Daphne lost her leg in France — a severing curse from Fred Weasley, whose twin had died in the war. I killed him where he stood. Susan lost an eye. I lost my dominant arm. The war was long, and it was brutal, and it ended with the deaths of every traitor who once dared call themselves friend.

Years passed.
We did not grow old so much as worn. Spent. Burned down to the coals.
But we survived.
There was love in that. Real love. Not the romantic fantasy sold in storybooks or headlines. Not the fluttering nonsense of teenage infatuation. Ours was a quiet, bloodstained truth. A shared fire that burned hotter because the world had tried so hard to put it out.

We built a life among the ashes. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t fair. But it was ours. The world moved on without us — let it. We had each other. We laughed. We bickered. We fucked like the end was always coming. And maybe it was. None of us would live long. The curses took their toll. The fight had hollowed our cores and frayed our time.

But then Daphne brought out that damned tome.
It was old — the kind of old that made magic books dangerous just by existing. A Greengrass heirloom bound in faded leather and dragonhide. She said she’d found it years ago but hadn’t dared open it. Until now.

We’d been talking over tea, one of those heavy evenings where the body aches and the soul is too tired to argue with it. She asked, “If you could go back, would you?”

I said no. Without blinking. Because I wouldn’t undo the pain if it meant losing her. Or Susan. Because the path was cruel, but it led to them. To us.

Then she said, “What if we didn’t have to lose each other this time?”

The ritual wasn’t theoretical. It was madness. Temporal convergence with soul anchoring, powered by the willing death of all participants and the tears of a timeless being. The ingredients were absurd. Dangerous. Ethically... irrelevant. We laughed at first. But then we stopped laughing.
What if it worked?

We could go back. Not as children, but as adults in younger bodies. With all our knowledge. Our strength. Our experience. And a plan. This time we could prevent it all — the manipulations, the lies. We could build power early, reshape alliances, and destroy the rot before it spread.

It wasn’t about vengeance anymore. It was about reclamation.
We spent eight years preparing. Gathering everything. The sands of a shattered Time Turner. The pure, willingly shed blood of a unicorn — gifted to us by a creature too old to be named, found in a forest too dangerous to exist on any map. Susan nearly died retrieving it. I still bear claw marks across my ribs.

The final component? Death.

Three ritual knives embedded in our hearts, by our own hands, into each other’s hearts at the exact moment the ritual circle aligned with the equinox and the unicorn’s essence was set aflame. It had to be simultaneous. It had to be pure. It had to be willing.
And we were. All of us.
There was no fear. Neither in Daphne’s eyes or  in Susan’s voice. We stood in the circle, robes stitched with runes, scarred hands steady. We had lived through hell. This was mercy.

If this reaches anyone — if this journal survives the transition — know this:
I am not the boy who defeated Voldemort.
I am not the hero of Britain.
I am not the savior they built shrines to.

I am Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily, husband of Susan and Daphne, and the only living soul who remembers the crimes that were scrubbed clean by history.
They will not see me coming this time.
Let them pray they never look me in the eyes.
Because I remember everything.
And I’m already awake.

Chapter Text

The cave exhaled magic with every breath they took inside it, as if the air had been sleeping for centuries and only now remembered it had teeth. It was far older than any structure touched by the Ministry, older than Hogwarts, perhaps older than even the first rituals ever etched into stone. 

They had chosen it for the power that dwells in this place. The leyline beneath the cave forked twice before folding into a deep-seated wellspring of temporal magic—a current slow and potent enough to hold a ritual of this magnitude. It had taken nearly three years to find the location and another five to prepare it properly. No human footsteps had crossed the threshold since the age of runic reckoning. And now, only three would.

Harry stepped into the outer ring of the circle first, boots scuffing gently against the grit of prepared bone dust and volcanic ash. Every line etched into the cave floor had been burned. Wands had not been used. That was part of the requirement—no artificial conduit could bind soul and time together. Only tools that knew blood and heat could forge a path backward.

The circle was a triad design—three outer rings, each marked with nine symbols denoting memory, intention, and balance. In the center, where the convergence point stood, a smooth altar of obsidian rose waist-high, fused from the cave itself and shaped by hand, not spell. Runes ran in fine lattice across its top, all dormant for now, waiting for the activation of the ritual structure.

Daphne stood to his left, dressed in reinforced ritual robes of deep grey lined with crimson. Her right leg, the one forged in dragonbone and argent silver, carried her with silence as she moved into place at one of the three marked vertices. Her face remained neutral, focused inward. The artificial limb gleamed faintly, its engraved runes matching the language carved across her wand holster.

Opposite her, Susan stood tall in a black robe that bore no house crest, no badge of the DMLE, no mark of her lineage. She had left that behind years ago. Her red hair had long since deepened to a burnished copper that fell straight to her shoulders, and where her left eye had once been, only the shimmer of a rune-bound socket remained. The patch had been removed for the ritual. Nothing hidden was allowed to pass through time.

They moved without discussion. Each of them had lived this moment in thought and dream, mapped it through diagrams and rehearsal until it ceased to be hypothetical. The time for words had passed the night before, when they'd lain together on cooling sheets, sharing silence that said everything. Tonight, there was only action.

Susan knelt at the central altar and drew out the basin—a wide, shallow dish carved from unicorn bone and filled with fine, silvery ash. She passed her hand through it once, stirring the sand that had once been housed in a Time-Turner shattered on the day of the Department’s fall. The grains had been soaked in diluted unicorn blood and dried over open spellfire, binding them to the soul signatures of all three participants. It pulsed faintly as she activated it, humming beneath her fingers like the breath of something long asleep.

Harry joined her, placing the obsidian heartstone in the exact center of the basin. It pulsed with a matching rhythm. The stone had been forged from leyline fractures and tuned to his magical core during a soul-weighing ritual three years prior. It has not dimmed since. The stone recognized its role and waited for its final charge.

He stepped back as Susan and Daphne took up their positions along the inner circle’s vertices, each marked with a different aspect of their magical affinity. Daphne’s was calculation—ritual intellect, logic in motion. Susan’s was discipline—anchoring force, immovable conviction. Harry’s was origin—source, spark, and reckoning.
The knives were retrieved last.
Forged from meteoric iron and quenched in unicorn tears, each blade was inscribed on both sides: one edge carved to disrupt flesh, the other soul. The hilts were bound in woven thestral hair, harvested only from those who had died without violence. The ritual required them to die by hand, bound to intent, by those they loved.

Susan passed them silently. Daphne held hers like an extension of her will—unwavering, sharp. Harry’s hand closed around his and felt the weight of finality settle into his bones. The handle was cool, but the blade was already warm, hungry.
Then Daphne began the incantation.
Her voice carried easily across the circle. It was not a chant. It was an invocation.

“Ad tempus fractum.
Per sanguinem purum.
Per memoriam retentam.
Ligatio trium, voluntas una.
Nos redimus.”

Susan followed with identical cadence, then Harry completed the triad.
The ground beneath the altar thrummed. The runes lit—first along the outermost circle, then the inner. Power gathered like condensation, slow and thick. The time-sand shimmered inside the basin, and the heartstone began to fracture from the inside.

From the ceiling, a flame bloomed—soft at first, pale gold, suspended in a sphere that hovered over the altar. It divided without sound into three perfect arcs, one for each of them, drifting above their heads. The air pressed down as if the cave itself were bracing for what would come next.

Daphne looked toward Harry. “Once we cross, there's no undoing. Even failure leaves a scar.”
Susan stepped into the circle’s center and extended a hand to each of them. They closed in, three points now collapsed into one.
“No second chances,” she said. “Only this.”
They raised their blades together.

There was no ceremony in their final act, and no performative pause to acknowledge what they were about to do. They had prepared too long, suffered too much, and lost everything that once called for hesitation. What remained between them was only conviction.

Harry met Susan’s eyes. There was no fear in them. Her grip on the dagger was firm, her expression unchanged. He turned to Daphne, and though her face carried the weight of a thousand calculations—runes, leyline flux, arcane timing—her gaze was soft when it met his. 

Their blades touched each other's hearts, directly over the sternum, aligned with the physical and magical core. The cave responded instantly, the runes pulsing in perfect resonance with the steel.
The golden arcs of flame above them lowered, hovering just inches from their scalps. They didn’t burn. They shimmered—calm, steady, and terrifying in their serenity. Time had taken notice. Now, it would listen.

Harry could feel the edge of a blade against his chest, pressing through the fabric of his robe. He did not tremble. His pulse remained even, his breath controlled. They had gone over this countless times. There could be no delay between plunges. It had to be simultaneous. 
Susan whispered, “We go together.”
Daphne’s voice was lower. “And we rise again.”

The knives rose when the equinox began.
They drove the blades at the same instant, and magic tore through the circle.
The flame above erupted in vertical brilliance, a column of light blasting upward, anchored by the blood now spilling into the basin. The sand inside dissolved instantly, absorbed by the fractured heartstone, which glowed a deep, blinding white. The runes blazed in concentric waves, radiating outward.
Time cracked.

Harry felt his body fall, but not to the ground. He was being pulled inward, folded into something impossibly tight and ancient.
There was no pain. He felt gravity bending inward and a sensation like falling through memory—his own, and not his own. He saw flashes of moments, unfiltered and jagged, bleeding together as the ritual carved through the reality he’d left behind.

The Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore’s hand raised. Ron's laughter in a stolen moment of victory. Hermione’s voice, brittle, sharp, and bossy. Daphne standing by a burning corpse, sword in hand. Susan, weeping silently over her ruined eye. A shattered time-turner. Blood in the snow. A child’s cry that had never existed.
Then black, like a seal tightening around his soul, threading it backward through a needle’s eye.

The last thing Harry felt before he lost all sensation was warmth: two hands holding his own.
And then, the void gave way.

Susan Bones awoke in silence.

Her first sensation was a linen touch.
Clean, soft linen pulled tight across a wide mattress, and the familiar scent of lavender and old wood polish. A breeze drifted in through an open window, filtered by lace curtains that hadn’t existed in her world for decades.
She opened her eye—and gasped.
Both eyes. She blinked rapidly and brought her fingers to her face, hands trembling. Her vision wasn’t fractured by runic correction magic, and there was no pressure behind the socket, no pulsing scar tissue aching beneath an eyepatch. Both of her eyes functioned perfectly. She could see the ceiling beams, the fine details of the paint on the far wall, the shadow of the old grandfather clock ticking softly in the corner.
It had worked.
She tore the sheets back and sat up fully, pushing herself upright without stiffness or pain. Her back didn’t creak. Her knees didn’t ache. The dull throb in her left hip from the curse she’d taken in Norway was gone. She was whole. She was—

She looked down at her hands, arms, torso. The scar across her stomach, the one that had never fully healed from the bone-shard hex, was gone. The runic burns on her shoulder? Not a trace. Her skin was smooth, firm, sun-kissed and vibrant.

She stood and walked to the full-length mirror near the wardrobe, discarding the nightgown that no longer fit the woman she remembered being.
The reflection that met her was not the grizzled war veteran, nor the weary, battle-hardened chief of the DMLE. What stared back at her was eighteen again.
Her thighs were thick and strong, meaty enough to show power, soft enough to make people stare. Her waist curved clean into her hips. Her tits were huge—full, heavy, sitting high on her chest like they had every right to be there. No sag and no stretch marks and pale skin.
She couldn’t help but cup them as she admired her globes.
Her nipples were pink again, not darkened by age or stress, and already a little hard from the cool air. And her ass, round, high, and tight, looked even better than she remembered.
She’d broken necks walking through corridors with that ass, and now it was back to perfection. Every inch of her was smooth, supple, untouched by time or war.
Eighteen. Hot as hell. And this time, fully aware of it.
The woman in the mirror was not a fantasy. She was real. And she was herself again.
She pressed her palms to the mirror and choked on the sob that escaped her lips.

She had not expected to feel this overwhelmed.
She had thought herself ready—years of planning, of building this ritual step by step—but no preparation could have braced her for the simple reality of waking up whole. Untouched. Free.

She pulled on a loose robe from the wardrobe. No time to linger. This wasn’t a dream, and if it was, she’d be damned if she didn’t see it through before waking.
As she stepped out into the corridor, the air was cool and dry, just as she remembered it.
The familiar stone flooring beneath her bare feet made her pause. Bones Manor hadn’t felt like this in nearly two decades. Even the portraits on the wall—distant relatives, most of them—regarded her with familiar disinterest, their frames dust-free, their gold leaf still intact.
She took the stairs down two at a time, silent as only an Auror could be, her legs carrying her as though she were mid-assignment.

She found Amelia in her study.
The door was cracked open, and Susan paused to look through the gap before knocking.
Her aunt was seated at her desk, papers organized in stacks, a mug of tea cooling beside her as she scribbled notes in tight, blocky handwriting. The old oak desk looked exactly as it had the last time Susan had seen it before the war—before the day it was shattered in a raid that had taken Amelia’s life.

Her hand moved before she could second-guess it. She rapped twice and stepped inside.
Amelia looked up, brows knitting together slightly. “Susan? You’re awake early.”
Susan stepped forward, pausing just inside the study. She looked down at the nearly-empty mug on Amelia’s desk, then back up at her aunt.
“I’ll be right back.”
Amelia raised a brow. “Back from what?”

Susan didn’t answer immediately. She turned and walked briskly to the kitchen, her bare feet light on the polished stone floor. The space was exactly as she remembered it — copper kettle hung over the enchanted stovetop, spice rack perfectly alphabetized, the Bones family crest etched into the ceramic backsplash tile. She found the tea canister in the same cupboard as always. Loose-leaf Earl Grey. Her aunt’s favorite.

She worked efficiently. Water to boil, two mugs set out, just enough milk in one and plain in the other. She brewed the tea properly — by hand. It felt right that way.

She carried both mugs back carefully, one in each hand.

As she stepped through the doorway again, Amelia was already halfway through a comment that halted the moment she saw the tea. Susan set one mug down in front of her aunt, keeping the other for herself.
“Freshly brewed,” she said simply. “You were nearly done with the other cup.”
Then she turned toward the small corner near the bookshelf where their house-elf often appeared during formal visits.
“Mipsey?” she called.

There was a soft pop, and a small, round-faced elf in a neatly pressed tea towel appeared, bowing so low her long ears brushed the floor.
“Mistress Susan is calling for Mipsey? Mipsey is honored, she is!”
“Could you take the old mug to the kitchen?” Susan asked gently. “I didn’t want to disturb you while Aunt was working.”
“Mipsey is happy to serve!” the elf chirped, levitating the near-empty mug off the desk and vanishing with another quiet pop.
Susan sat down opposite her aunt and sipped her own tea, breathing in the familiar scent as if it anchored her to the moment.
“I know I haven’t been… interested in your work before,” Susan said, choosing her words carefully. “But I want that to change.”
Amelia stared at her, eyes narrowing in surprise. “Since when?”
Susan let a small smile cross her lips. “Since I realized how childish I’d been. Since I started talking more with Daphne Greengrass. She’s… helped me see some things differently.”

Her aunt studied her closely, eyes sharp behind her square-framed glasses.
Then, slowly, Amelia leaned back in her chair, her eyes softening as she exhaled.
“I can’t say I understand what’s gotten into you, but…” She stood up and crossed the space between them. “It’s good to have you back.”
She embraced Susan tightly, one arm firm around her shoulders, the other pressing her close.
Susan returned the embrace without hesitation, burying her face in her aunt’s shoulder, silently promising herself that this time—no matter how complicated things became—she would not let her die.
She would do it right.
All of it.

Daphne Greengrass woke up standing.

Her bare feet were warm against marble tile, her back straight, her arms at her sides. The first sensation she registered was light—sunlight pouring in through wide enchanted windows that shimmered with early morning brightness, filtered by drawn-back ivory curtains. The second was air—cool, still, fragrant with lemon polish and the faintest trace of her mother’s favorite rose oil.

She blinked once. Her vision was sharp. Clear. She didn’t feel residual pain in her good leg nor phantom ache, there was no pressure in her lower spine from compensating for a prosthetic.
She looked down slowly.
Two legs. Both hers.

Her hands moved on instinct, skimming down over smooth hips, then lower. She reached her calf, her ankle, the curve of her foot. Warm flesh and whole bone. Muscle that flexed when she rose to the balls of her feet. She exhaled once and then let the full breath rush out of her chest like she’d been holding it for years.
It had worked.
She turned slowly, the silk nightdress she wore catching on her thighs as she stepped toward the wide antique mirror that stood beside her armoire. Its frame was silver-laced acacia wood, polished daily by house-elves, untouched by time.

The image that met her reflection was unapologetically beautiful.
She studied her face first. Flawless porcelain skin, sharp cheekbones, blue eyes with that familiar Greengrass coolness but none of the exhaustion that had lined them for years. Her lips were full and soft, not yet chapped from winters spent tracking informants or sleepless nights poring over supply reports during the war.
Her collarbones were clean and sharp, sitting above the kind of tits that got whispered about in dorms and hexed by jealous girls. They were huge—second only to Susan’s—but rounder, sitting high on her chest without a trace of sag. Daphne didn’t need a charm to hold them up. They held themselves like they knew they were worth staring at. She cupped one lazily, thumb brushing over a pink nipple already stiff from the air. Still heavy. Still perfect.

She turned, angling her hips, and glanced back over her shoulder at what she already knew would be there—her ass, full and tight, perfectly rounded and smooth. It sat like a sculptor had shaped it just to tease, curving out and back in with that impossible symmetry that drove boys mad and left grown men biting their tongues. Toned perfection.
“Damn,” She smirked. “still got it.”
It wasn’t bragging. It was a fact. She wasn’t built like a doll. She was built like a wet dream with sharp claws and a sharper tongue. And now that she had this body back, she planned to use every inch of it when the time came.
With no regrets and no shame.
She turned from the mirror, picked up her dressing robe from the foot of her bed, and slipped it on without rushing. Her feet moved with quiet familiarity over the thick rug and polished stone, carrying her through the hallway toward the grand staircase.

She could hear movement downstairs. Familiar light steps.
Her chest tightened.
Astoria.
She descended without thinking, following the trail of faint laughter and clinking glass to the small tea salon near the conservatory. The Greengrass family rarely used it—except for mornings like this, when the weather was pleasant and the garden was in bloom.

Astoria sat on the cushioned window bench, dressed in a casual blouse and summer skirt, barefoot, legs tucked up beside her as she nursed a second biscuit and flipped through an issue of Witch Weekly .
Daphne stopped in the doorway.

Her sister looked exactly as she had: bright-eyed, slender, her smile untouched by pain.
Her fingers, long and nimble, had not yet borne the marks of nervous twitches. Her neck showed no bruising. Her spirit had not yet been hollowed by marriage to Draco Malfoy, nor shattered by the abuse that followed.
She was whole.

Astoria looked up.
“Daph? You’re up early,” she said with a tilt of her head, brushing a lock of hair behind one ear. “Did you sleep weird? You look like you saw a ghost.”
Daphne didn’t answer immediately.
She stepped forward, slowly, as if the moment was suspended in delicate glass.
Astoria raised one brow. “...You’re staring.”
“You’re alive,” Daphne said softly.
“Well, yeah ,” her sister said, rolling her eyes. “What’s got into you this morning?”
Daphne moved to her, knelt beside the bench, and reached out. Her hands touched Astoria’s shoulders, then her cheek, cupping it gently, grounding herself in the living warmth of her skin. Her little sister didn’t flinch. She only looked confused.
“You’re okay,” Daphne said.
“I’m… always okay?”
There was a pause.
Then Astoria narrowed her eyes just a bit. “You’ve been crying. Your eyes are glassy. What happened?”
“Nothing,” Daphne said quickly. “Not yet. Just—” She pulled her into a hug. “I missed you.”
Astoria hesitated for a beat. Then returned the embrace with a surprised laugh. “You’re so weird sometimes.”
Daphne held on a little longer than she needed to, then stood and brushed a hand down her sister’s hair. “Come on. Let’s find something to eat before I have to deal with Father’s endless questions about my electives.”

They bantered softly as they walked toward the dining room, Astoria poking fun at Daphne’s lack of appetite during stressful mornings, and Daphne countering with jokes about Astoria’s obsession with pastries.
The light pouring into the manor was warm. The scent of roses filtered in from the gardens. Laughter danced in the hall like it had before war and politics had destroyed it.

When they stepped into the dining room and saw both of their parents—Cygnus Greengrass upright at the head of the table, crisp and proper as ever, and Calliope Greengrass pouring tea with a familiar gentle grace—Daphne stopped again.
Her father looked up.
“Daphne,” he said, pleased. “You’re just in time. Come. Sit. The Daily Prophet’s already started lying.”
Her mother smiled warmly. “You look radiant this morning.”
Daphne’s throat closed, just for a moment. She crossed the room and embraced them both—her father first, quickly, before he could complain, and then her mother, longer, tighter, as if by holding on she could anchor this moment forever.
She had been gone too long.
And she wouldn’t waste a second of it.

Harry Potter woke in pain.

It wasn’t the sharp, magical kind that followed a ritual gone wrong, nor the pulsing ache of soul damage. It was the dull, brutal throb of blunt trauma layered over strained muscles and fractured bone. He didn’t need to open his eyes to recognize it. His ribs ached when he breathed, his lip was split, and his right arm was twisted beneath him in a way no healthy joint should ever be.

The mattress beneath him was thin. Lumpy. The springs creaked when he shifted. The stale scent of unwashed sheets and dust clung to the air. The pillow smelled faintly of sweat and detergent that had never been rinsed properly.

He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was low and yellowed from age, faint water damage staining one corner like a bruise that had never fully healed. The walls were the same sickly beige he remembered. The air was hot, reflecting the oppressive humidity of summer over a dry wooden floor.
Privet Drive.
Number Four.
His room.
Fuck.

No, not his room. The spare room. The box room. The one he’d been allowed to move into after his first Hogwarts letter arrived and Petunia could no longer hide her fear behind civility. Before that, it had been the cupboard.

He tried to sit up and gasped as his ribs protested. Something wet dragged across his lower back, and he realized it wasn’t sweat. He reached behind him carefully with his left hand, fingers brushing raw, torn skin. Welts. Still bleeding. Some had crusted over, others had broken again. Belt, most likely.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance down his right arm. Swollen. Purple at the elbow. A fracture, maybe more than one. He’d fallen on it at some point. Or had it stomped on. The memory didn’t come back, and that told him enough.
His breathing stayed even.
It had worked.
The pain was expected. Not welcome—but familiar. Almost... reassuring. This body wasn’t broken the way his last had been. No severed arm or deep rooted curses, no corrupted magical core. This was just a boy’s body, bruised and beaten, but unspoiled.
He flexed his fingers. Pain lanced through the limb, but they moved.
His magic stirred weakly.

Harry closed his eyes again, just for a moment, to listen.
Downstairs, a television buzzed faintly—probably Vernon, already glued to the news with a beer before noon. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Petunia, scrubbing, muttering, stretching her life thin over forced cleanliness.
No sign of Dudley yet. Probably out, or still asleep. The house sounded the same. Felt the same.
He opened his eyes again and exhaled through his nose.
“Brilliant,” he whispered to the ceiling. “Back to this hellhole.”
But the words didn’t come with the bitterness of a teenager trapped in a miserable home. They came with the cold, steady calm of a man who had endured far worse and returned not to survive, but to change everything.
His gaze drifted to the window. The sunlight outside was harsh, casting bright rectangles of light across the threadbare carpet. Somewhere out there, the wizarding world was turning under skies it didn’t know were borrowed. Susan and Daphne were alive. Whole. Out there, beyond the garden and the hedges and the walls.

And he was seventeen again.
Too young to fight openly. Too early to act without setting off consequences. But not too weak.
Never that again.
He shifted his legs off the bed and sat up slowly, hissing between his teeth as his spine resisted the movement. His shirt stuck to his back, blood dried into the cotton. He didn’t care. He planted his feet on the floor, bare toes curling slightly against the carpet fibers, and sat still for a long moment.

In the old timeline, he’d woken like this for years. Beat down. Controlled. Manipulated.
He’d flinched at shadows, accepted scraps, smiled when told to, and turned the other cheek every time someone needed him quiet.
But this time—
This time, he remembered everything.
His eyes were hard as they turned toward the door. The light in them wasn’t youthful. It wasn’t the naive spark of a boy who believed people were inherently good.
It was cold.
And ready.
The reckoning was coming.
And this time, he wouldn’t walk away from it.

Chapter Text

The window was stiff, swollen at the edges from years of neglect and the summer humidity, but Harry managed to force it open with his good hand. The frame groaned softly. The hinges gave way with a final scrape, just wide enough for her to slip through.

Hedwig waited patiently on the sill. She hadn’t hooted or fussed since he woke — as if she, too, knew what Vernon did. 

He knelt beside the desk and pulled a folded scrap of parchment from under the loose floorboard, he wrote a quick note and tied it to her leg with shaking fingers.
He gave Hedwig a nod. She tilted her head once, knowingly, then leapt into the air with one smooth, silent beat of her wings.
She vanished into the rising light, white feathers cutting through the haze above Privet Drive.

Harry sat back on his heels and breathed through his nose.
He felt…off.
The pain was expected — bruised ribs, broken skin, a fractured arm. He could catalogue it all in his sleep. No, this was something deeper. A pressure behind his thoughts. A dullness in how quickly ideas connected. Where once insight would snap into place like teeth catching in a gear, now they… dragged. And not just a little.

Fucking Hermione. He thought.

He dressed in silence, every motion calculated to minimize pain. He didn’t bother with healing salves.
The injuries were part of the point now.

The jeans were stiff with blood where his back had soaked through. His shirt clung in patches, pale blue cotton gone grey with grime. He pulled it down as far as it would go and wrapped his school cloak over it. It looked ridiculous — like a child playing dress-up — but he didn’t care. It covered enough.
He pocketed his wand and left his room.

The walk down the stairs was slow.
He didn’t limp — he’d trained himself out of that years ago — but every step made his spine ache. Each footfall pressed against bruised arches and swollen knees. The wood creaked. He knew exactly which steps would wake Vernon if he were asleep, he avoided them out of habit.

In the front room, the television buzzed. News anchors droned about a fire in Leeds and a budget vote in Parliament. Vernon didn’t glance up from his chair. Beer in hand. Vest stained. His lips moved as he chewed something wet and oily. His attention was locked on the screen.
Harry walked past him without a sound, and paused, just for a second, at the door.
Behind him, nothing stirred. He was invisible as always. A shadow in their house.
He opened the door and stepped out into the morning.

When Harry exited the house, a curtain twitched.
Petunia watched from behind the lace, one hand still holding a teacup halfway to her mouth. Her expression was blank and her gaze sharp.
The boy walked differently.
She’d never cared how he walked before. She’d ignored him for years — fed him, clothed him, even hissed about “keeping up appearances” — but she’d never really looked.
Now she did.

He moved like someone waiting to be attacked. Or like someone who had done the attacking and wasn’t sorry. His cloak shifted with each step, too long for him, yet worn like armor. His hands were clenched in his pockets, his jaw tight.
She couldn’t name what she saw, but knew that it unsettled her.
She sipped her tea, then set it down too quickly. The clink echoed in the kitchen. She didn’t look again.

Harry didn’t stop walking until he reached Magnolia Crescent — the spot where he knew the wards would allow magical transit to register without suspicion. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and petrol. A fox slunk between hedges a block down.
He raised his wand and the air split with a bang.

The Knight Bus slammed into existence in a blur of purple metal and braking charm, nearly toppling a mailbox as it skidded to a halt in front of him.
The door swung open.
“Welcome to the— oh, it’s you!” Stan Shunpike grinned as he leaned out the window. His eyes crinkled with recognition, though he clearly didn’t place the face properly. “Back again, eh? Blimey, Neville, you look like you’ve been through a meat grinder.”
Harry stepped up without answering.
“Not a great week,” he muttered flatly.
“Oi, tell me about it,” Stan said cheerfully, snapping the door shut behind him. “That time with the Cornish Pixie convention? Bloody madness. You wouldn’t believe what one of ’em shoved up my— anyway, where to?”
“St. Mungo’s,” Harry said.
He sat in the first empty seat, head turned away, arm cradled gently in his lap.

The bus jolted into motion, zigzagging through London with its usual disregard for physics or common sense. Buildings lurched out of the way. Lamp posts ducked. A phone box exploded into confetti behind them.
Harry remained silent.
Inside, though, something burned.
Neville.
The bitterness was instant. It was too early to unpack the weight of what had been done — or more precisely, what hadn’t been done — but the name alone was enough.
He remembered, and that was all that mattered.

When the Knight Bus screeched to a halt outside St. Mungo’s, Harry didn’t wait for help.
He stepped off on his own, cloak flapping behind him, and walked through the front doors without hesitation.

The reaction was immediate.
A junior receptionist gasped, dropping her clipboard. Two interns turned from the potion counter and froze.
One of the older healers, a man with grey sideburns and a long scar down his temple narrowed his eyes and took two steps forward, as if expecting an attack.

Harry’s shirt was soaked through with dried blood. His right arm hung uselessly at his side. One eye was nearly swollen shut. A welt ran from his collarbone to his hip in jagged, angry red.
He looked like a war survivor dragged through a field of glass.
But his back was straight.
Harry's voice, when he spoke, was quiet. 
“I need a full magical diagnostic. Immediately. And I want the record filed under Wizengamot oversight clause nine-C.”
The senior healer stepped forward. “Name,” he said carefully.
Harry looked him in the eye. “Potter.”

The healer led him through two enchanted doors and down a corridor lined with glowing runes and charmed privacy wards. The air inside the diagnostics wing was cooler, still and heavy with antiseptic and sterilized magic. Every step echoed.

They brought him to Room 6A, a sterile space ringed with diagnostic mirrors and floating quills. A single padded bench sat at the center, clean parchment folded beside it.
A tall storage cabinet against the far wall bore a sigil of emergency spellfire restraint.
“Sit,” the healer said. “Do not move until instructed.”
Harry sat.
The door closed behind the others. Only one remained: a middle-aged witch with clipped grey hair and a healer’s robe pressed to knife-sharp precision.
She activated the diagnostic spells without asking.
Three rune circles lit under Harry’s feet, shoulders, and core. Floating quills stirred as a slow, glowing light began to move across his frame, tracing bone, blood, muscle, and magic. The air grew thick with spell resonance.

He’d been through diagnostics before — dozens of times during the wars. Medical scans, battlefield triage, ritual assessments. Most were fast and brutal, a means to stop bleeding and push forward. This one was different, it was Methodical.

Harry watched her expression — clinical at first, then tight. Her eyes flicked to the first sheet of auto-written results, then to the second, and then to the third.
Her lips thinned at first, then her nostrils flared.
He tilted his head slightly and offered a dry smile.
“This should be fun to read,” he said casually. “Top three, I’d say. Maybe top two. Vernon called it a correction. For blowing up his sister. Happened just before my third year.”

The healer’s quill paused mid-stroke. She looked at him, but only briefly, then resumed without a word.
The runes on the wall pulsed soft red.

Auto-detection of prior magical suppression. Residual trace of core starvation. Evidence of internal scarring consistent with long-term untreated injuries. Minor organ deformation due to growth stunting. Skeletal anomalies across all four limbs. Past fractures — minimum twenty-nine.
The quill kept writing. And writing.
“Interesting,” Harry murmured, staring at the ceiling. “Let’s see how deep the rot goes.”
He closed his eyes and let the process continue.

Elsewhere in London, in the upper study of Bones Manor, the morning breeze fluttered across a desk stacked with legal casebooks and sealed reports from the Department of Mysteries. A soft tap sounded on the window.
Susan looked up.

Hedwig stood perched on the stone ledge, a sealed letter tied to her leg.
Susan crossed the room in two strides and unlatched the window. The owl stepped forward with a low coo and lifted her leg with imperial patience. Susan untied the parchment and stroked her feathers once.

“Thank you, beautiful,” she whispered. Hedwig nipped her fingers lightly, then took off again into the wind.
Susan closed the window and opened the letter.
It was short. 

Susan,
St. Mungo’s. Diagnostics wing. Bring your aunt.
The mirror was always cracked.
—H

Her fingers clenched around the parchment.
She stared at the words for a full ten seconds before moving. 
She turned and called, “Mipsey!”
With a pop, the house-elf appeared, ears twitching.
“Yes, Mistress Susan?”
“Find Aunt Amelia. Now. Tell her I need her at St. Mungo.”
“Right away, Mistress!”
The elf vanished.
Susan folded the parchment once, tucked it into the inside pocket of her robe, and turned toward the corridor with her cloak already in hand.

Back at St. Mungo’s, the healer finished the first pass and stepped away, lifting the scrolls now two inches thick with auto-written data. Her voice was flat.
“I need a senior report auditor.”
Harry nodded. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
She left, and Harry sat in silence again, watching the rune patterns fade one by one from the floor.
His body still ached, but his mind? That was worse.
His reactions were dulled at the edges. Like swimming through fog, or reading through frosted glass. The instincts were there — honed from battle, sharpened over blood and loss — but the speed and retention was wrong.

The diagnostic wing was silent when they arrived.
Amelia Bones swept through the glass doors with the unflinching authority of a woman who once brought down a half-dozen rogue dueling rings without backup. Her robe bore no Ministry insignia today, only the subtle emerald piping of her House colors and the runed clasp of her personal investigative seal. She moved like she expected obstruction—and intended to remove it.

Susan followed closely, steps firm, expression closed. She hadn’t spoken since the elf returned with confirmation.
The receptionist stood to intercept them. “Ma’am—”
Amelia stepped forward, voice sharp.
“Harry Potter. He was admitted here. Where is he?”
The woman blinked, startled.
“Diagnostics wing. Room six-A. He—he’s still there. We haven’t moved him.”
“Good,” Amelia said coldly. “Then stay out of my way.”
They passed unchallenged.

When they reached the observation pane for Room 6A, Amelia paused and squared her shoulders before entering.
Inside the room, Harry sat on the edge of the bench, shirt removed now. His ribs were mottled purple and yellow. Welts striped his back and shoulders like lash marks. His right arm was elevated slightly, supported by a floating brace. He looked straight ahead, unmoved by the healer and her assistant sorting reports beside him.

Susan’s throat closed.
Amelia stepped through the door first.
The healer looked up immediately. “You’re not authorized to—”
“I’m Amelia Bones,” she said coldly, flashing her seal. “I’m a direct witness, not an intruder. The boy summoned us. You will explain. Fully.”

The healer stiffened—then nodded. She turned to the side table, retrieved a thick scroll bound with two copper clasps, and laid it flat on the diagnostic bench.
“This is the preliminary record,” she said. “Name confirmed as Harry James Potter. Magical signature verified. These injuries are not new. They are cumulative.”
The healer began to read.

“Subject exhibits signs of prolonged magical exertion beginning in early childhood. Core saturation levels are below expected range for a wizard his age, suggesting early malnourishment and stunting of magical growth. Evidence of at least thirty-three unique fractures, twenty-five of which show improper or incomplete healing. Ribcage shows repeated blunt-force trauma. Scarring on both shoulder blades consistent with belt buckle edges. Scar tissue on lower back and thighs indicates repeated lashings.”
Susan exhaled, quietly. The healer continued.

“Growth rate inconsistent with genetic baseline. Magical scans suggest delayed core maturation due to environmental stressors—physical, emotional, and magical. No signs of natural illness. All abnormalities are external in origin.”
Amelia leaned forward, voice low. “Age of onset?”
“Earliest detectable injury is at age three,” the healer answered.
Silence fell.
Harry didn’t look at them. He spoke quietly, still facing the wall.
“I didn’t know I was a wizard until my Hogwarts letter arrived when I was fourteen.
Before that, I lived in a cupboard under the stairs. Ate scraps. Got hit when I asked questions. Got beaten when I didn’t. That,” he tilted his chin toward the scroll, “was Vernon’s idea of discipline. The one you’re reading now happened because of what I did just before my third year. I inflated his sister by accidental magic.”
Susan stepped forward, fists clenched.
Amelia didn’t look at her niece. Her eyes were locked on Harry. “And how did you end up there? Surely there was a better environment for you than this…place”
Harry then turned slowly, in a deliberate dramatic show to emphasize the answer.

He looked Amelia Bones in the eye. “Dumbledore left me there the night my parents died, and never once checked back.”
The room fell into silence.
The healer stepped back from the table, hands folded, eyes trained on the diagnostic scrolls. She didn’t speak.

Amelia reached down, lifted the scroll and read it. Her expression betrayed nothing but the taut set of her jaw did.
After a while, Susan stepped forward. “May I read it?”
Amelia blinked once, then glanced at Harry.
He gave a single nod.

Amelia passed it to her niece and Susan took the document with a quiet “Thank you,” while unfolding it smoothly. As her eyes skimmed the first lines, she slipped her wand from her sleeve with practiced ease and traced a slow line along the margin.
The duplication charm was silent. A thin shimmer folded off the parchment and slid neatly into her opposite hand. She tucked the copy into the inner pocket of her robe and continued reading as if nothing had happened.
She didn’t look up.

Amelia turned back to Harry. “Under clause 9-C of Magical Welfare Oversight, a formal investigation into your placement and treatment will begin immediately. All diagnostic records will be archived and reviewed. No one will be informed until the review process is properly secured.”
Harry gave a slight nod.
“You will be placed in temporary housing at the Leaky Cauldron,” Amelia continued. “Your belongings will be retrieved from Privet Drive. If there is anything sensitive that needs special handling, tell me now.”
“There’s not much,” Harry said. “Everything I care about is in my school trunk.”
Amelia nodded once. “Understood.”
She took the scroll back from Susan and secured it in a rune-sealed leather case pulled from her cloak. Then she turned and gestured toward the door.
“Let’s move.”

They left the diagnostics room without fanfare. The corridors were quieter now, the faint hum of wards and the sterile scent of antiseptic floated through the air.
When they reached the outer foyer of the floor, Amelia paused and turned to Susan.
“Wait here.”
Susan nodded.
Amelia stepped through the archway and approached a tall Auror with copper-blond hair and an iron badge at his belt. Their conversation was muted but she saw Amelia handing him a rune-tabbed parchment and began speaking in low tones, gesturing once toward the ward’s secure entrance.

Susan waited until Amelia’s back was fully turned, then she pivoted silently and walked back the way they had come, her feet barely whispering over the floor.
She slipped into the room where Harry had stood up, and shut the door behind her.
Once the door clicked shut, she moved instantly.
She crossed the room in two steps, pressed Harry back against the wall with both hands on his chest, and crushed her lips to his.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even careful.
He kissed her back with matching hunger, his good arm wrapping around her waist, the brace clinking softly against the wall as her hand found its way beneath his cloak.
Their mouths moved like fire, clumsy but desperate—the heat of battle forged into something far more primal. Susan gasped against his lips and bit down on his lower lip, then dragged her mouth down his throat, her fingers sliding along his ribs with the kind of touch that could’ve been pain or pleasure.
While Harry cupped her breast with his good hand.

She moaned. Just enough to make Harry smirk against her jaw.
“Quiet,” he muttered. “Your aunt has ears sharper than a banshee.”
“Then don’t make me do this against the wall,” she whispered, grinding her hips forward just once—hard enough to draw a breath from him. “Merlin, you’re so much smaller than I remember. It’s like fondling a second-year.”
“Keep teasing,” Harry murmured, “and I’ll make sure you’re the last to enjoy the upgrade.”
“Upgrade, huh?” she smirked. “Good. Because this model’s cute, but he’d snap before he managed to break my hips the way I like.”
He laughed—really laughed, quiet and honest.
They pulled apart, barely. Still close. Still breathing the same air.
“I missed this,” she whispered. “Not just the sex. Us. The way we were before all the injuries. You and me and Daphne. Together.”
“It worked,” Harry said. “We’re back. Whole.”
“Mostly whole,” she murmured, brushing a thumb over a scar still visible beneath his collar. “But yeah.”

She turned more serious. “When I got the letter, the passphrase, I didn’t think it’d hit me this hard. But when I saw you, Merlin, I could’ve torn this place apart.”
He nodded once. “You didn’t. That’s why it’ll work this time.”
Susan hesitated. “My aunt… she’s different,” she said. “Like something’s lifted. The past few days—she’s calmer. Lighter. I think… I think I really made peace with her. ”
“You did?”
Susan’s voice cracked, just slightly. “Yeah. I told her I was sorry. For being selfish. For acting like her love wasn’t enough. For all the shit I pulled when I was too wrapped up in my own pain to see hers.”
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Harry pulled her into his chest with his good arm, letting her cry quietly into his shoulder.
“We’ll make it right this time,” he said softly. “Your aunt won’t die. We’ll make sure of it.”
Susan nodded against him.
They stood there, tangled in the silence, two warriors in the bodies of teenagers, remembering who they were—and who they were about to become again.

But the moment couldn't stretch forever. There were still eyes outside, still questions not yet asked, and they had always been good at knowing when to move.
Susan pulled back first, but only far enough to meet his eyes. “We should stop,” she murmured. “I don’t want anyone figuring this out too early.”

Harry didn’t answer with words. He just leaned in again, and this time she met him halfway. The kiss was different—no longer desperate, but slow, deep, and filthy with intent. Susan wrapped both arms around him, fingers sliding down to cup his ass, pulling his hips flush against hers. He grunted into her mouth and let his good hand grip her the same way, lifting her slightly as their tongues met and fought for control.

When they broke apart, breathless and grinning, her lips were pink and wet, her eyes glazed with barely restrained hunger.
“If you don’t put me on a bed soon, I’m going to dry up your balls from sheer frustration right there,” she whispered against his jaw, biting back another moan as she brushed herself deliberately against him once more.

Harry chuckled. “Tempting. But not yet.”
She arched a brow. “What—saving yourself for the right moment?”
“In a way.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “We’re virgins again. All three of us. That isn’t just a bonus. That’s leverage. There’s a ritual—old, half-forbidden, but powerful. If we do it right, together, it’ll boost us. Permanently. We’re not wasting that on a quick fuck.”
Susan blinked. “Wait, like… during?”
“During. It anchors to the moment of penetration. But it needs preparation—proper warding, sacrifices, intent alignment.”
“Sacrifices?”
Harry nodded. “Doesn’t need blood. But it needs magical cores that will be depleted to near squib level. That’s why we wait. Hogwarts gives us time, cover, and ritual grounds soaked in history. It’s worth the wait.”
She swallowed, then slowly smiled. “Merlin, you’re insufferable when you’re clever.”
“Three days,” he said. “Leaky Cauldron. Quiet entrance. Bring Daph. I’ll be done at Gringotts by then, and we’ll need to start planning around the ritual.”
Susan nodded, still catching her breath. “I’ll work with her. We’ll lay the groundwork for your lordship restoration—documents, claims, old alliances. Quietly.”

Harry held her gaze. “No waves. Not until the ritual’s done. And no alliances with Fatbottom”
She stepped back, composed again, but glowing in a way no potion could fake.
“Fine. But when the dust settles, I’m having you on every surface of that bloody castle.”
“I look forward to it.”
She turned, reached the door, then paused. Glancing over her shoulder, she smirked.
“Don’t stare too hard, Potter. You’ll hex yourself.”
Then she walked out, hips swaying deliberately with each step, her robe parting just enough to tease the lines of her thighs. Harry watched the motion like a man starved.
Just before the corridor bent, she looked back again—caught his eyes still on her—and winked.

By the time she rejoined Amelia, the older witch was finishing instructions to the waiting Auror. Susan’s composure was flawless. Her cheeks were a little flushed, perhaps, but she adjusted her cloak smoothly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as if nothing at all had happened.
Amelia didn’t glance at her.
“Let’s go,” she said simply.
And Susan followed, smiling to herself.

Amelia’s cloak snapped into place as she stepped toward the fireplace.
“I need to return to the office,” she said. “Keep your ears open. I’ll keep you updated of the proceedings.”
Susan nodded once. “Understood aunty.”
Amelia gave her a long look then took a pinch of Floo powder, threw it into the hearth, and vanished in a rush of green flame.

The moment she was gone, Susan turned on her heel.
“Mipsey!” she called sharply.
With a soft pop, the house-elf appeared beside her, ears flicking. “Mistress Susan?”
“Find Lady Daphne Greengrass. Tell her to Floo to Bones manor. Say I need her.” Her tone leaving no room for confusion.
Mipsey bobbed once and disappeared.
Susan Flooed back home.

When the Floo flared green nearly forty-five minutes later, she was already pacing in front of the fireplace, hair tied back, lips pressed flat in a line of tension.
The emerald blaze spat once, then out stepped Daphne Greengrass — tall, lean, and glowing like sin itself. Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders, her pale legs bare below a tight grey skirt, and her blouse straining over breasts that had not seen war or aging yet.

“Sue,” Daphne breathed, eyes alight. “Your eyes—fuck, you look so stunning, I’m getting horny just standing here.”
Susan surged forward, crashing into her in a blur of limbs and breathless hunger.
“You think you’re the only one?” Susan growled against her lips. “You’re standing there with both legs again—don’t expect me to act reasonable.”
They didn’t speak again.
Their mouths collided, hot and frantic. Daphne wrapped one leg around Susan’s hip as they staggered back against the edge of the couch, hands sliding beneath robes and over shirts, gripping, tugging. Susan’s fingers raked under Daphne’s blouse, palming one breast, pinching just hard enough to draw a gasp. Daphne arched into her, dragging her nails down Susan’s back with a pleased growl.
“You’re already soaked,” Susan muttered, tugging Daphne’s skirt higher as she palmed her pussy. “Merlin, I missed this.”

“You can’t blame me,” Daphne shot back, dragging her hand up the inside of Susan’s thigh and inside her panty. “I missed you being like this—like fire and sin all in one.”
They half-fell onto the couch, straddling each other, robes rumpled, skin flushed. Susan rolled her hips slowly while Daphne’s mouth found her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
Their moans were breathy, teasing, and filthy in their familiarity.
Daphne’s voice dipped lower. “I want you. Right here. Right now.”
Susan let her hand trail along Daphne’s soaked inner tights, then paused. “Not yet.”
Daphne groaned aloud and threw her head back in theatrical agony. “You’re killing me, Sue. Bloody killing me.”
“Shut up and kiss me again.”
She did. They tangled again, slower this time, more petting than rutting. Fingers slid into hair, mouths dragged across collarbones. Breathing mingled.
When they finally pulled apart, flushed and smiling but visibly restraining themselves, Susan reached up and smoothed Daphne’s fringe.
“Sit. We need to talk.”

Daphne sighed, exasperated. “It better be a damn good reason for my tongue not being between your legs right now.”
“It is.” Susan pulled out a scroll from the inner pocket of her robe, the duplicate of Harry’s diagnostic.
“It’s about Harry. And what we’re doing next.”
Daphne’s teasing face vanished in an instant.
She took the scroll and unrolled it. Her eyes darted over the lines, scanning rapidly — until her lips thinned and her knuckles went white around the edges of the parchment.
“Thirty-Three fractures,” she said flatly. “And his uncle’s still breathing?”
“Not for long,” Susan muttered, voice sharp. “But not yet.”
Daphne set the scroll down carefully, jaw tight. “I hate this timeline already.”
“It’s ours,” Susan said. “And we’re going to shape it right.”
“Tell me everything,” Daphne said, tone clipped but focused. “What’s our next move?”

Susan leaned back, brushing her fingers through Daphne’s hair. “He’s at the Leaky Cauldron for now. Aunty is launching an investigation.”
Daphne nodded, eyes narrowed.
“There’s a ritual,” Susan continued. “He says we can anchor it to… when we lose our virginity again. It should boost our powers, permanently. The trick is, it needs magical sacrifices. Not fatal, but core-depleting. Squib-level.”

Daphne’s eyes sharpened.
“How many?”
“I don’t know. We’ll need to plan. He wants us to wait for Hogwarts — for the grounds and the wards. He’ll meet us at the Leaky in three days after he visits Gringotts.”
Daphne was silent for a beat.
“Fine. I don’t like the wait. But the logic’s solid.”
She smirked, just a little. “Still thinking about sex, though.”
“I know you are.”
Daphne grinned. “Let’s get this bastard crowned first. Then we’ll ruin him.”

Susan laughed. “He’s the Black heir. Once he claims the House officially, we’ll be swimming in alliances. The Wizengamot won’t dare touch him without turning half the Board against them. We can use that.”
“I’ll start on the documentation,” Daphne said, already running through the logistics in her head. “We’ll need lineage proofs, vault inheritance rolls, and a reactivation writ for the ancestral seat.”
“Can you handle that without being seen?”
Daphne’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Sue. Please.”
Susan smiled back. “Alright then. Let’s move.”

Chapter Text

The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley were alive and animated, but Harry saw none of it.
The curve of his shoulders under his cloak spoke of purpose. Every step rang sharp against stone as he passed the vendors hawking charmed ink and half-sentient parchment. The Leaky Cauldron’s early breakfast smells clung faintly to him.

His arm remained in its floating brace, but his wand was loose in the other hand, hidden beneath the folds of cloth.

He reached the steps of Gringotts and paused only to meet the gaze of the two goblin sentries standing guard outside. The taller of the pair nodded. Recognition flickered at the way he carried himself.
Inside, the marble floor gleamed. Chandeliers above pulsed faintly with stasis-enchanted fire. Wizards and witches lined the sides of the hall in varying states of frustration and panic — tax audits, vault rebalancing, illegal curse artifact confiscations — the usual.

Harry walked straight past all of it, to the head clerk at the marble reception plinth.
He spoke clearly in Gobbledegook.
“Requesting audience. High-tier account review. Full sovereign rights under hereditary vault inheritance clauses. Immediate.”
The goblin’s eyes narrowed. The wrinkles at the corner of his lips tightened. “Name?”
“Potter. Harry James.”
That got the clerk’s full attention. He made a single gesture.

Another goblin emerged from the shadows by the northern vault corridor. Older, leaner, with deep-cut rings at his eyes and a jaw sharp enough to flay skin. He stepped forward quietly.
“You speak well,” he said in Gobbledegook. “Follow.”
They passed through a door marked with an obsidian rune — not for customer use. It snapped shut behind them, silencing the bustle. The hallway beyond led deep into the stone belly of the bank. It angled downward with torchlights dancing across silver-lined walls.

The chamber they entered was circular and rune-bound, sound-sealed and fireproofed. Every stone was engraved in the old tongue.
The goblin gestured to a thick granite table. “Sit. You’ll address me as Broker-Gornak. I will conduct this review. Speak only what you mean, and understand what you invoke.”

Harry sat. “Good.”

Broker-Gornak wasted no time.
“The Potter Vaults are divided between ancestral holdings and liquid-access accounts. You’ve had minor usage since your admission to Hogwarts, per the access tokens Dumbledore provided. You are seventeen—just shy of your majority. Your full sovereign access unlocks at that point.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. “We begin with a full review of all account activity between the date of my parents’ death and today. Withdrawals, transfers, and object relocations — all of them.”
Gornak tapped three claws against a stone embedded in the table. A ledger lit up before them — vertical columns of shifting light, names, items, amounts, and magic traces.

Harry scanned the list. His fingers stilled near the mid-year of 1980. “Stop there.”
He leaned in. His eyes flicked over names.
Name: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Action: Claimed transfer of vault-bound heirlooms (category: legacy preservation)
Items: 4 tomes, 2 sealed lockboxes, 1 wand-core remnant. 1 Heirloom.
Authorization: None provided.
Approval route: Assumed emergency status.

Harry’s jaw locked. “He stole from me.”
“Technically,” Gornak said coolly, “he exploited vault mismanagement following the temporary sealing of legacy keys post your parents’ death. The system has been corrected since.”
“Can you retrieve them?”
“Goblin magic does not ask. It takes. If ownership was never transferred legally, the objects remain bonded to your ancestral claim. We can reclaim and extract.”
Harry leaned back. “Do it. And apply surcharge penalties — thirty percent over their assessed worth.”

Gornak blinked once — a sign of approval. “We will apply the penalty to every account Dumbledore holds within our institution. The adjustment will liquidate his stored assets and invalidate his personal credit lines.”
Harry’s voice was flat. “Good. Make sure the documentation is airtight. I want it for court — bound, signed, notarized.”
“It will be done.”
Next came the darker names. Harry waited until the list scrolled past 1982.
Name: Severus Tobias Snape
Action: Removed potion ingredients, 1 journal, and restricted artifacts from Potter trust repository
Items: Unnamed black-lacquered case (value: 2800 Galleons), three rare essences, two blood-sealed scrolls
Authorization: Claimed 'Order access' under Dumbledore's command.

Harry sneered. “How much did he move?”
“Approximately eight thousand Galleons in restricted value, not including the sentimental valuation of Lily Potter’s journal.”
Harry’s fist curled. “The journal?”
“Verified by scrying residue. He took it, read it, and sealed it within his own warded collection. Goblin mapping confirms it remains in his possession.”
“Retrieve it,” Harry said coldly. “And I want his accounts drained to match, with interest.”
“Severus Snape has minimal liquid funds left. This will bankrupt him.”
“Even better.”
Gornak offered a goblin’s equivalent of a smirk. “You strike like one of ours. No forgiveness.”

“Next name,” he said sharply.
Gornak flicked the ledger forward. “Molly Prewett Weasley. Multiple withdrawals tagged as ‘educational stipends.’ Non-authorized. Vault-to-vault siphon charm bound through Hogwarts treasury proxy.”

A sick twist of satisfaction curled in Harry’s gut. “How much?”
“Sixty-four thousand Galleons across eight years. Plus a Hogwarts fee redirection clause. Your vault paid for her children. All of them.”
Harry’s voice went sharp. “Even for books and uniforms?”
“Every item. We estimate a net loss of over one hundred thousand Galleons by value due to long-term deferred compounding.
”Harry leaned forward. “Take it all back. Put them in debt. I want the Weasleys flagged redlisted. No further loans. No credit. No vault support.”

Broker-Gornak watched Harry with a quiet, predatory interest, he approved of it.
A seventeen-year-old acting with the bloodless clarity of a seasoned high-gold negotiator?
It was a rarity.
The next name blinked into place.
Name: Remus John Lupin
Action: Recurring siphons from the Potter Legacy Vault via proxy access granted under James Potter's will executor clause
Amount: 122,800 Galleons
Duration: 1977–1991
Purpose Claimed: Living expenses; "guardianship support" (unverified)

Harry stared at the lines for a long time.
Not even anger flared, he felt empty. The silence stretched as the numbers seared into his mind. Fourteen years. A steady bleed. Always low-profile. Always discreet. Like a fucking leech.

“He took from me,” Harry finally said, voice even. “For over a decade.”
Gornak nodded once. “It was cleverly hidden. The siphon spell was bound to the will-anchoring clause your father signed before his death. Lupin exploited it under the guise of interim support.”

“He was never my guardian,” Harry said, quieter now. “He didn’t raise me. He wasn’t there when I starved. Or when I bled. He never even wrote. ”
Another flick of the claw. “The siphon spell was deactivated when you accessed your vault at age fourteen. That was likely a safeguard expiry.”

Harry leaned forward. His mouth twisted with loathing. 
He abandoned his wife. Abandoned his son. He used ‘I’m a werewolf’ like a shield to run from responsibility. And the whole time, he was feeding off my family’s grief. He thought.

He stared at the digits on the screen. “I want it back.”
Gornak’s voice was neutral. “We can’t recover what’s spent. But we can assign restitution. We estimate he retains 19,000 Galleons in reserve. He has no property.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Take every knut. Freeze his Gringotts pass. And mark him for passive surveillance. If he so much as thinks about touching a legacy account again, I want to know.”
“Done.”

Harry let the silence settle again, but this time he didn’t wait for the next name. He leaned forward and murmured one word:
“Longbottom.”

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The light from the ledger dulled, dimmed by old magic. The table’s core rune began to glow a deeper red as a separate scroll unspooled from the wall beside them, this one was an older parchment containing  a blood-bound seal. It was a family Alliance Charter.

Gornak tapped it with a claw. “This was forged between your grandfather, Fleamont Potter, and Harfang Longbottom. Signed during the Grindelwald era. Mutual defense, magical medical support, and political solidarity.”
Harry read it word by word.
The Charter glimmered with confirmation enchantments, making it impossible to forge or misread.
Clause 7-A: In times of incapacitation, either family may draw upon shared resources for the long-term care of kin.
“Frank and Alice,” Harry said softly. “That’s how they did it.”

Gornak confirmed. “The Longbottoms have used that clause to redirect a healing stipend from your vault since 1977.”
“How much?”
“Seventy-nine thousand, nine hundred and ten Galleons.”
“Plus interest?”
“Would be one hundred and forty-three thousand by Gringotts accounting.”
Harry nodded once. “File for full restitution. Interest included. And strike the Charter’s clauses from their side permanently. Effective now.”
“It will be done. But you should know—they weren’t subtle about it. Neville Longbottom was aware of the support structure as early as his first year.”

Harry’s throat tightened.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“He watched me starve,” Harry said quietly. “Watched me struggle with Muggleborn ignorance. Never said a word. Never offered to teach me a damn thing.”

First year, he tried to stop me from saving the Stone. Showed courage — but only when it was convenient and casting him in a good light.
Second year, he stood by while the whole school blamed me for being the Heir of Slytherin. He said nothing. Did nothing.
Third year? He sat back and let me unravel everything on my own.
Fourth, he only helped in the Tournament when Moody gave him the plant and pushed him.
Fifth… he soaked up the attention like a sponge during the DA lessons I taught. Said he admired me. But he was building himself on my back.

He looked up, and for the first time since sitting down, his voice cracked.
“He knew his family was draining me. Knew there was an alliance. Never offered to house me. Never explained shit. And now I know why. His family used mine. He let me rot because the longer I stayed weak, the longer they got to feed.”

The air around him was colder now. Even the rune-bound room seemed to recoil.
“He’s not my friend. He’s not even my equal. He’s a parasite with a polite smile.”
Gornak didn’t comment.
Harry straightened.
“I want certified copies of that Charter. The siphon logs. The restitution agreements. Every theft documented and time stamped. Sealed in Goblin law.”
Gornak handed him the first scroll. “Already prepared.”
Harry took it with calm fingers. “Make the rest. And don’t act until after the school year starts. Only then will the hammer fall. Not before.”
Gornak tapped a rune. The scrolls shimmered, stamped with Gringotts' three-claw sigil.
“Your enemies will wake up poor and exposed. As it should be.”
“You'll proceed with the vault freezes,” Harry said, calm as a knife sliding into flesh. “Dumbledore, Snape, Lupin, the Weasleys, and the Longbottom estate. Make it clean. Quiet. Let them find out the moment they try to touch a coin.”

Gornak inclined his head. “We will trigger reactive denial protocols just after the school year is started. Panic will be… inconvenient.”
Harry didn’t flinch. “Not my problem.”
Gornak gave a rare goblin smirk. “You were born for this. There’s no guilt in vengeance when it’s owed.”
“Assign two passive watchers to Dumbledore and Lupin,” he continued. “Log everything. I want records of vault access attempts, and any proxies they try to use. I want a weekly report.”
“Done.”
“If any of them try to open new accounts or redirect assets, delay it. Bounce the request between departments. Make them go through cursed object reviews. Bury it under fake evaluations if you must.”
“We excel at bureaucratic obstruction, when incentivized.”
“I’ll add five thousand galleons to your department’s vault. Quiet bonus.”
Gornak tapped a rune-stone twice. “Received and honored.”

Harry leaned back slightly. “As for the Black vaults, I’m the heir, not the Lord. That won’t change.”
Gornak tilted his head, intrigued. “You’ll be of age in less than twenty-four hours. With blood verification, you could claim full Lordship.”
“I’m not interested for now,” Harry replied flatly. “Too loud. Too many eyes. Let everyone keep thinking I’m just the Boy-Who-Lived.”
Gornak’s eyes gleamed. “So you know what power smells like—but also when it stinks.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “Exactly.”

Gornak slid an obsidian stone into the center rune-slot. A pulse of magic filled the air, and glowing gold columns rose in the space between them—figures, holdings, vault indicators. 
Vault Holdings — Potter Lineage
Primary Ancestral Vault: 31,920,000 Galleons (liquid)
Secondary Vault (Trust): 35,000 Galleons (to be reclaimed after sealing security breaches)
Real Estate: Two confirmed properties, one of which qualify as magical estate with full ancestral protections
Magical Artifacts: Seventeen cursed, forty-two legacy, eight dark-class relics (unclaimed)
Investment Stakes: Twelve percent ownership in five apothecary chains, seven-point-five percent in Flourish & Blotts, nine-point-two percent in Nimbus Broom Co.
Pending Recoveries (post-theft assessments): Estimated six-hundred and forty thousand Galleons

Total Net Worth Estimate: Approximately 32.6 million Galleons in liquid and convertible assets

The numbers dwarfed even the Malfoy fortune—estimated at 18.2 million Galleons.
Harry wasn’t just wealthier than most nobles. He outclassed them all.
He muttered under his breath, “Still think I’m the charity case, Malfoy?”

Harry rose from the rune-etched chair with a smooth motion. The meeting had lasted nearly two hours, but the weight of it settled in the bones like a lifetime of war. The scrolls in his hand were thick and sealed. Goblin-bound. Untouchable by human lies.
As he stepped toward the archway, he paused.
“One last thing,” he said without turning. His voice was icy.
Gornak, still seated, raised a brow.
“If any of the parties we discussed come sniffing around,” Harry continued, “asking why their accounts are frozen, why their vaults are blocked, why the floor’s vanished from under them—this is what you will say.”
He turned now, fully, his eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

“You’ll inform them that the Goblin Nation initiated a routine audit of the Potter holdings to prepare documentation for an upcoming Lordship ascension. That during this audit, irregularities were discovered, and appropriate corrections were made. No foul play was suspected. No accusations were issued. The vault owner—me—was not made aware.”

Gornak’s mouth curved in appreciation. “A seamless cover. Polite and passive. Completely true… from a certain point of view.”
Harry gave a shallow nod. “Exactly.”

He tucked the scrolls into the satchel strapped across his brace-suspended arm.
“Let them stew. Let them scramble. But not one of them will trace a thing back to me.”
Without another word, he walked out. The door shut behind him with a deep, echoing thud, and the goblin broker sat alone in the silence, smiling like a shark smelling fresh blood in still water.

The door of the room Harry occupied in the leaky cauldron clicked shut behind him.
He tossed his cloak onto the armchair, rolled his neck once, and flexed his right wrist. The floating brace followed with the lazy loyalty of a tired pet.

The Leaky Cauldron’s guest room was humble. Nothing pretentious which suited him fine.
A fireplace that hadn’t been lit yet. A small desk under the window. A large couch against the wall, and a bed that looked... survivable. It even had a half-decent mattress.
Progress.

His school trunk was at the foot of the bed. Harry dropped into a squat beside it, cracking the latches without ceremony.
Inside: clothes, a potion kit missing the good stuff, spare parchment, three pairs of socks that had no business surviving puberty, and his battered wand holster.

He stared at the holster. Then at his arm.
"You're not invited back," he muttered to it, and set it aside.
The new one he'd snagged at Gringotts was cleaner, goblin-made and low-profile.
He slid it on, adjusting the strap until it settled snug under the elbow. Wand followed, always left-side draw.

One shirt looked passable. The rest?
He held up a Weasley-supplied jumper that had once been a deep maroon. It now looked like something a well-meaning owl had dragged through several Christmases. He shoved it aside and made a mental note to let Susan and Daphne mock him properly when she saw the state of things.
He didn’t need much now. His robes were serviceable. The tailor visit could wait until they picked out something properly lordly.

Harry stood and stretched his arms overhead, letting joints pop as they realigned into youth again. He wasn’t sore. But he was…underfilled.
There had been more of him once. More mass. More burn. He could feel the difference now with every casual movement.
It won’t last, he'll make sure of it.

The knock came soft—three taps, a pause, then one more. It was a pattern carved into muscle memory from years of survival, raids, and stolen moments behind enemy lines. But now it signaled something else entirely.

Harry was already on his feet when the door opened. Mipsey didn’t bother announcing them—just popped out with a snap as soon as the perimeter was confirmed clean.
Susan walked in first, hood thrown back, her red hair straight and lush. She was flushed, lips parted, skin glistening from the walk through Muggle London. Her robes were fitted, but she wore them open, revealing a clingy black camisole and low-slung skirt that made Harry’s pulse jolt hard enough to rattle his ribs.

Daphne followed, just as striking—robes cut high on the thigh, loose white blouse with the first three buttons undone, her usual air of indifference replaced by something wicked and playful. Her grey-blue eyes locked onto Harry immediately, sweeping over him like a hungry spell.
They didn’t wait.
Susan launched forward, arms around his neck, pressing her entire body against his. Daphne was right behind her, sliding in from the side and capturing his jaw in a hard kiss before Susan even had the chance to bite his lip.

“Fuck,” Susan breathed against his mouth. “You smell like teenage sweat and revenge.”
“Best cologne I own,” Harry muttered, pulling them both tight.
Daphne’s hands were already under his shirt. “You weren’t this lean before,” she murmured, sliding her palms up the faint outline of his abs. “Little smaller, sure, but damn. Still solid.”
“Shut up and kiss me,” Harry growled, catching the back of her neck and tugging her in.
They didn’t make it to the bed. The couch was closer and just as sturdy.

They collapsed onto it in a tangle—Harry falling back with Susan straddling one thigh, Daphne stretched out along his side, her leg thrown over both of theirs. It was all mouths and hands after that.
Susan’s fingers found the hem of his shirt and yanked it up, exposing the light bruising that hadn’t fully faded from his ribs. She didn’t pause—just kissed the spot lightly, then bit down hard enough to make him grunt.
“You’re still healing,” she said sweetly, licking the mark.
Harry didn’t even blink. “You’re still dressed.”

“That’s your problem,” she said, sliding his hand down her waist and under the band of her skirt. “Fix it.”
Daphne was already ahead of her. She guided Harry’s other hand to her chest, breath hitching when he squeezed through the fabric.
“Oh fuck, I missed this,” Daphne said, eyes fluttering. “You, him, us—this. These last few days were torture.”

Harry pulled her blouse open fully, not bothering with buttons, and buried his face between her breasts. She moaned openly, writhing against him, while Susan unzipped his trousers and slipped her hand inside like it was her right.
And it was.

“Morgana,” she whispered, stroking him slowly. “Still not back to your full size, but Merlin—you were already frightening before your change.”
Daphne smirked, tugging down his trousers a bit more so she could see. “Mm. He’s got that twitch. Look at it—so eager, and he hasn’t even come yet.”
Harry groaned into Daphne’s chest. “You two are going to kill me.”
“That’s the goal,” Susan murmured. “Death by thigh strangulation. But not until the ritual.”

Daphne looked up at him with gleaming eyes. “You gonna touch us, or just be the world’s hottest pillow?”
Harry didn’t need more encouragement. His fingers found Susan’s panties under her skirt, slipping beneath them with practiced ease. She gasped, clutching his wrist.
“Oh, fuck, that’s not fair,” she whispered. “I’m already soaked.”
“You wore silk,” he said with a grin, nibbling at Daphne’s collarbone. “You knew what you were doing.”

Susan leaned down and kissed him again—greedily. Her hips rolled over his hand as she bit his bottom lip and tugged.
Daphne’s hand slid into the back of his trousers, fingers digging into the top of his ass as she pressed herself tighter against him. “Merlin, your skin’s still so warm. You always ran hot. Like a furnace.”
“Like a fucking star,” Susan groaned. “You remember that time in Paris?”
“Three nights,” Daphne said, smiling lazily. “You lasted two. Couldn’t walk the third.”
Harry grunted. “You’re not helping me pace myself.”
Susan bit his ear. “That’s the point.”

They tangled tighter—Harry’s hands under both skirts now, kneading soft flesh and teasing along folds already slick with need. They didn’t move for climaxes. That wasn’t the point. This wasn’t about release.
It was about rediscovery.

It was about knowing that every gasp, every moan, every curse and whispered plea came from lips that once kissed the blood off his knuckles and laid beside him in a ruined safehouse while the fuckers of the phoenix hunted outside.

By the time the kisses slowed and the worst of the ache was teased into something deliciously frustrating, they were a mess of flushed cheeks, damp thighs, and tousled hair.
Susan’s hand was still down his pants, lazily stroking him in slow, possessive passes, while Daphne lay curled under his other arm, her blouse fully open, one of his hands cupped over her breast. She slipped her own hand down his waistband and joined Susan in her ministration, her nails occasionally scraping skin just to feel him tense.
“We have a serious problem,” Daphne murmured, her breath warm on his neck. “I want to fuck you into this couch.”
Susan snorted softly. “We’d break the frame. You’d break him. He’s not upgraded yet.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Harry muttered.

Susan looked down with a wicked smile and tightened her grip just slightly. “Don’t worry, love. Still thick enough to choke on.”
Daphne leaned in close, lips brushing his earlobe. “But when your power comes back… when you’re full again… Merlin, you better fuck like you used to. I want hips bruised. I want bedposts shattered.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Harry growled, thrusting into their hands. “We wait for the ritual. I’m not giving up that power bump just to see you scream.”
Harry leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “So. Now that I can feel my balls begging for mercy… let’s talk plans.”
Neither Susan nor Daphne stopped moving their hands.

Harry exhaled. “Ritual prep first. The boost only happens if the all the participants losing their virginity are fully bonded during penetration. That means you two—sandwiched before me, facing each other. We need emotional intimacy, full connection. It’s not just sex. It’s magic.”
Susan blinked. “Facing each other? You mean like we always do for easy switches?”
Harry nodded. “Closeness strengthens the resonance. Heartbeat alignment. Breath synchronization. You two staring into each other while I’m inside one of you—then the other. Your emotions, your bond, it bleeds into mine. That’s what unlocks the surge.”
Daphne hummed, impressed. “Three-way soul alchemy. Kinky.”
Susan leaned over and kissed Daphne gently on the lips. “I’m fine with it.”

The couch wasn’t made for war councils, but then again, this one had very little to do with military planning and everything to do with sex, vengeance, and politics. Limbs were tangled, kisses half-finished, and Harry was lying with his back against the cushions, his trousers halfway down his thighs, while two beautiful witches stroked his cock in alternating, greedy rhythms.

Susan lay stretched along his right side, one leg flung over his, completely bare under her skirt. Her lips were at his ear, teeth grazing his lobe when she whispered, “We’re doing this. And we’re doing it right.” Her hand slid down, curling tight around the base of his shaft as she stroked upward with practiced motion, her fingers slick with precum. “No half-measures.”

On the other side, Daphne was draped over his left leg, her blouse open and forgotten on the floor. She trailed her tongue from the corner of his jaw to the hollow of his throat before lifting her fingers — wet from a slow stroke — and licking them with a smile that could drown nations. “Taste gets better each time. You sure you don’t want to break the rule early?”
“Ritual’s too good to waste,” Harry grunted, chest rising with heat. “You’ll feel it when it hits. Magic doesn’t just hum during that kind of climax — it sings .”

Susan kissed down his collarbone while her other hand grazed the inside of his thigh. “Then talk, Harry. You’ve had days in your head. Give us the outline or we’ll stroke the rest out of you.”

Harry shifted, his voice steady despite the fire blooming across his nerves. “The ritual structure’s simple. Two sacrifices per person. That’s six in total. All of them magical. We need magical cores.”
“Cores.” Daphne echoed, pausing. “What abou blood?”
“Blood’s useless. This isn’t a curse or a binding — it’s an elevation. The magic is drawn at the moment of penetration. If we do it right, the ritual rips it straight out and channels it into the one losing their virginity.”
Susan blinked. “Wait. Loses? Not the one taking it?”

Harry nodded, gritting his teeth as her hand tightened at the head of his cock. “I can’t lose mine twice. The power spike will go straight into your cores during penetration. The ritual’s designed to trigger during orgasm — but only if the position is intimate enough. That’s why we do it in the sandwich position.”
Susan’s voice purred, “Lying flush against Daphne. Cocksleeved and spell-fed. I like this ritual.”

Harry exhaled roughly as they resumed their strokes, slower now. “Exactly. Emotional resonance, physical intimacy. All three of us showing love for each other during the ritual. It creates the triad binding. Without it, the ritual would just drain and disperse.”
Susan leaned down, kissed him long and hot, then pulled back just enough to whisper,
“We love you, Harry. There’s no faking here.”
Daphne mirrored her on the other side, her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth before claiming it again. When they parted, she said, “We’ve always loved you. This isn’t a ritual. This is just... us. Getting it on like we always do.”

He let his head fall back for a moment, then refocused. “The sacrifices, they’ll be from Hogwarts. Enemies we can reach. Overt ones. Covert ones. We’ll grab them discreetly.”
Susan grinned as she licked her fingers clean from his precum. “I vote we take out a few smug Slytherins. And maybe that charming Ravenclaw who told me I ‘look too slutty for a pureblood girl.’”
Daphne laughed darkly. “We’ll build the list later.”

“I’ve already got the goblins acting,” Harry added, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Hogwarts starts in a month. After that, Dumbledore, Snape, Lupin, the Weasleys, the Longbottoms — they all wake up broke. Their accounts will freeze. Vaults sealed. Loans recalled. All traced back to a routine Potter account audit, not to me.”
Daphne was already stroking him again. “That’s filthy, Harry. Even I am wet for that plan.”
“You’re always wet during our ‘war councils’,” Susan murmured, pinching her nipple playfully.
“I said we’d build slow,” Harry replied, hips twitching. “I meant it, no overt moves until they are cooked.”

Susan climbed into his lap, skirt still on but utterly useless now as her panties has been discarded ages ago. She pressed her slick, bare pussy against the underside of his cock, grinding slow.
Daphne kept her hand moving tracing Susan’s asshole slowly, even as she leaned close to whisper, “Now let’s talk about what else you planned.”

Harry had trouble to answer right away, his cock was between Susan’s thighs, her slick folds grinding along the underside of his shaft while Daphne’s fingers teased at her ass, the pad of her thumb pressing lightly, just enough to make Susan writhe harder.

They were a mess of heat and gritted teeth, all three flushed, damp, tangled in torn robes and rumpled sheets. Susan had just ground down again, her pussy gliding along Harry’s cock without taking him inside. He groaned aloud, the tension in his hips begging for release.
“Fuck—” Harry hissed, one hand gripping her waist, the other wrapped Daphne’s hair.
Susan shivered at the sound, lips at his neck, her breath warm and needy. “You close?”
“Yeah,” he rasped, barely hanging on. “But—first I need to tell you guys something.”

Susan froze mid-roll, her hips still pinned against him. For a beat, none of them moved, caught between arousal and that subtle shift in tone. Then, smoothly—without losing contact—she pushed herself upright, letting his cock slip along her folds one last time before she swung off his lap and curled back against his right side.

Daphne slid into his left, her fingers reluctantly retreating, though not far. Both girls stayed close, one hand each resting possessively on his cock, eyes sharp despite the heat still lingering in their cheeks.
Harry exhaled. “At the end of the month, you’re not going to the Quidditch World Cup final.”
Susan frowned. “What?”
Daphne sat up a bit straighter, eyes narrowing. “Harry—”
“I’m serious,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You’re not going. Neither of you.”
“Why the hell not?” Susan asked, still catching her breath.
“Because I need to do something,” Harry said. “Something big. And if either of you are anywhere near, I won’t be able to focus.”
Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘something big.’”

Harry’s eyes darkened, a cold glint behind the simmering lust. “I’m reclaiming what was stolen. Magic, memories, pieces of myself they carved off me like meat. Granger. Weasley. I’m going to take it all back.”
Silence followed.
“That night,” Harry continued. “During the chaos at the Cup. I know the exact moment when Ron and Hermione split from the group. I’ve replayed it a hundred times. She goes into the forest with him—toward the edge. Arthur Weasley will separate the group in pairs to reduce the risk of grabbing attention from would be attackers.”
Daphne’s mouth twitched. “So you’re grabbing them?”
He nodded once. “I’ll have the ritual circle prepped. I’ve already gathered the materials. Every sigil memorized. The only weakness is timing—it’s not the solstice, which means the ritual won’t naturally peak. But I’ve accounted for that.”
Susan’s lips parted. “Sacrifice?”
Harry met her gaze. “One Death Eater. During the chaos, there’ll be dozens in masks, some throwing curses for show. One of them will go missing. They won’t notice right away.”
Daphne’s hand slid up his chest, slowly. “You thought of everything.”
“Had time,” he muttered.

Susan’s fingers resumed stroking the base of his cock again, lazily now, as if to soothe him while she digested the plan. 

“And you’re going to take it back…” Daphne whispered, licking her lips as her hand crept lower again, wrapping gently around his shaft.
“All of it,” Harry confirmed. “And when I do, I’ll slip back into the Leaky Cauldron before sunrise. They’ll never even know I was here.”

Susan leaned down and kissed his ribs, tongue flicking over one of the fading bruises. “You’re insane.”
“I’m efficient,” he said simply. “And I’m tired of waiting.”
“You sure we can’t help?” Daphne asked. “Not even from a distance?”
Harry reached up and brushed her hair back from her cheek. “No. If I know you’re near, I’ll worry. I’ll hesitate. I can’t have that. I need to be a blade that night. Nothing else.”
Susan sighed, but her hand never stopped moving. “You’re an ass.”

Daphne dipped her head suddenly and licked the bead of precum from the tip of his cock. “Mmm. Still delicious.”
Susan grinned and joined her, their tongues flicking over his head, mouths brushing against each other. “I’ve always loved this taste.”
“Don’t you dare—” Harry started, but it was already too late.
Both girls dropped lower, their tongues swirling around him before Daphne took him into her mouth fully, her lips stretching as Susan guided the base. After a few slow bobs, they switched—Susan swallowing him halfway, her throat working while Daphne licked what she left exposed.
With all the teasing from before, it didn’t take long.
His hands clenched the cushions, his groans low and broken as the pressure built.

“Fuck—Susan—Daphne—”
They didn’t stop. And when he came, they shared it. Lips to lips, tongues meeting, cum dripping between them as they kissed each other hungrily, moaning into each other’s mouths like they were tasting ambrosia.
When they finally pulled back, breathing hard, cheeks flushed and lips glistening, Susan leaned over and murmured, “Not virginity if it’s oral.”
Daphne licked her lips and laughed. “Just a warm-up.”
Harry lay there, dazed but grinning. “Merlin help me.”

They curled in again, and laid in comfortable silence.
Then Harry’s voice returned to steel. “They won’t see it coming.”
Susan’s grin widened. “Genius.”
Daphne pressed close. “And what about the Black title?”
Harry paused. “Still think I should take it?”
Susan kissed his cheek. “You want clout. Take the name. It’ll make every Wizengamot rat shit themselves.”
Daphne added, “You’d have two votes. One loud, one lethal. Time to make the Ministry sweat.”
Harry smirked. “Then it’s settled.”
They lay in a tangle, heat humming between them, kisses trailing down to bare skin and promises.
However, the thought in Harry’s mind was cold:
Soon. Wait for me, you traitors and backstabbers. This year will be the longest of your lives.

Chapter Text

The match had ended hours ago.
The crowd had thinned in waves—celebration, hangover, then the long trail back toward their respective tents or Portkey points. Most were drunk. Some were just exhausted. Firewhisky bottles clinked softly against each other from inside discarded crates, and here and there, stragglers still sang the closing chants of the Irish anthem with cracked voices and off-key harmonies.

Harry ignored it all.
He stood still in the shadows just beyond the light perimeter of the main camping rows, one hand resting loosely on his wand, the other adjusting the inner lining of his robe. Dark, charm-woven, and enchantment-dampened. It wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny from a dedicated Auror, but for tonight, it was enough.

He had arrived just after the match’s end via a quiet Apparition point past the north embankment — one of the auxiliary field paths not monitored after dark. It had taken him ten minutes to slip through the outer wards without tripping anything obvious. No one had noticed. 

Harry Potter didn’t attend the match.
The invitation from Ron had come, delivered by owl days ago, full of misspelled names and entitled assumptions. A fine display of Weasley's brashness written in red ink.
He hadn’t answered.

He crouched behind a dry hedge cluster at the rise overlooking the Ministry-assigned family tent rows.
From his position, he had a clear view of the Weasley plot — one of the standard-issued cream-colored tents, modestly charmed for interior space but no larger than regulation allowed. A battered iron kettle hung from the side pole. Their domesticity was worn like a badge.
He could hear them inside.

“…but you didn’t have to hex him, Ron,” Hermione snapped.
“I did, though,” Ron countered, not sounding remotely apologetic. “Bloke spilled beer all over me and called Mum a bloody cow.”
“You could’ve walked away.”
“Yeah, or I could not let a drunken bastard insult my family. You’re always going on about de-escalation, but some people deserve it.”
Hermione huffed. “Violence isn’t the answer to everything.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
A pause. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper being yanked far harder than necessary. “You’re such a child.”
“Better than being a stuck-up Prefect when you don’t even have the badge yet.”

Harry listened in silence, unblinking.
That was the tone he remembered too well. The sharp correction, the absolute certainty, the moral superiority. Hermione Granger’s voice hadn’t changed. Still lecturing. Still assuming everyone else needed guiding principles she’d memorized from books.
And Ron—still selfish, still reactive, still convinced that every outburst was justified if it protected his ego. Still petty when challenged, still never sorry.

Inside the tent, another voice chimed in—Arthur’s. 
“Alright, alright, enough, you two. Just get some sleep. If we’re lucky, we can get an early portkey assignment.”
“You always say that, Dad,” Ron muttered. “And we always end up at the back.”

Harry’s jaw twitched.
He sank lower against the hedge, adjusting his cloak to obscure the faint sheen of his shoes. He'd warded his location with passive noise-dampening, and a mild repulsion charm had kept three separate groups of drunken stragglers from settling anywhere near. No one looked twice at his position.

His eyes scanned the treeline beyond the eastern edge of the camp. The chaos hadn’t started yet — but it would. In another half hour, maybe less. The timing had to be perfect.
He had already prepared the circle. The cave stood ready, its runes carefully etched, the wards stabilized, and the magical channels fully primed. Now, all that remained was the final step: luring the variables into position.

Across the tent clearing, he saw Percy exit first. Polished shoes, pressed robes, clipboard in hand like someone was watching. He walked toward the ministry security post without looking back. Fred and George came next, slipping out through the side with muffled snickers and what looked like a confiscated fireworks crate half-covered in a spare shirt.
Arthur followed, calling after them wearily.

That left Ginny, Ron, and Hermione inside.
Harry leaned back against the rough bark of the tree behind him and waited. 
He counted the minutes without needing a watch, letting instinct mark the passage of time. A flicker of green on the edge of the sky caught his eye—just moments before the screaming began. A woman’s shriek rang out, followed by the sharp crackle of spellfire.

Then the chaos surged.
Figures in black cloaks moved in packs across the far ridge. Masked, mostly posturing, wands flaring into the night. The Death Eaters didn’t care about subtlety — they were here for spectacle.
Which made them perfect for his needs.

Harry slipped through the hedges. He circled north around the main camp lanes and hugged the outer embankment, keeping distance between himself and the roaming groups. His eyes stayed sharp, feet soundless. He moved like someone who’d done this before — because he had. Dozens of times. In a future that no longer existed.

The first masked group came into view by the edge of the marsh path.
Four of them.
One levitated a screaming man two meters above ground. The others tossed low-powered jinxes into the night, drunk with impunity. One lagged behind the rest — slightly shorter and slower.
Perfect.

Harry moved without a word. A stupefy , cast nonverbally, struck the Death Eater square in the back.
He caught the falling body with a silent Arresto Momentum , followed by a precise Featherlight charm.
Then, with quick circular movement of his wand, he cast Disillusionment over both himself and the stunned target. The world shimmered faintly. Shadows layered over their forms.
No one noticed.

The masked figure was tucked into a pocket of tree cover thirty meters away, concealed behind a natural rock wall where no magical trace would linger.
Harry returned to his original post. The Weasley tent was in motion.
Ginny exited, guided by a twin.
Then Ron and Hermione.
Arthur barked urgently. “You two! Stay together — follow the south trail into the trees. Avoid the fire, stay low, and don’t draw your wands unless you have to. We’ll meet near the marshline clearing when it’s over.”

Ron gave a lazy nod. Hermione already had her hand on his arm, dragging him forward.
They disappeared between the trees at a fast jog.
Harry exhaled once, and followed.

He moved in silence, levitating the unconscious death eater behind him. The path wasn’t lit, but it didn’t need to be. He’d studied this route already — memorized every root, every snag, every narrowing in the trail. They took the same one they did last time. He let them get ahead.
Twenty paces. Not more.

Ron was grumbling. “This is bloody stupid. I could’ve taken the idiots in the masks.”
Hermione snapped back, “That’s not the point! You don’t fight masked lunatics in a crowd, Ronald. You escape. You survive.”
“So we’re just going to run into the woods like a pair of Muggles? Great plan, Hermione.”

Harry didn’t allow the flicker of disgust to distract him.
He cast Homenum Revelio , confirming no other signature nearby.
No witnesses.

He struck. Stupefy .
Two spells. Twin flashes of red. Both silent.
Hermione dropped like a stone, her expression still mid-scold. Ron made a confused sound and then fell face-first into a patch of dead leaves.

Harry reached their unconscious forms and checked pulses. No injuries.
Good.
He flicked his wand once more, and each body was gently lifted from the forest floor, suspended low to the ground under a paired Featherlight charm and reinforced Disillusionment .
Then he doubled back through the western trail — toward the deeper glade, away from the firelight, away from any lingering chaos.

The trees here thickened. Oaks with bark like armor an brambles crowding in at the edges.
The path was almost non-existent.
Another thirty meters and he reached the entrance of the cave.

He passed through a narrow slit in the limestone — a natural cleft just wide enough to fit a body. On the other side: dry rock, uneven earth, low ceiling. A hidden cave no one stumbled onto by accident. 

Harry laid the bodies down.
Three anchors. Two to extract. One to consume.
The ritual would burn clean.

He checked the bindings again. Spelled shackles around the wrists and ankles — enchanted leather, not metal, to avoid grounding the ritual energies. 
He stepped back, circling once. The silver lines of the ritual array shimmered in response.

He raised his wand one final time and whispered the activation phrase to the inner circle:
“Nex ad Essentiam.”
The symbols glowed faintly.
Harry sat on a nearby stone, eyes on the array. The glow from the runes cast pale light across Ron’s still face, Hermione’s tensed jaw, the Death Eater’s half-visible mask.
It was time.

He reached for his satchel and retrieved the final piece — the pre-carved focus crystal, threaded with a single hair of his own. Needed to anchor the next phase.
He placed it into the center slot of the altar stone and let the silence settle.
Outside, the forest roared with panic and fire.
Tomorrow, the world would change. And not one of them would understand how it started.
He went to work on the final preps.

Harry stood over the array with sleeves rolled as he put gloves on. His wand remained untouched, tucked into his holster.
This part was ritual, not spellwork.

The circle spanned nearly eight feet across, carved directly into the rock. Every line had been etched with surgical precision, filled with molten silver alloyed with powdered Thestral bone — two grams per foot, mixed with a solvent base of basilisk bile and dried Ashwinder scales to preserve magical conductivity.
The array had three anchor points spaced in a triangle — each linked to its own secondary runic web.

The outer ring bore a language long buried.
The broken phonetics of the First Binding Tongue: ritual-speak used before wands were invented.
Harry had found the fragments through goblin cryptology in a lost Druid text.
Piecing it together had taken years in his last life.
Now it would do what it was designed for: take back what was stolen.

At the northern anchor lay the Death Eater — anonymous, faceless, stripped of his wand and still unconscious. His robes had been sliced open and his chest marked with sigils. A runic knife — goblin steel with a serpentbone hilt — lay across his sternum.

The southern anchor held Ron.
His mouth had been spelled shut. Stitched with thread enchanted to dissolve only when the ritual ended.
His hands were bound behind his back. Chalk tracers lined his veins, glimmering faintly in the cave's silver light.

Hermione lay on the eastern anchor. Her head cradled in a nest of chalk dust and gold wire. Her temples were banded in runes drawn with Phoenix blood. She’d feel none of it until the connection triggered.

Harry stepped into the center.
He knelt over the focus stone and placed both palms flat against the warm rock. He inhaled.
Then, clearly and without emotion, he began.
“Accipe. Redde. Restituere.”
Three words, spoken in ritual tongue.
Take. Return. Restore.

The silver lines around the circle lit with pale blue light. The Thestral bone sparked at intervals, casting a sulfur-like scent through the air. Runes began to pulse steadily, like a heartbeat.
Harry didn’t move.

“Corpus carnis, vis vitae, core fractum… Exsorbe.”
A low thrum built beneath the stone.
The knife across the Death Eater’s chest lifted into the air slowly, rotating once, then plunged downward with force.

The Death Eater's body reacted and arched once, violently. The runes under his skin lit red-hot, then orange, then blue as his magical core was torn free, suspended in the air like a molten orb.
It hovered above him for a few seconds.
Then it cracked like an egg.

The magic released in a narrow beam downward into the cave floor, where the base runes absorbed it greedily. The Death Eater’s skin greyed instantly. His lips receded. Muscles shriveled. The whites of his eyes dried and split open. Within seconds, what had once been a man was now little more than a clothed skeleton, collapsed in a pile of necrotic meat and flaking bone.
The smell was foul but Harry didn’t flinch.

The circle shifted.
Now the outer rings around Hermione activated. A second glow ignited, gold, deep and dense, like sunlight on ancient parchment.
Her skull just above the eyes began to pulse with internal radiance.
The runes around her head shimmered, then converged into a crown of glowing lines.

Harry felt it before it hit.
A sharp crack of heat behind his own eyes. His temples burned. His brain pulsed against his skull like it was trying to escape.
A ribbon of gold light emerged from her forehead and lanced across the cave, striking him between the brows.
He tightened his jaw in pain from what flooded him.

Names. Numbers. Spells. Classifications. Geometry. Wand movement notations.
Entire theories came roaring back like a dam had burst behind his eyes.
Arithmancy tables. Ancient Runes. Obscure transfiguration matrices — all his insights were back without any fog.
And beyond that, his memories cleared.
The first time he brewed Felix Felicis. The complicated rhythm of basilisk-scale potion stirring. Gringotts vault records he'd memorized in passing but couldn’t recall until now, and so much more, his mind was finally whole, again. 

The light vanished and Hermione’s glow dimmed.
She remained unconscious and unharmed but her chest heaved once, as if in loss.
Harry wiped blood from his nose. His vision was swimming, but his hands were steady.

He turned to the final anchor.
Ron’s rune circle had already ignited. His chest pulsed with red-orange light — centered at the heart, where magical cores are seated. His lips glowed faintly too.

When the connection formed, it wasn’t visual.
A heavy pulse struck Harry in the core— then a second in his throat. He opened his mouth as the second pulse hit, and a burning sensation surged from palate to spine.
He collapsed forward, elbows catching him against the stone.
This time, the pain was unbearable.

His veins lit up, running silver-white beneath his skin. His magic — the part that had been stolen — tore through him like lightning traveling down a too-narrow tunnel.
Then came the language.
Parseltongue.
Not just the hissing imitation most could barely parse. No — the true tongue. High Parselmagic. The kind used in rituals and dragon-binding. It unfurled in his throat like an ancient song reawakened.

He heard it in his mind before he spoke it aloud.
“Ssshass-thar vrin’kosh elth’naar.”
My power that you took. It is mine again.

Ron spasmed once — limbs jerking uncontrollably — and the magic lifted from his throat like steam.
His chest arched, and a red-white tether formed between his core and Harry’s.
The tether collapsed inward with a snap, slamming into Harry’s core and sending him flat onto his back.
Harry screamed.

His magic flooded his channels, his structure.
He felt his magical reserves recalibrate, as if a set of false barriers had been stripped away. The sensitivity of his core returned, larger, cleaner, tighter, fully his.

Then the light stopped and all three anchors dimmed. The silver of the ritual circle lost its glow.
Hermione and Ron lay unconscious — pale but breathing.
The Death Eater was bone and dust.

And Harry… lay still. Panting. Limbs twitching.
His lost power reclaimed.
He rolled onto his side and spat blood onto the floor. It hissed against the silver lines.
Then he laughed, satisfied.
“Mine again,” he whispered. “All of it.”

The cave was still warm from the power of the ritual.
The aftershocks of the which lingered in the stone, subtle pulses that pushed against the skin like a heartbeat beneath granite. Harry sat cross-legged at the edge of the circle for a full minute, forcing his breathing into pattern. His muscles still twitched, but the pain had ebbed. The adrenaline was burning off.

His mind felt different now. Sharper. More his.
The edge had returned. The weight behind his thoughts. The depth of memory. Even his occlumency barriers had reknit themselves, slotted into place without effort. It was like recovering from a fever dream and remembering what it meant to see the world correctly.
He pushed himself to his feet.

First priority: wipe the cave.
He took out a bone-scraper from the ritual kit and moved toward the Death Eater’s remains. The body had fully collapsed into decay—only scraps of skin clung to bleached bone. Ribs curled in like dry leaves. Teeth loose in the jaw. 

Harry scraped everything and sealed the pile inside a folded rune-scroll. The parchment drank the evidence in like water. When it was done, he pressed the edge with a heated charm and the entire scroll blackened, then vanished in a shimmer of ash.
Gone.

He banished the blood, and tapped the silver lines of the ritual circle with the flat of his palm. A pulse traveled outward in concentric rings. Where it passed, every etched rune faded to black and crumbled, leaving only unmarked rock behind.
Thirty seconds later, the cave looked like it had never been touched.

Now for the hard part.
Harry moved both bodies to the clearing where he had taken them—down the same narrow trail, retracing every step. He made sure to use the same paths, the same trail gaps.
Leaving no footprints and no magical signature stronger than a breeze.

Harry moved to Ron first. He crouched beside the still-unconscious redhead and placed two fingers lightly on the pulse at his neck. Steady. Slower than normal, but nothing dangerous.
The magical whiplash would fade soon, and there would be no trace of the tether that had ripped the stolen magic from his gut.
He pressed his wand to Ron’s sternum and whispered, “Reviviscere.”
Ron groaned softly, limbs twitching.

Harry raised his wand higher. “Obliviate.”

The spell struck true, it was low powered, focused only on the window between being stunned and waking. A surgical memory cut, clean and precise.
He cast it again. Twice more. Redundant layers, each one carved tighter than the last.

Then came the transfiguration.
He used a low-tier animation charm to hoist Ron’s body gently upright, held in a mock-standing pose. The boy’s knees buckled once, but Harry steadied them with a flex of magic. The body posed naturally, slouched like someone stunned in place.

Next: Hermione.
She was lighter, easier to move. He checked her vitals, then cast the same awakening spell. Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open. She stirred slightly.

“Obliviate.”
Again. And again.
Each layer sheared away the ritual’s memory cleanly. No echoes remained.
The mind, when unresisting, was surprisingly easy to smooth.
He arranged them facing east. Close enough to each other that they’d find comfort in proximity.
He cleaned Ron’s cloak with a flick. Brushed the side of Hermione’s robes free of dust.

Then he stepped back and triggered the final phase.
“Somno Finis.”
Both stirred at once.
Hermione blinked first, then adjusted her robes. “We—what—”
Ron rubbed his head. “Ugh, I feel like I tripped on something.”

Harry, fully Disillusioned behind a tree, waited.
Hermione straightened. “We need to get to the marshline clearing. That’s where Mr. Weasley said to meet.”
Ron nodded, already jogging. “Yeah, come on.”
They took off down the trail, oblivious.

He watched them until their footfalls vanished into the distance.
Then he exhaled.
It was done.

He returned to the cave one last time, sealed the entry with a passive illusion charm keyed to local rock patterns, and cast a low-power anti-scrying field to last until dawn.
But he didn’t leave. Not yet.
There was one more thing to do.

He looped back toward the main encampment, skirting the southern edge where the grass grew wild and the patrol patterns thinned. The chaos had dulled into aftershocks by now—fires dying, Aurors shouting, fighting Death Eaters that disappeared with Portkeys one by one when overwhelmed. Survivors stumbling toward apparition points with soot-stained faces.

Harry kept low, eyes scanning the tree line ahead. He knew the layout. Knew the groups. Knew the arrogance.
Lucius Malfoy had always split from the others once the worst of the show was done.
He never did his worst in public. Not where anyone with real authority might be watching.
He always drifted away at the edge, still masked, still smirking, but seeking something smaller. Defenseless.
It didn’t take long.

Harry found him in a half-collapsed clearing near the old timber line. The mask was discarded to the side, robes half-loosened, pale hair hanging like wet string around his shoulders. A girl, maybe seventeen, was curled on the ground, unmoving.
Her clothes were torn. Her wrists bruised.

Harry didn’t look twice.
He raised his wand and fired the hex without warning or hesitation.
“Fodio Cranium.”
The spell hit with a sound like rotten fruit splitting open.

Malfoy’s head ruptured at the right temple, the blast folding skull and skin in an instant. Bone fragments sprayed into the grass. He dropped with no resistance, legs folding beneath him like paper.
What was left of his face froze in blank surprise.

Harry stepped forward once, gaze scanning the clearing. The girl was alive but unconscious, her robes torn, blood matting her inner thigh. Her wand was snapped in half nearby. She had no voice left.

He conjured a thick wool blanket and wrapped her, not touching her skin.
Then he cast the flare — a layered spell that would rise into the sky with a Ministry-coded signal for victim located, Death Eater identified, and injury requiring St. Mungo’s.
A second spell, weaker but embedded in the flare’s anchor, would force Malfoy’s blood to unmask — veritas fluxus, a dark forensic charm known only to Unspeakables and war operatives.

They would know who he was, and what he’d done.
And they would find the girl.
But they would never find the caster.
Harry turned before the blood cooled.

He stepped out into the forest’s edge, checked for stray magical signatures again, then walked to the designated Apparition point on the far side of the embankment.

When he arrived back in London, just outside the perimeter ward of the Leaky Cauldron, the first light of morning hadn’t yet cracked the sky.
His face was pale. Clothes damp from effort.

He ignored the curious glance from the man walking by with a paper under his arm, and entered the Leaky Cauldron.
Inside, the common room was dead silent.
Tom was nowhere to be seen. The hearth had gone out.
Harry padded up the stairs to his room, reengaged the door ward with a flick of his wand, and shut it behind him.

He peeled off his outer robes, pulled the ritual gloves free finger by finger, and tossed them into the small magical incinerator bin by the desk.
Then he sat on the couch with the knowledge that he was one step closer.

The next morning, the Daily Prophet headline spanned the front page in bold ink:

“Tragedy at the World Cup – Ministry Scrambles to Contain Damage”

Harry saw it tucked beneath his neighbor’s plate in the dining nook off the corridor. He didn’t touch it.
Rita Skeeter’s name was printed below the fold.

The article detailed the chaos: black-robed figures, panicked spectators, fractured wards. Aurors stretched thin. St. Mungo’s overflowing. There were names listed — confirmed dead, several still missing. The final paragraph slipped in with subtlety:

“…and the body of Lucius Malfoy, longtime philanthropist and close associate of Minister Cornelius Fudge, was discovered near the southern treeline. No official cause of death has been released. The Ministry has not issued a comment. This reporter, however, vows to uncover the truth.”

Three days later, the Prophet was sold out before dawn.

MALFOY LEGACY COLLAPSES: Ministry Workers Confirms Evidence of War Crimes

By Rita Skeeter, Special Investigations Columnist

In a stunning development that has rattled every corner of the wizarding establishment, Lucius Malfoy — once a shining symbol of traditional magical society — has been formally named as both a confirmed Death Eater and an accused war criminal.

Malfoy’s corpse was recovered in full Death Eater regalia, found beside the body of a seventeen-year-old Beauxbatons student, barely alive and severely wounded. Witness testimony and Ministry forensics confirm the girl was assaulted before Malfoy was killed — mid-act — by an unknown spellcaster who has not come forward.
His mask lay discarded. His wand was still drawn. The spell that ended his life was instantaneous and brutal.
One senior Auror described the scene as “executed justice, not battlefield chaos.”

Malfoy’s connection to Minister Fudge — long denied and often downplayed — is now under renewed scrutiny. In the wake of Malfoy’s exposure, several prominent Wizengamot members have distanced themselves publicly from the Minister. One source inside the Department of International Magical Cooperation referred to the entire affair as “a fracture in confidence that may not be repairable.”

But the reputational collapse is only the beginning.

Gringotts officials confirmed this morning that an internal investigation has uncovered evidence of massive financial manipulation. According to bank statements now made public, the Malfoy family fortune was propped up through coercion, wartime profiteering, and quiet partnerships with dozens of illegal curse traders.

The estate has been locked. Two satellite vaults have been seized.
When asked if the remaining Malfoy fortune could survive the restitution demands, one goblin accountant replied only: “It will not.”

There are questions still unanswered: Who cast the fatal spell? Why leave the scene? Why preserve the victim and not claim responsibility?

This reporter has theories. But what is certain is this:
The Malfoy name, once polished to the point of blinding, has shattered. Its gold has tarnished. Its legacy is no longer a legacy.
It is a stain.

Chapter Text

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters buzzed with the usual chaos—owls screeching overhead, trunks half-toppled onto trolleys, last-minute goodbyes shouted over steam and whistles.

Harry stood off to the side, wearing plain robes, his posture now straighter and more balanced. The floating brace was gone; he was fully healed.

He was taller now, the difference clearly visible — three inches gained, with broader shoulders and a fuller frame. His muscles were rebuilding quickly, restoring the body that had once been shaped by war, and he was still growing.
His glasses were gone, his vision naturally corrected. Without them, his face appeared sharper and less boyish; the subtle awkwardness of youth had faded, leaving behind more defined features and a sharp jawline — handsome in a way that made people look twice.

The Weasleys arrived late, as expected. Molly adjusted Ginny’s collar while the twins passed a dungbomb between them until Arthur finally barked at them to stop. Ron stumbled, dragging his trunk behind him and cursing at the weight.
Hermione followed, her hair frizzed from travel and her bag bulging with books, as usual.
Harry slipped into the crowd at the loading ramp and boarded the train without a word.
They found an empty compartment together. Hermione sat down first and immediately pulled out a copy of Intermediate Arithmancy for Theoreticians, Vol. III. Ron dropped into the seat across from her, his forehead damp with sweat and his hands resting loosely on his knees.

Harry settled by the window, crossed one ankle over the other, and watched the platform recede from view.
For five minutes, the compartment remained silent.
Hermione turned a page, then turned it again, and then one more time. Her lips moved as she read, but her gaze never truly focused.
Eventually, she frowned and looked up. “I can’t seem to concentrate today. I’ve read this passage three times, and it’s like it’s written in Runes.”
Ron gave a grunt. “You read Runes.”
“Yes, that’s the point.”

Harry stayed silent, watching her movements expressionlessly.
She tapped her fingers against the page, as if rhythm alone could coax comprehension. Her mind no longer fired the way it once had, and he allowed himself a small, inward smirk.

He recognized the signs. The ritual had taken back everything she had stolen—his memories, his structural logic—and left her with nothing but her own unaugmented intellect. It was imperfect now, slower.

Ron stretched out on the seat, his legs taking up more room than they needed to. His complexion was off—too pale from magical depletion. His hands hung heavier. There was no crackle to him anymore. The little surges of accidental magic that sometime came when he got excited or angry were gone.

“Ugh,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “Feels like everything’s slow today. Dragged my trunk through the station and nearly passed out.”
“Didn’t sleep well?” Harry asked mildly.
Ron snorted. “Dunno. Just feel off. Like my wand’s lagging or something.”
Harry gave a small nod. “Could be the shift in magical pressure. Some wizards feel it around equinox. It’ll pass.”
Ron grunted in agreement, clearly accepting the explanation.

Harry didn’t offer another.
In truth, Ron’s body was already beginning to collapse. The magical surge he’d siphoned in youth had built him taller, stronger, broader than he should have been.
Now, with that stolen power gone, his core couldn’t sustain the shape anymore. He’d either shrink back to his natural state—or burn through what remained and crash.
Harry didn’t care which.

Hermione glanced up again. “You’re quiet,” she said softly.
Harry gave a small shrug. “Not much to say today.”
“Well, it’s good to see you,” she added, trying to smile. “You missed the Cup, but… everyone’s saying you might get named Gryffindor Prefect next year if your grades improve.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “He won’t want that. Too much work. Bet McGonagall’s hoping for Neville.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but a knock interrupted her.
Three short and precise taps.
The compartment door slid open.

Daphne Greengrass stood in the doorway, her robes pristine and impeccably tailored. Her hair was pulled back into a high twist without a single strand out of place. Her expression remained calm, though her eyes locked immediately onto Harry.
“Pardon the intrusion,” she said coolly. “Lord Potter, would you have a moment? I would like to speak with you.”
Hermione blinked. “Lord—?”

Ron sat up with a scowl. “Oh, perfect. Slimy snakes are already pulling their House tricks and we haven’t even reached Hogsmeade.”
Daphne turned her head slowly.
She looked Ron over with the same warmth she might offer a rat floating in the loo.
“If we’re slimy snakes,” she said, her voice crisp, “what of the House that glorifies leaping headfirst into danger, calls it bravery, and insults every other student who doesn’t conform to their narrative of moral superiority?”

Ron opened his mouth, but she cut him off with an icy look.
“How often do Gryffindors sneer at ‘nerdy Ravenclaws,’ ‘boring Hufflepuffs,’ or—what was it? Ah yes—‘cowardly Slytherins.’ Your House insults more than it inspires. You just shout while you do it, so no one notices.”
Hermione stood quickly. “That’s not fair. Gryffindor represents—”
“Enough,” Harry said.

Both of them stopped mid-sentence.
He stood up, straightened his robes, then turned to Daphne.
“I’d be honored.”

Her brow twitched in approval.
Harry stepped out into the corridor with her.
Behind him, Ron found his voice again.
“You’ve changed, mate.”
Hermione echoed, quieter. “You’re not the same.”
Harry didn’t turn.
“I can’t remain a child forever,” he said. “Neither should you.”
The door slid shut behind him with a quiet click.

Harry followed Daphne down the corridor. Her hips swaying with malice, eyes straight ahead, she ignored the curious glances from other students still settling into their compartments.
He didn’t ask where they were going. 

She stopped at the very end of the carriage, where a single compartment sat behind a frosted-glass pane enchanted to remain dim from the outside. The door creaked open before she touched it.

Susan was already inside, seated cross-legged on the padded bench like it was a throne. Her blouse hung unbuttoned to the navel. Her Hufflepuff robes were discarded in a pile near the window. Her wand was already in hand.
She didn’t greet them with a smile. She greeted them with a charm.
“Inviolatus Maxima. Repello Notitia.”

The compartment shimmered. The door clicked shut behind Harry with a mechanical sound, layers of magic folding into place. Soundproof. Sightproof. Intrusion-proof. Susan finally turned her eyes to Harry and grinned.
“There he is,” she said, licking her lips. “Our warlord.”
Daphne locked the door with an extra charm, turned to Harry and said, her voice velvet-smooth.
“Sit.”
He did.
The bench was warm where Susan had been sitting. She took his right. Daphne took the left.
They moved at once.

Susan’s fingers undid his belt and trousers in a practiced flick, and Daphne tugged his boxers down in a single smooth motion. His cock sprang free, already half-mast from the energy in the room.
The shift in their expressions was instant.

Susan inhaled softly. Daphne let out a slow exhale, eyes widening slightly.
“Oh, hello again,” Susan murmured, wrapping her fingers around the shaft. “There’s the destroyer. The other one was fine—fun, even—but this one?” She gave it a pump.
“This one’s a killer.”

Daphne wrapped her hand around the base. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s bigger. Thicker. Merlin. You weren’t lying. You’re back.”
Harry leaned back, letting them handle him, his breath already starting to hitch as the first drops of precum began to bead at the tip.
Both girls noticed at once.

They disrobed smoothly, synchronously. Susan shrugged out of her blouse, freeing breasts so full they bounced with weight and heat. Her nipples were already hard.
Daphne pulled hers over her head with both arms, tossing it aside before cupping her own breasts in both hands and arching her back.

They pressed in close, chests flattening against his sides as their hands stroked his cock in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
Susan brought her fingers to her mouth and tasted him.

“Mm. Merlin yes. That’s the stuff.”
Daphne licked her palm clean, then leaned forward and pressed her lips against his jaw.
“Talk to us, Harry. We want to hear it. All of it.”
He swallowed. His throat was dry, but his voice didn’t shake.
“I took them the night of the World Cup.”

Their hands didn’t stop.
Susan purred, “How?”
“I waited near their tent, followed them when they broke from the group. They never saw me. I stunned them both cleanly and quietly. Carried them out to the cave.”

Daphne leaned in and let her tongue flick the underside of his shaft, then leaned back. “And the sacrifice?”
“A Death Eater. Isolated. Took him from the back of a group while no one was looking. Used him to bridge the ritual—compensate for the solstice gap.”

“No power waste, it was clean magic.” Susan whispered, her hand twisting now, stroking him with more pressure.
“The ritual was exact,” Harry continued. “The runes held. Hermione’s mind lit first, her skull glowed gold as it flowed into me. My forgotten memories, my intellect. All of it came back.”
“Fuck,” Daphne breathed, shifting her grip to stroke just under the head. “That’s why your eyes look different. Sharper.”

“Then Ron’s magic and the missing part of Parseltongue. Core and mouth. His body jolted hard—he’s going to collapse soon, or shrink to match his real strength.”
Susan chuckled low. “Perfect. Maybe now he’ll stop leaning over everyone like a prized hippogriff.”
She dipped her head and took the head of his cock between her lips, sucked once, slow and deep, then pulled back.
“Go on.”

Harry’s hands gripped the bench.
“When it was over, I cleaned the cave. Removed all traces. Then I circled back into the riot, and found Lucius.”

Both girls froze for a heartbeat.
Harry’s voice was flat. “He was separated from the others, raping a girl with his mask off and wand drawn.
I didn’t hesitate. Piercing hex. Took his head off.”

Susan’s breath caught as her grip tightened around him. “You really—”
“He’s dead,” Harry said simply. “One spell. He twitched. Then nothing.”
Daphne’s laugh was low, edged with heat and thrill. “Fuck me, you actually did it. Draco’s going to shit himself.”
Susan grinned wide, stroking him again with a slow pull. “He’ll never get to say ‘When my father hears about this’ again.”
Harry nodded once. “Good.”

Daphne kept her hand moving as her tone shifted. “Lucius’s death is bigger than just revenge. He was the Minister’s spine in the Wizengamot. A key vote broker. Quiet blackmailer. King of behind-the-curtain favors. Without him—Fudge is exposed.”
Susan picked it up, her strokes soft, her eyes half-lidded. “You think it’ll trigger a power vacuum?”
“It has to,” Daphne said. “And with the Malfoy gold frozen by Gringotts and the forensics, his influence dies with him. The Minister loses his bribe vault. The Ministry’s left bare. Everyone watching will smell weakness.”

Harry’s voice stayed steady. “And Skeeter made sure the public saw every crack.”
“She’s vicious when she smells blood,” Daphne said, stroking down slowly, then back up. “You made her career.”
“She made my message louder,” Harry replied. “Lucius didn’t just die. He was unmasked. Found with his pants down and a girl half-dead under him. There is no redemption arc.”

Susan bit her lip, heat flickering in her voice. “A coward’s death.”
“Exactly,” Harry said. “And every family who ever shook his hand has to explain it now.”
Daphne’s hand stilled at the base of his cock, fingers curled loosely. “And you… no one suspects?”

“Not a whisper,” Harry said. “The spell was obscure, the trace buried. I left the body wrapped in a flare coded for DMLE response. The forensic charm forced a blood unmasking. No magical residue can point back to me, and there’s no witness.”

Susan leaned closer, lips pressing his jaw. “You’re terrifying.”
“Efficient,” Harry corrected.
Daphne let out a soft hum, her hand picking up pace again. “You’ll be even worse once we’re fully empowered.”
“We need that ritual,” Susan murmured, her voice almost a purr. “Fast.”

Harry let out a slow breath. “The goblins should have already started to move on the other front.”
Both girls perked up.
“Which one?” Susan asked, dipping and licking the head of his cock.

“The restitution of my assets,” Harry said, grunting. “But not the kind that gets debated. Goblin magic doesn’t wait for permission. It takes . Every item stolen from me—books, journals, heirlooms, trinkets—they’re going to be magically yanked back to my vaults. Silently.”

Susan let out a low, hungry laugh.
Daphne’s eyes gleamed. “That’s going to leave a crater.”
“They’ll feel it by breakfast tomorrow,” Harry said. “Vaults frozen. Accounts dry. Assets missing. With no real explanations.”

Daphne moaned and leaned down, dragging her tongue over his cock. “Merlin, I love when you play dirty.”
Susan pressed her lips to the side of his neck. “We need to prepare. The school will shift the moment the news hits. Staff will scramble. Families will panic. This is more than reputation.”

“And us?” Daphne whispered.
Harry looked down at them both—naked from the waist up, stroking him in perfect sync, eyes full of heat and devotion.
“We stop hiding,” he said. “Tomorrow. At breakfast.”

Their grins were feral.
“About fucking time,” Daphne whispered.
“We’ll make it loud,” Susan added. “And public.”

Their hands never stopped.
Harry’s cock throbbed in their grip—wet from spit, slick with precum—and each stroke was practiced. Daphne’s fingers curled at the base while Susan’s thumb circled the head, teasing the nerves just enough to make his thighs twitch.
But the air had shifted.

Lust hummed in the background like always, but now their eyes were sharper.
This was still a council. Just... theirs happened to involve an erect cock and two half-naked witches who were addicted to it and the way he breathed when teased.
Daphne spoke first.
“When we go public, everything changes.”
Susan nodded, her hand not slowing. “They’ll try to break us.”

Harry didn’t answer yet.
They were all thinking the same names.
Dumbledore. McGonagall. Snape. And every self-righteous student who thought Harry Potter belonged to the Gryffindor myth machine.

Daphne continued, voice cool despite the warmth in her cheeks. “Dumbledore will push subtle control tactics—counseling, redirecting our schedules, splitting dorm access. McGonagall won’t go against him, even if she wants to. And Snape...”
“He’ll retaliate,” Susan finished.
“He’ll sabotage potions pairings. Try to humiliate us in class. Take House points.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ll counter every move. Quietly. I’m not giving them a chance to isolate us.”
Daphne’s hand paused only long enough for her to lower her mouth and take him in deeply making him grunt and stiffen. She pulled back slowly, lips popping free.
“It might be smarter to delay,” she said after wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Just for a few days. Give them nothing to react to.”

Susan blinked, then straightened slightly. “Wait. What if we invoke the old tradition?”
Harry glanced at her, eyes narrowed.
“The what ?”
Susan’s fingers resumed their rhythm, as she explained.
“Betrothal contracts. There’s a loophole in the Hogwarts administrative charter. Couples with active pending contracts are considered diplomatically bound. Staff interference becomes a legal area—they can’t meddle without violating ancestral accord.”

Daphne’s eyes lit up.“That’s fucking brilliant.”
Harry’s breath hitched again as both girls gave his cock another synchronized stroke—one from base to tip, the other with a teasing squeeze at the head.

“But wouldn’t that delay us going public?” he asked, voice rough.
Susan kissed his shoulder. “Only by a few days. It’s a formality. We’d be locked in before the school even knows what’s happening.”
“And your families?” Harry asked, gritting his teeth as Daphne let her tongue swirl the bead of precum at his tip before pulling away with a grin. “Your parents... your guardians... how would they react?”

Neither girl hesitated.
“They already know,” Susan said softly. “I told Aunt Amelia two nights ago. She didn’t argue.”
“I told my parents this week,” Daphne added. “We didn’t give them a choice. We’re not asking permission, we’re legally adults. We just wanted their acknowledgement.”
Harry blinked. “You told them—about us ?”
“We told them about the man we love,” Susan said.

Daphne cupped his face gently with one hand, the other still lazily stroking him. “There’s no negotiation here, Harry. We’re yours. And you’re ours. That’s all they needed to hear.”
Gratitude bloomed inside him.
“I love you both,” he said. “So damn much.”
They kissed him then—Susan on his neck, Daphne on his jaw. Their hands never stopped moving.
The moment lingered.
“We’ll enact it as soon as we arrive,” Harry murmured. “We’ll send owls to arrange a meeting with your families—somewhere private. A private room at The Three Broomsticks will do. School rules allow off-campus meetings if it concerns family affairs.”

Susan bit her lip, eyes shimmering. “We’re really doing it.”
Daphne chuckled. “Damn right we are.”
Then her voice dipped, heat returning like a tide. She stroked him harder now, thumb pressing at just the right angle.
“Damn,” she whispered. “If it wasn’t for the upcoming ritual, I’d have dried your balls with my ass right here on this train.”
Susan groaned and dropped her head to his chest, laughing into his skin. “Don’t say that while I’m this horny.”

Harry’s hips jerked once. “You’re both going to kill me.”
“No,” Susan purred, sliding lower. “We’re going to worship you.”
She slid gracefully from the seat to her knees, her large breasts brushing against Harry’s thigh as she settled between his legs. Daphne followed immediately, her eyes never leaving his cock—now flushed, pulsing, slick with their combined teasing.

“Back in ritual preparation,” Susan whispered, wrapping her hand around the shaft again. “We’re going to need to revise the measurements in our notes.”
Daphne laughed softly, cupping his balls with a reverent touch. “We should’ve taken a mold. Call it The Destroyer—Wand Edition.”
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Susan’s lips sealed around the head of his cock before he could speak.
The breath he released was more groan than exhale.
She didn’t go deep—just enough to taste. Her tongue flicked over the slit, collecting every drop of precum like it was a potion worth bottling. When she pulled back with a wet pop, Daphne immediately leaned in to take her place.

Her technique was different. More pressure. Her mouth sealed tightly as she sank halfway down his cock, then backed off slowly while her tongue curled under the shaft. Susan didn’t waste the moment. She dipped lower to lick at the base, then ran her tongue along Daphne’s cheek as she worked.
It was choreography.
The kind born of countless shared nights, whispered plans, and mutual addiction.
They alternated fluidly—one sucking, the other stroking or licking whatever the mouth left uncovered. Sometimes together, mouths pressed to either side of his shaft, kissing over his cock, over each other.

Daphne pulled back for air, cheeks flushed. “Fuck, Susan. Taste him again. He’s so delicious.”
Susan licked her lips and leaned in again. “All that stolen magic he got back. All that power. I swear his cum’s going to melt my throat.”

Harry’s hands gripped the edge of the bench, knuckles white, jaw clenched tight.
He was close. Too close.
And these vixens knew, so they slowed—just slightly. Letting the buildup stretch.
Susan circled her tongue over the crown, whispering his name between strokes.
Daphne sucked on his balls, wetting them, nuzzling with the kind of affection that bordered on worship.
“Fuck, girls—” he managed, voice hoarse.
Susan looked up at him through her lashes. “Don’t hold back, love.”
Daphne joined her, both mouths descending in tandem. One wrapped around the top, the other kissed and licked lower. His hips bucked once—hard—and he came.

The first spurt hit Susan’s tongue directly. She moaned and didn’t move, letting it coat her mouth before she swallowed. The next was caught by Daphne, who sucked it greedily, then tilted her head to share it.

They kissed over his cock—deeply—his cum smeared between their lips as they moaned into each other’s mouths and swallowed the rest.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Daphne licked the corner of Susan’s mouth clean. “You always keep a little. Greedy.”
Susan grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Harry slumped against the seat, panting, chest rising with slow, heavy breaths. He looked down at them, dazed, undone, and somehow more alive than he’d felt in years.
They climbed back up beside him, one on each side. Daphne kissed his shoulder. Susan traced a finger along the fresh sweat on his chest.
No one spoke for a moment.
Eventually, Daphne sighed and reached for her blouse. “We should go. Bell will ring soon.”
Susan nodded but leaned in to kiss his neck. When she pulled back, she whispered,
“You’re everything to us. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” he said quietly. “I never could.”

They dressed quickly, fixing hair, rebuttoning collars, smoothing robes. They each took a final look at him—still bare-chested, trousers loose, eyes heavy-lidded—and smiled like they’d gotten away with something priceless.

“See you, Lord Potter,” Daphne said, slipping out the door with a casual swish of her hips.
“Try not to cum in your robes before then,” Susan added with a wink before following her.
The door shut behind them and the magic faded from the walls.

Harry sat for another thirty seconds, catching his breath. Then he dressed slowly, pulling his robes back on, adjusting the waistband of his trousers carefully.
He ran a hand through his hair once, steadied his breath, and stepped back into the corridor like nothing had happened.

By the time he returned to his original compartment, the train was already slowing, the silhouette of the castle beginning to rise in the distance.

Steam hissed from the undercarriage of the train as the Hogwarts Express settled into place at Hogsmeade Station. Lamps flickered against the evening mist, casting elongated shadows across trunks, cats in carriers, and the milling chaos of students rushing to reunite with friends or claim the best carriage seats.

Harry stepped down onto the platform, Ron and Hermione just behind him. His robes were clean, pressed, deep navy with silver trim that caught light in subtle, expensive ways.
His glasses were gone, face more defined now—angular jaw, straight nose, bright green eyes that no longer hid behind scratched lenses or a shy tilt of the head. He looked taller. More built.

But most of all, he looked… in control.
Hermione noticed something was off.
“You’re walking differently,” she said as they headed toward the carriages.
“I don’t think so?” Harry said simply.
Ron grunted. “Reckon you hit a growth spurt or something?”
“I hit something, yeah,” Harry murmured, ignoring the glance Hermione shot him.

As they neared the first line of carriages, Harry’s eyes flicked ahead—and locked.
Susan and Daphne were walking a few paces in front of them, weaving through the crowd with unhurried ease. Susan’s red hair was plaited down her back, thick and lustrous. Her robe clung tight at the waist, the fitted cut showing off the exaggerated curve of her hips. Above it, her blouse strained slightly across her chest with every confident step.
Daphne wore hers looser, but her legs, long, pale and toned, were visible below the high slit of her skirt.
Her stride was calm, graceful, and wholly aware of the eyes following her.

Boys turned in their wake like sunflowers following the light—some tripping, some gawking, a few whispering to each other with wide eyes and slack jaws. Even a few upper-years, normally too jaded to care, let their gaze linger.

Harry watched, and something deep in his chest stirred. Not just lust—though that certainly surged—but pride. Possessive and protective.
“Bit much, innit?” Ron muttered beside him, frowning.
“They look confident,” Harry said without looking away. “Is that a problem?”
Ron didn’t answer.

They reached an empty carriage just as the stream of students began thinning. Harry opened the door, climbed in, and took the seat facing backward. Hermione sat across from him. Ron squeezed in beside her, grumbling about his trunk and elbow room.
The door thudded shut.

A few seconds of silence passed.
The thestrals outside stamped their hooves and began pulling.
Then, inevitably—
“What did Greengrass want?” Hermione asked, folding her arms.
Harry didn’t look up. “Something private.”
“Private?” Her tone sharpened. “Harry, she pulled you out like she owned you.”
Harry tilted his head slightly. “She asked for a moment. I agreed. That’s all.”
“You’ve never had anything to do with her,” Hermione pushed. “Now suddenly she’s requesting meetings with you mid-train? That’s suspicious.”
Harry shrugged. “People change.”

Ron leaned back, voice casual. “She probably wants something to do with the Black family. You are the heir now, right?”
“Something like that,” Harry said.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being evasive.”
“I’m allowed to be,” he said. “It was about lordship. Titles. Nothing you need to worry about.”
“But we’re your friends!” she snapped. “You used to tell us everything. Why not now?”
“Because not everything is yours to know,” Harry said, gaze flat now. “Some things are mine.”

Hermione bristled. “We’ve faced death together. We’ve battled Dementors and trolls and basilisks. And now you think you're too good to share things with us?”
Harry tilted his head. “No. I think I finally understand that sharing was never mutual.”
She blinked.
“I told you everything,” Harry said evenly. “I let you see the worst of me — nightmares, pain, fear. I never held back. You? You kept a bloody Time Turner secret for an entire year. That could’ve helped in a hundred ways. But I didn’t even deserve to know, did I?”
“I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone ,” she snapped. “The Ministry—”
“Don't,” Harry said sharply. “Don’t hide behind the Ministry. You’ve broken more school rules than anyone I know. You brewed Polyjuice Potion in second year, snuck into the Restricted Section, hexed people in corridors. You’re only loyal to the rules when they suit you.”
Hermione’s mouth twisted. “That’s not fair—”
“No, what’s not fair is you pretending to be the moral compass of our friendship while constantly deciding what I can or can’t handle. You didn’t even ask about the Firebolt. Just ran to McGonagall like I was some idiot first-year too dumb to understand danger.”
“I was trying to protect you!”

Harry laughed without humor. “From what? A broomstick I already flew ? You never protect, Hermione. You control. You insert yourself into every decision because you think being the ‘Smartest witch of our age’ gives you the right to dictate everyone else’s lives.”
Her voice trembled. “I was only trying to do what’s right.”
“And that’s the problem,” he said, eyes hard. “You think your version of right is a universal truth. That your books and grades make you superior. But friendship isn’t about who’s cleverer. It’s about trust. And you’ve never once trusted me to make my own choices.”

Ron finally cut in, face twisted with annoyance. “Oi! That’s enough! She’s done more for you than anyone else!”
Harry turned to him, voice cool. “That’s debatable, but if you want to talk about loyalty Ron, Let’s.”
Ron puffed up. “Go on, then.”
“First year, you ditched me for weeks after I was chosen as Seeker. Calling it favoritism behind my back.”
“I—”

“Second year, when everyone started whispering about me being the Heir of Slytherin, you didn’t say a word. You didn’t defend me. You just watched, stayed quiet, and acted nervous. I was being treated like a monster, and you let it happen. You never asked how I was coping. You just let me rot under the suspicion and called it loyalty.”
Ron’s jaw clenched.

“Third year,” Harry went on, “you accused me of hiding a murderer's plot. Said I was selfish. You wanted the Firebolt grounded too, remember? But you didn’t care about me. You were jealous I got something you didn’t.”
Ron’s ears burned. “You think you’re so bloody perfect now, do you?”
“No,” Harry said, rising to his feet. “I just think I’ve stopped lying to myself about what you are.”
Hermione stood too, breath quick. “This is a mistake, Harry. You’re going to isolate yourself. Cutting us off will make things harder for you.”

Harry stared at her. “No. It’ll make things easier. Because I’ll stop wasting energy defending myself from the people who claimed to care but never actually had my back.”

Ron stood too now, fists clenched. “You ungrateful prat—”
“You’re not my friends,” Harry said, voice like stone. “You’re an insecure leech who only stuck around to get a slice of the spotlight, and you’re a self-righteous hypocrite who talks about trust and openness but hoards secrets like they’re sacred scrolls. You think being clever gives you license to control everyone else — and call it concern.”

Hermione’s face fell. “You don’t mean that…”
Harry leaned in slightly, voice low. “I do. From now on, I’ll find friends who don’t stab me in the back while pretending it’s kindness. Who don’t demand my honesty while hiding behind rules and excuses. Who don’t weaponize the word ‘loyalty’ while sitting in silence when it actually mattered.”

The carriage lurched to a stop. The doors creaked open, revealing the path to the castle. Torchlight flickered off stone.
Harry stepped out first, posture regal, head high.
Behind him, Ron cursed and slammed the wall with a thud.
Hermione stood frozen in the carriage doorway, eyes still locked on him.
“Think about what you’re doing,” she said one last time. “You’re making a huge mistake.”
Harry didn’t look back.
“I’ve already made too many,” he said, stepping into the night.

The doors to the Great Hall stood wide, beckoning students toward warmth, candlelight, and the smell of roast meats already rising into the air. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the crisp September sky—deep blue fading into stars.
Harry walked in alone.

The hall was already filling quickly, house banners rippling faintly overhead, laughter echoing under stone arches. He passed clusters of chattering second-years, upper-year prefects organizing the incoming first-years at the front, and a few confused transfer students gawking at the moving ceiling.

His eyes swept the four House tables—and found them immediately.
Susan Bones sat near the middle of the Hufflepuff table, her posture graceful, but her head half-turned in search of someone. When her eyes met Harry’s, a silent question formed in her raised brow.

Daphne Greengrass sat farther down at the Slytherin table, spine straight, lips set in a neutral line. She was watching.
Harry gave them both a subtle nod. One slow dip of the chin.
Message received, the cut off has started.

Susan’s lips twitched, just slightly, before she turned to answer something Amelia Goldstein had asked. Daphne arched a single brow, then resumed talking with her neighbor, expression icy.

Harry slid into an open seat at the Gryffindor table near Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil.
Lavender, who had been mid-sentence with Dean Thomas, paused as if struck by lightning.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed with interest.
“Oh my, Merlin , ” she breathed, scanning him from head to toe. “You’re… you’re not wearing glasses.”

Harry offered a small smile. “Don’t need them anymore.”
Lavender leaned forward, chest pressed against the table, voice breathy. “You’re taller, too. And your shoulders, were they always like that?”
Parvati, seated beside her, tilted her head and added with a grin, “You look good, Harry. Really good.”

He chuckled lightly. “Thanks. Summer was productive.”
Lavender’s hand brushed her hair behind one ear, exposing her neck. “Productive,” she repeated, smiling coyly. “That’s one word for it.”
From across the table, Seamus gawked.
Harry ignored him.

Ron’s usual seat remained empty. Farther down the table, Hermione sat close beside him, the two of them hunched together, whispering behind cupped hands. Every so often, one of them would glance toward Harry with sharp and furtive looks. He pretended not to notice, but the weight of their plotting clung to the air like damp fog.

There was a beat of uncertain tension—until the door at the far end of the hall creaked open and Professor McGonagall strode in, her usual commanding presence marshaling the first-years in neat rows. She carried the battered old Sorting Hat under one arm and placed it gently on its stool at the front of the room.

The hall hushed.
The hat twitched once—then the rip down the middle opened into a jagged mouth, and it launched into its song.

You may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.

It went on, just as in previous years, singing of the Founders, the value of unity, and the purpose of Sorting. Harry tuned it out slightly, eyes scanning the teachers’ table.
Dumbledore sat in the center, looking as composed and twinkly-eyed as ever.
Professor Sprout and Flitwick flanked him. Snape sat like a dark shadow near the end, arms folded.
An empty seat—presumably for the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—sat vacant.

As the hat concluded and the Sorting began, Harry clapped politely but didn’t cheer.
Lavender leaned closer and whispered, “So, are you going to tell us what happened to your face and body, or do we have to wait for the Prophet to invent something scandalous?”
Parvati giggled. “He doesn’t have to say anything. I can already see half the girls down the table recalibrating their priorities.”

Harry smirked but didn’t answer.
The Sorting passed in a blur—new names, pale faces, bursts of applause. A few students clapped for their cousins or siblings. One girl, a tiny thing with silver-rimmed spectacles, burst into tears when the Hat shouted “Slytherin!”
Then, finally, the list was done and the hat and stool were whisked away.

Dumbledore rose.
He raised his arms. “To our new students—welcome! And to our old—welcome back!”
Applause thundered through the hall.
“Before we begin the feast,” he said, “I have a few start-of-term notices.”
Harry settled in, resisting the urge to glance toward Susan or Daphne.

“The forest on the grounds remains forbidden to all students, as does the fourth-floor corridor on the left-hand side, which—regrettably—remains a bit unstable from certain… experiments.”
A few chuckles.
“And lastly,” Dumbledore said, eyes gleaming, “this year will be unlike any other. I have the honor of informing you that Hogwarts has been selected to host a most exciting event…”
Students leaned in.
“The Triwizard Tournament.”
Gasps echoed.
Lavender squealed. “Oh my God!”
Parvati actually clapped once before catching herself.

Dumbledore continued, now pacing gently.
“For those unfamiliar with the tournament’s noble history, it was established several centuries ago as a means of fostering cooperation between the great wizarding schools of Europe: Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and, of course, Hogwarts.”
Dean Thomas leaned across. “Weren’t people killed?”
“Yeah,” Seamus whispered back. “Loads of them.”

“Due to the high level of danger,” Dumbledore acknowledged, “the tournament was discontinued for some time. But after much planning and the establishment of new safety protocols, it has been revived.”
He gestured to the doors.
“And our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be instrumental in ensuring your safety. Please welcome Professor Alastor Moody.”

The side doors groaned open.
A man limped in—thick, clawed walking stick tapping heavily against the stone floor. His face was lined and scarred, one eye spinning wildly in its socket, the other fixed and electric blue. His hair was graying and wiry.
A jagged chunk was missing from his nose.
The students stared.
Even Lavender, usually unfazed by anything short of banshee howls, made a small sound in her throat.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
Moody nodded to the students once and hobbled to the staff table, taking the empty seat beside Snape with zero acknowledgment.
Snape’s lip curled.

“Now,” Dumbledore resumed, clapping his hands once, “let us eat!”
The golden plates filled instantly with food—roast chicken, sausages, mashed potatoes, puddings of all kinds.
Students cheered.
Lavender dug in with enthusiasm, already asking Parvati if they’d get to host any of the Beauxbatons boys in Gryffindor Tower.

Harry served himself quietly and ate. His thoughts elsewhere.

The golden plates had only just cleared when Lavender leaned toward him, chin tilted, voice low and sharp with curiosity.

“So, Potter,” she said, flicking a curl of blonde behind her ear, “where are your shadows? No Granger wagging her finger, no Weasley breathing through his mouth?”
The question came coated in sweetness, but her tone was unmistakably baiting.
Around them, the Gryffindor table slowed just enough to listen.

Harry didn’t rush his answer. He took a sip of pumpkin juice, rolled it across his tongue, then looked at her.
“They’re not my shadows anymore,” he said. “The Golden Trio’s over.”
Parvati turned from the conversation she was having with Dean, blinking. “What?”

He shrugged. “Done. Finished. I’m in the market for new friends.”
A few nearby students exchanged glances, the shift sudden, like a puzzle piece forced into place upside-down. The reactions were quiet but unmistakable—a ripple of attention that spread from one end of the table to the other.

Lavender’s eyes widened, but only for a second. Then she leaned closer, her forearm brushing Harry’s.
“New friends,” she murmured, “or new… something else?”

Seamus, predictably, chose that exact moment to insert himself.
“Oh, look at this,” he said, loud enough to carry. “Harry Potter, too good for the rest of us now? Trading in old mates for new toys?”
Harry turned toward him slowly. "Funny," he said, voice even, "I didn’t realize walking away from hypocrisy required your permission."
A few snorts and murmurs rolled down the table. Seamus’s smile twitched.

Dean, seated just beyond, muttered under his breath, “Here we go…”
Seamus chuckled, trying to brush it off. “Alright, alright. I get it. Summer makeover, new attitude. You think you’re above the rest of us now, yeah?”
Harry tilted his head. “No, Seamus. I just finally realized that being in the same room as someone doesn’t make them worth listening to.”

That earned a louder reaction — sharp laughter, someone coughing to cover it.
Seamus’s face stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Harry leaned back, tone calm. “It means some people think volume is a substitute for charm. That being the loudest in the room makes them important — when really, it just makes them harder to ignore.”

Seamus’s jaw tightened.
“You never have clever things to say, Seamus,” Harry added. “You just say things and hope people laugh before they realize you never actually said anything.”
A beat of silence, then a few scattered chuckles — crueler now.
Seamus opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Harry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Keep talking, though. Every table needs a jester.”

Parvati muttered, “Merlin.”
Seamus pushed up from his seat, his voice rising. “You think you’re better than everyone now?”
Harry leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping a level. “No, Seamus. I think you should shut up before your mouth brings you harm.”
The table went still.

Seamus looked like he might swing. Lavender, unbothered, reached across Harry’s chest and patted Seamus on the shoulder.
“Sit down, darling. You’ll wrinkle your robes. Or wet yourself.”

More laughter. Seamus sat down heavily, steaming.
Lavender turned back to Harry, her expression openly appraising now. “Well,” she said, “that was... impressive.”
Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “And fuck me Potter… you really have filled out.”
Her hand didn’t quite leave his chest—it hovered near the curve of muscle beneath his robes.
“I mean, I used to think you were cute in that scruffy little war-orphan way, but this?” Her eyes dragged down to his waist. “This is trouble. Dangerous trouble.”

She grinned lewdly. “If you need someone to keep that cock of yours warm at night, I volunteer. Daily. Multiple shifts if needed.”
Parvati leaned in from the other side, her voice honey and sin. “And I do tongue workouts. Want a demonstration? Closets are small, but I’m flexible.”
Lavender added, “We could both fit. I ride, she sucks. Or vice versa.”
Parvati licked her lips. “I’ve got a wicked grip. Both hands. And my throat’s trained.”

Harry exhaled once through his nose. His cock was definitely interested—but this wasn’t the moment. Still, he filed every word away, knowing Daphne would laugh until she cried when he repeated the filth verbatim. Or demand reenactments.

Parvati leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. “You ever want to cheat death with a good orgasm, Harry…” Her fingers grazed his thigh. “You know where to find us.”
Lavender added, “And we love sharing.”

Harry’s expression never shifted. He just sipped his juice and smirked faintly.
Internally, he marked the moment: not even an hour into the year, and he had two horny witches offering him dual worship like it was a House Cup competition. The image of Daphne’s jealous snarl was going to be spectacular.

And the offer itself?
Tempting. But unnecessary. He already had everything he wanted.

As the laughter and Lavender and Parvati’s obscene flirtations faded into the ambient chatter of the hall, Dumbledore rose once more, arms wide, smiling with that trademark twinkle that had once meant something to Harry—and now meant less than the dust on his boots.

He clapped his hands once and nodded. “Now, to bed. I expect you all to be bright-eyed and wand-ready in the morning.”
Chairs scraped back. Cloaks were gathered. A tide of bodies surged toward the Great Hall’s massive doors.

Harry rose with them, eyes sweeping lazily across the moving students—and landing, briefly, on Susan and Daphne.
Both were walking ahead in opposite house columns, but their silhouettes were unmistakable. Susan’s hips swayed in a rhythmic confidence, her skirt hugging her full ass, long red hair cascading like wildfire.
Daphne moved more fluidly. Her blouse clung to a taut frame and heavy breasts, her stride was lazy.

Boys turned to gawk as whispers rose.
Harry heard them all.
“Bloody hell, Bones filled out—”
“Is that Greengrass? She’s not wearing a bra—”
“Bet they’d never touch a bloke like you—”

Harry's eyes lingered. Those were his witches, his girls. And they’d chosen him without hesitation.
It was a brutal, shameless love.
He followed the crowd and began funnelling toward the main stairwell.
He was about to step on the stairs—
“Potter!”

The voice sliced through the air like a curse.
Harry didn’t turn. He smiled instead and the crowd shifted around him, students pulling back like they could feel the tension bleeding outward.

Draco Malfoy stood ten feet away, chin high, hair gleaming like polished arrogance. His robes looked expensive but ill-fitting, like he’d grown overnight and refused to admit it. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, trying to look menacing and only managing confused.

“Well,” Draco drawled, his voice loud and preening, “looks like Potter’s upgraded his entourage. Tell me, how’s life without your pet Mudblood and the walking hand-me-down?”

Murmurs rippled, and few gasps were heard. Parvati froze beside Harry, her expression stony.
Harry turned and let the silence stretch like wire.
Draco smirked, emboldened. “Oh, come on. No witty retort? Or did you finally realize your friends got tired of worshipping the Boy Who Whines?”

Harry took one step forward, his voice was soft as he spoke.
“Still trying to live off your father’s shadow, Malfoy?”
Draco’s grin faltered.
Harry’s voice dropped lower. “Careful. Shadows vanish when the light hits.”
Draco's smirk was gone now, replaced with a flicker of unease.
“I’d watch your mouth,” he said tightly.

Harry’s expression didn’t shift. “Why? Is that what your father said before he died face-down in the mud, trousers around his knees?”
Draco flinched.
“Seventeen-year-old girl from Beauxbatons,” Harry added calmly. “Didn’t even have the spine to finish the act before he lost his head. Literally.”

The crowd had gone completely silent. Even the portraits along the corridor walls were still.
“You’re lying,” Draco said, but it sounded rehearsed — hollow, like he didn’t believe it himself.
“No,” Harry said, tone surgical. “I just don’t need to pretend his death had dignity. And neither should you.”

Color drained from Draco’s face.
“And since we’re being honest,” Harry continued, voice calm as a judge, “you might want to stop flashing that crest around like it still means anything. The goblins are already picking apart what’s left of your holdings. Your name’s been flagged. Your vaults are under forensic review. And trust me, they’re not going to like what they find.”

Draco’s hand twitched. “You think you can—”
Harry stepped closer, cutting him off. “I think you should start practicing the words ‘reduced circumstances.’ You’ll be needing them soon.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, just loud enough for the nearest students to hear:
“Or maybe beg Weasley for tips on living without pride.”
Draco made a sharp, furious motion — but Harry had already turned. Cloak sweeping behind him, steps loose and unhurried.

His final words sliced back through the stunned corridor like a blade through silk:
“Your father’s gone. Your fortune’s next. And you, Draco, you were never the reason anyone respected your house. Just the reminder of how far it has fallen.”

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was already full when Harry stepped through the portrait hole.
The moment he entered, all noise dulled by a beat, conversations faltering for half a second before restarting at a higher pitch — louder, more forced, as if pretending they hadn’t noticed him would undo the tension settling like dust.

Harry walked in without glancing at anyone, his movements smooth, measured. He let the warmth of the room pass over him without responding to it. The fire crackled in its usual hearth, armchairs gathered around it in the semi-circle they always fell into by instinct more than habit. The usual crowd clustered on the far side, feet up, snacks stolen from the feast spread lazily across low tables.

He crossed the room quietly. Lavender and Parvati looked up from the couch nearest the staircase, eyes tracking his approach. Neither said a word, but Lavender offered him a soft, slow smirk — the same one she’d used when offering to “keep him warm” earlier.
Harry nodded, and walked past them toward the stairs leading to the dorm.

The sound of the portrait swinging open behind him drew everyone’s attention again.
Ron’s voice was the first to fill the room.
“Oi, Harry—wait up.”

Harry stopped at the foot of the stairs, and turned.
Hermione was with him, of course. Her stride clipped, her arms folded and her lips tight.
Ron’s face was flushed, like someone who’d spent the whole walk over working himself into a perfect stew of irritation.

The common room dimmed in tone — conversations softening, then thinning.
People looked up. Not just Lavender and Parvati now, but Dean, Seamus, a trio of third-years huddled over a chessboard. Even Angelina Johnson paused on the landing behind them.

Ron’s boots thudded across the rug. He stopped a few feet before Harry. Hermione hovered just behind his shoulder.

“You got a minute?” Ron asked, too loudly.
Harry's answer was clipped. “Make it quick.”

Ron exhaled and said.
“That’s not how this works, mate. You don’t just walk out of the carriage and decide you’re done with us like we’re some old shoes.”

There were stifled giggles from the far corner. A few faces turned toward Harry, then toward Ron.
Hermione stepped forward. “Can we speak privately?”
“No,” Harry said. “Say what you need to say. You clearly came for an audience.”

Ron’s face twitched.
Hermione, to her credit, didn’t deny it. “Then fine,” she said, straightening. “We need to understand what you think you’re doing. Cutting us off. Avoiding us on the train to do who knows what. That little display of avoiding us during the feast. This whole... act. The silence. The sudden attitude. You’re alienating people, Harry.”

Harry’s posture was loose and his voice was calm as he answered.
“Am I.”
“Yes,” Hermione said. “You’re pushing away the only people who’ve been there for you. We’ve helped you every step of the way, and now you’re acting like we’re strangers.”
“I’m acting like myself,” Harry said. “It’s just the first time you’ve seen it.”
Hermione flushed. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he said. “It’s just not convenient.”

Ron crossed his arms. “Look, mate, we’re trying here. You’ve been different all day. Broody, smug, acting like you don’t need anyone. And I get it, yeah? You’ve had a rough summer, you think you're above us now, whatever. But this?” He gestured at Harry. “This isn't you.”

Harry raised a brow. “You sure you know who I am, Ron?”
The room grew quieter. Someone near the fire leaned forward. A second-year nudged her friend. Hermione stepped in again.

“I think you’re overwhelmed,” she said carefully, “and you’re mistaking that for clarity. You’ve always struggled with planning things. You forget essays. You never revise properly unless someone walks you through it. That’s where I help. That’s what I’ve always done — balance out the things you don’t handle well. That’s not control, it’s support.”

Harry looked at her.
“So I’m what, your charity case?”
Hermione stiffened. “That’s not what I said.”
“You said I need walking through essays. That I forget everything unless you’re there to babysit me. That I need your balance. That I’m too slow or too scattered to manage on my own.”

She flinched at the word.
“I meant—” she tried, but Harry cut her off.
“You meant what you always mean,” he said calmly. “That you’re smarter. That you’re the planner. That your way is the right way. You’re not offering support. You’re just making sure I never outgrow you.”

Gasps echoed from the left side of the room.
Hermione’s face went red, then pale, then red again. She opened her mouth, but Ron jumped in.
“Oh, come off it,” he said. “She’s done more for you than anyone. She’s practically your bloody secretary and now you’re biting her head off for it?”

Hermione’s lips pressed together so tightly they went white.
“I’ve saved your skin more times than you can count,” she snapped. “You think you’d have made it through third year without me?”

Harry stared at her. Then slowly said, “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Because you never do!” she said, throwing her arms out. “You let things pile up, you get lost in your head, and then you expect everyone to just understand how to fix it. You need us. Whether you admit it or not.”

Harry’s gaze swept the room — at the faces watching them silently.
Not now, not yet. He thought.

He turned back to them.
“No. What I need,” he said slowly, “is to stop pretending I owe anyone an explanation for not being the version of me they prefer.”

There was a pause, stretching the tension like a drawn bowstring.
And then Seamus spoke, his voice just loud enough to carry.
“Maybe Ron’s got a point,” he muttered. “You’ve been acting like a right tosser since the feast.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to him. Seamus sat slouched against the back of an armchair, legs wide, arms crossed, his expression tight, pleased . Like someone who’d been waiting for an opening, a vindication. 

Harry held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned back to Ron and Hermione.
Hermione looked like she’d just been handed a lifeline. Her shoulders lifted as if the presence of even one other voice on their side proved her right. Ron’s chest swelled, smug satisfaction flickering across his face.
Harry saw it all.

Ron stepped into the quiet, trying to press the moment while it was still his. “See?” he said, gesturing loosely toward Seamus, toward the growing number of students now listening — several fourth-years, a pair of fifth-years leaning in from the side table, even a couple of second-years at the stairs pretending to read a book upside down.
“It’s not just us, Harry. People notice. You’ve been walking around like you’re above the rest of us all day. You ignore questions, give smug answers, don’t sit with your mates, and act like everyone should just bow when you pass.”

“Do you want them to bow?” Harry asked, his tone neutral.
Ron blinked. “What?”
Harry looked directly at him now. “Is that what you want, Ron? For people to bow to you ?”

Ron’s ears reddened.
“Because every time someone looks at me,” Harry continued, “I see your jaw clench. Every time someone talks about what I’ve done — Quidditch, the basilisk, the Dementors — I see you twitch like it should’ve been your name instead.”

Ron’s fists clenched. “You think you’re the only one who’s been through things? The only one who matters?”
“No,” Harry said. “But I think I’m the only one who learned not to rely on the people who resent me for surviving.”

A low ripple passed through the room.
Hermione’s voice came sharp. “Don’t do that. Don’t twist everything. We’ve supported you.”
“You’ve tolerated me,” Harry said. “Because I was broken, uncertain, and easy to manage. You liked me when I needed you. You don’t like me now — because I don’t.”

“That’s not true,” she snapped. “We were friends , Harry.”
“No,” he said. “We were convenient. And now I’m inconvenient.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the common room around them — at the students listening, at the ones now whispering behind their hands. Her mouth tightened as she stepped forward.
“If you keep acting like this,” she said, her voice quiet but hard, “you’re going to burn every bridge you’ve got left.”

Harry tilted his head as she continued.
“You’re not just isolating from us. You’re making everyone uncomfortable. You think they’ll trust you if you keep this up? You think people will follow someone who walks around like he’s above it all, like he’s better than the rest of us? They won’t. You’re not untouchable, Harry. You’re not special just because a few bad things happened to you.”

He didn’t respond.
Hermione took another breath — the kind that comes before a formal declaration.
“If you don’t change your attitude,” she said, voice firm, projecting now, “you’ll end up alone. And no one in Gryffindor will trust you.”

Ron didn’t even hesitate. “Damn right.”
A beat passed. No one dared to speak.
Seamus shifted again in his chair and gave a smirk.
“At least someone said it.”

The tone alone was enough to shift the mood again. A few students looked at him, uncertain whether to follow his lead or pretend they hadn’t heard. 

Harry turned to face him. He moved with the same unhurried calm he’d maintained all evening.
“I roasted you earlier because you tried to embarrass me in front of the whole table,” Harry said, his voice steady. “You thought you’d score points by dragging someone else down. You didn’t. You looked like a boy still desperate for attention he hasn’t earned.”

Seamus shifted on the edge of his armchair. His smirk faded into something flatter, meaner. “So you think you're better than the rest of us, then. That it?”

Harry didn’t change posture. “I don’t think I’m better than everyone here,” he replied. “But I know that I’m better than you.”

The moment tightened.
Seamus stood quickly, rising with a push from the arms of the chair, fists already curling at his sides. He stepped forward once, twice, his body tense with the kind of swagger that came from confidence.

He threw his arm back.
Harry didn’t move until the exact moment it mattered.
The punch landed with the clean, decisive weight of someone who had no interest in making a scene.
A single, solid, and devastating haymaker from the shoulder that connected directly with Seamus’s cheek. The sound of impact echoed off the stone walls like a snapped book binding.

Seamus crumpled instantly.
The room gasped in a single breath, uncertain whether they should shout or scatter.
Harry stood over Seamus for a second, examining his fallen form like he was noting the position of a chess piece after a careless opening move.

Then he turned to face the rest of the common room.
“I’m not acting out of superiority,” he said. “I’m acting because I’ve stopped pretending to need approval. And the difference matters.”

The silence deepened. No one whispered now. Not even the younger years at the stairwells moved.
“I’ve watched long enough to understand people for what they are,” Harry said, letting his gaze pass from face to face. “And once you begin seeing clearly, it becomes harder to pretend. And I am no longer interested in pretending.”

He looked first to Hermione.
“You need to be the smartest person in every room,” he said evenly. “You don’t speak to understand. You speak to prove something. You don’t support people — you direct them. You believe your logic is superior to their lived experience, and you call that concern. But it’s not concern. It’s control, polished in politeness and wrapped in credentials.”

Hermione had gone still. Her arms had fallen to her sides, but her expression remained frozen. She seemed unable to interrupt.

Harry turned next to Ron.
“You don’t want friends. You want followers. People who laugh when you laugh and frown when you frown. You think loyalty means orbiting you — that any moment spent on someone else is a betrayal. You don’t want connection. You want a spotlight with familiar faces in it.”

Ron stared back at him, the flush creeping up his neck more from discomfort than rage. He seemed to be waiting for Harry to pause, to say something outlandish that could be attacked, but Harry’s tone never faltered.

He continued.
“Seamus needed to feel taller, so he tried to cut someone else down. Ron needs to feel central, so he spins everything into an offense. Hermione needs to feel irreplaceable, so she makes sure you remember how much you rely on her.”

He let the words breathe, let them settle where they landed.
“I need none of that.”

His voice softened slightly, but the steel beneath it remained.
“I chose to separate myself from the people who insist friendship is a transaction. I chose to walk away from anyone who believes support is something to be purchased with obedience. That decision wasn’t made in anger or a false sense of self importance.”

Harry looked around the room again. This time, slower. His eyes passed over third-years and seventh-years alike, students clustered on couches, pairs leaning against bookshelves, first-years frozen halfway up the stairs. Not one face met his gaze directly.

“If anyone here thinks I’ve become cold or distant because I believe I’m superior,” he said, “you’re no better than those who stood here tonight and decided to challenge who I speak to, who I trust, and who I keep close. If you think I need to justify my friendships, then you never treated me as a person in the first place. Only a symbol. And I am no longer interested in being one.”

He stepped aside slightly, preparing to leave.
“I won’t explain myself again,” he said. “And I don’t want apologies later for not intervening in this masquerade of a tribunal. If you want to speak, do it now — do not whisper to me in the hallway, do not scribble me notes, do not speak only when it’s convenient to switch sides.”

He waited for a beat, and when no one spoke, he turned away from the group and moved back toward the staircase, stepping quietly past the edge of the firelight.

As he passed Lavender and Parvati, they both held his gaze unlike the rest of the common room.
Lavender gave him a nod, and Parvati did the same, she then reached up and touched her collarbone lightly with a lewd smirk, like a reminder of her earlier promise.
Everyone noticed their actions, but the two girls didn’t seem to care.
Harry paused, returned the nod, and continued his walk toward the stairs.

When he reached the bottom step, he paused once more.
His voice didn’t change in volume or tone, but it was heard by everyone.
“And Seamus?”

A groan came from the floor where the boy was beginning to stir.
Harry looked over his shoulder.
“If you try something like that again,” he said calmly, “You’ll kiss your teeth goodbye.”

Then he climbed the stairs without a backward glance.
The common room remained still long after he disappeared. Hermione sat down slowly in the nearest armchair and Ron began pacing angrily.

When Harry entered the dormitory, it was empty.
The soft flicker of the enchanted lanterns made the walls look older than they were. His bed sat untouched, trunk at its foot.
He knelt, flipped the latch, and opened it.
Inside: the Invisibility Cloak. The Marauder’s Map. Both still folded, hidden between his spare robes and the wrapped emergency potions he hadn’t touched yet.

He took the cloak and put the map into his sleeve. Then he tapped the inside of the trunk with his wand, muttering a soft command to engage the internal ward locks.
One click. Then a low hum as the locking mechanism engaged.

Harry rose, gave the room one last glance, then flicked the cloak over himself in one smooth motion.
The world dulled and his breath quieted. His footsteps softened under spell-wrapped feet as he opened the dormitory door and stepped back into the hall.

The common room was buzzing now — students whispering in clumps, Ron pacing near the hearth, clearly repeating himself louder than before, trying to gather momentum again now that the target of his attack was gone.
Harry did not pay anyone any mind and headed toward the exit.
The portrait swung open with a whisper of canvas on stone.
No one noticed.

He stepped into the quiet corridor and let the door close behind him.
The noise faded. Only the silence of old stone remained.

Harry pulled the map from his sleeve, tapped it once with his wand, and muttered, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
The ink bloomed.

His eyes scanned it — no teachers nearby. No students wandering this late. The path was clear.
He folded it shut and moved down the staircase toward the second floor.

The second floor corridor was empty.
He slipped into the girls’ lavatory and shut the door behind him. The air was damp and there was no Myrtle.
Good. He didn’t need commentary.
He walked straight to the center sink—the one with the faded snake engraving on the tap. He knelt, just like he did in his second year, but this time, his voice didn’t crack with strain or panic.
“Open.”

The word left his mouth in flawless High Parseltongue.
The sink responded immediately. Hidden seams split apart, and the basin spiraled open with smooth, mechanical precision. As the shaft beneath revealed itself, it did not fall away into darkness. Instead, the walls of the passage shifted.

Stairs extended downward, forming step by step from the stone. Each settled into place without a sound. This was not a hidden mechanism being triggered; it was a command obeyed. High Parseltongue reshaped the passage as instructed.

Harry removed the Cloak, folded it once, and slipped it into his pocket. There was no need to remain hidden.
He stepped onto the first stair and began to make his way down.

At the base, the stairwell opened directly into a broad antechamber. He walked through it and soon reached the circular stone door set into the far wall. Serpents were carved into its surface, coiled tightly into an intricate locking pattern.
Harry stepped forward.
“Open,” he said again.

The serpents shifted at once, withdrawing into the edges of the door. The stone parted and slid aside.
He entered the Chamber of Secrets.

The columns were the same—tall, fluted, supporting a ceiling that hadn’t cracked in a thousand years.
The sconces lit automatically in his wake, bathing the floor in soft green-white flame.

The basilisk was still there.
Coiled across the far wall, its body stretched out in a half-loop like a felled tree. The head rested on one side, mouth slightly open. The scales were intact. Its body had not decomposed. Venom glands were likely sealed but present.
Harry noted that. He wasn’t here to harvest yet, but that much material had value for some promising rituals.

He moved past it.
The center of the chamber was clear. The columns were evenly spaced. The width was tight, but acceptable. Wards could anchor here. The ritual circle would fit. Magic residue in the air was low-level and inert. That mattered. That meant no rebounds of magic.

He walked forward until the statue filled his vision.
Salazar.
Harry stopped at the base. The statue hadn’t changed, but the magic behind it had.
He could feel it in the air. It was dormant, but aware.
He looked up at it once, then he stepped forward. It was time to open the next door.

“Speak, and open what is hidden.”
The words hissed with force and the statue responded immediately.
A tremor moved through the floor. The mouth of the statue shifted, its lips parting and jaw lowering in one smooth motion. Stone slid inward as the opening widened into a narrow archway, tall enough to walk through upright.

Air rushed out, thick with the scent of stone left undisturbed for centuries. A brief pulse of green light spread from the base of the statue, racing outward in concentric circles across the floor. The runes beneath the chamber flared once, then faded.

The floor directly beneath the statue shifted. A hidden seam cracked open silently, and from the center, something rose.

A figure stepped forward, small and thin—no taller than a child, but unmistakably not one. Its limbs were long and wiry, the skin mottled grey with dark creases at the joints. Its eyes pale silver, slitted like a snake’s but alert. It wore a tunic of blackened cloth that may once have borne a crest, though none remained.
Its head dipped in a controlled bow of recognition.

When it spoke, the voice was dry, touched with a rasp that suggested age rather than weakness.
“You speak with the old tongue. The true tongue. You are now known to the chamber. I am Nimrith, elf bonded to the blood and voice of Salazar Slytherin. You have awakened me.”

Nimrith straightened from his bow. His posture was narrow and steady, spine straight despite his apparent age.
“If you will follow me,” he said, his voice crisp. “The outer chamber is a facade. Its purpose was intimidation, not instruction.”

He turned without waiting for permission and stepped toward the newly opened passage behind the statue. The archway was narrow and tall, the stone interior smooth-cut and dry. Harry followed, wand in hand, eyes tracking every seam.

“The tongue you spoke has not been heard here in many centuries,” Nimrith continued. “You speak it with clarity. That alone qualifies you.”
Harry didn’t answer. He kept his pace matched, and his steps measured.
The corridor curved downward in a slow spiral. The air grew colder as they descended. Every few meters, torch sconces ignited with soft green flame as they passed. No sound echoed beyond their steps. The magic in the walls was old and maintained, even in dormancy.

“This section of the Chamber was sealed before the final basilisk matured,” Nimrith said. “Only those who spoke the high dialect were allowed access. Others believed the basilisk to be the chamber’s endpoint. That belief served its purpose.”

The spiral flattened into a straight corridor. Ahead, the passage widened into a circular room. The floor was cut from dark stone, polished flat and lined with concentric rings of runes—some Harry recognized, others he didn’t. At the far end stood a tall stone frame set into the wall, its edges inlaid with silver and serpentine sigils.

Within it hung the portrait of Salazar Slytherin.

The man’s image was motionless, seated in a high-backed chair carved with intertwined serpents. His robes were dark green, edged in silver, his hair long and straight, and his face austere. The eyes were closed.
Nimrith stepped aside.
“You are the first to stand here since he passed. I cannot speak for him, only of him.”

Harry didn’t move forward yet.
Nimrith folded his hands in front of him.
“This is the true Chamber of Secrets. Its purpose was not war. It was preservation.”
He didn’t explain further.

Harry scanned the room once more, then stepped closer to the center.
Salazar Slytherin’s eyes opened slowly. The pale green irises sharpened with immediate focus as they locked on Harry.
The gaze was not idle. It assessed Harry's stance, his expression, his posture, and the way he carried silence. It lasted long enough to test patience, but Harry did not shift or speak.

At last, Salazar’s lips moved.
"You speak the high tongue," he said. His voice was calm and composed. "And you carry the seal of the blood. The chamber obeyed, which means your claim is legitimate."

Harry remained silent.
Salazar leaned forward in his chair. The portrait’s detail was exceptional—every fold in the robe, every line in his face painted with surgical precision. It was no standard Hogwarts portrait. This one had presence .

"I was not painted for conversation," Salazar said. "Nor was this chamber designed for discussion. Its purpose was knowledge. So let us begin with that."
Still no response from Harry.
Salazar’s gaze narrowed slightly in interest.
"You do not fidget. You do not speak to impress. That is good. There is no reward for noise down here."
He tilted his head faintly, almost as if recalibrating his approach.
"Do you know who I am?"
Harry finally answered, voice even. "Salazar Slytherin. Founder. Speaker. Builder of this chamber."
"Correct," Salazar said, with no change in tone. "And you are?"
"Harry Potter."
"A name. Not a legacy."
"I'm building mine."

Salazar's eyes held his. "We shall see."
He leaned back slightly. The portrait’s hands folded at the edge of the chair’s armrest.
"You did not stumble into this room by mistake. The high tongue does not pass by accident. You spoke it cleanly. The chamber reacted. That tells me two things."

He held up one finger.
"First, that your inheritance is true."
A second finger rose.
"And second, that you came for an unspeakable purpose."

Harry gave a slight nod. "I did."
Salazar studied him again, longer this time.
"Then let us test your reason before we speak of purpose."
He leaned forward.
"You stand at the head of a fortress. The walls are breached. The enemy surrounds you. Inside are twenty apprentices—none yet ready to inherit your work, but each carrying your magical line. Outside are five hundred enemies. When they break through, they will end your house, your knowledge, your legacy."

He paused for a beat.
"You possess a ritual. It will kill them all—every enemy at once. But the cost is fixed. It consumes the twenty within."
Salazar’s eyes did not blink.
"You have one minute. What do you do?"

Harry answered like someone who had already considered the question long before it was ever asked.
"I preserve the twenty." His voice was calm.
"I do not waste magical blood that still holds potential. Because it is inefficient. The ritual, as presented, is flawed. A tool that solves the problem by reducing me to nothing but a butcher. That is not power. That is desperation."

He took one step forward, his tone still even.
"I would begin by dismantling the ritual itself, and improve it. Every properly structured ritual is built on three cores: intent, anchor, and cost. If the intent is fixed — to kill five hundred enemies — and the anchor is under my control, then the cost is where adjustment begins."

Harry raised a hand, palm open.
"The cost was written to consume twenty lives because the caster lacked time, imagination, or alternative fuel. That is not a magical law. That is bad authorship."

He dropped the hand.
"I would target the enemy instead. If I have five hundred lives surrounding me, I have more than enough energy to power any large-scale execution ritual. The challenge is timing and channeling — not availability of fuel."

He continued.
"If the ritual is glyph-based, I adjust the consumption matrix to draw from external sources: a perimeter-based inversion array, layered with self-sustaining consumption anchors. I use their own numbers against them. If it’s blood-bound, I modify the acceptance threshold to reject familiar signatures. The twenty remain untouched. The five hundred die anyway."

He waited for a beat.
"And if the structure resists alteration — if the ritual is anchored to bloodlines and keyed to my own — then I change tactics."

His tone did not shift.
"I collapse the fortress. Bury the enemy with us. But before doing so, I bind the twenty to a displacement ward keyed to surviving magical signatures. A cast-wide dispersal tethered to blood. They scatter. They survive. I die. But the line continues."

Harry stepped forward again, now within a few feet of the portrait.
"Rituals are not sacred. They are tools. If a tool demands twenty lives for one victory, then it is a poor tool. Magic rewards creativity. Legacy demands discipline. I apply both."

He stopped.
"You asked me what I do. I ensure the enemy dies, and the line continues. I do not accept the terms of the test. I rewrite them."
He held Salazar’s gaze, unwavering.
"And the chamber obeyed me for the same reason your tongue still lives in my blood. I am not here to preserve your legacy. I’m here to finish building mine."

For a long moment, the portrait remained silent.
Salazar watched Harry, as if replaying every word in his head.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower.
“You did not answer the question.”

Harry remained silent.
“You dismantled it. Reconstructed it. Then presented a superior structure.”
There was no edge to the words, it was acknowledgment.

Salazar leaned back in his chair, one hand curling under his chin.
“You understand rituals,” he said. “Not just how to use them—but how to think in their language. Most never reach that point. Even fewer do it without compromise.”

His eyes narrowed.
“And you refuse the emotional leash. You did not flinch at sacrificing yourself. You valued the bloodline, but not for its sentiment—for its function.”
He nodded once, as if reaching a private conclusion.
“You are not here for me,” Salazar said. “You came to measure the chamber. You came with another intent.”

Harry didn’t confirm or deny it. 
Salazar studied him a moment longer, then gestured faintly to the room around them.
“Then you may proceed. This chamber is not ceremonial. It was meant to house true work. It will not fail you if you do not fail it.”

The portrait’s voice shifted slightly.
“I will not guide your hand, but I will answer what I deem worth asking. If your work is foolish, I will say so. If it is worthy, I will improve it.”
His eyes held Harry’s again.
“You are not the heir I imagined. But perhaps you are the one the line requires.”

As Salazar’s words faded, six sections of wall, previously smooth and featureless, now bore visible seams. Stone parted in clean vertical lines, retracting mechanically. One after another, six doorways revealed themselves around the perimeter — equal distance from each other, each framed by different arcane symbols. Some glowed faintly. Others remained inert, but heavy with dormant power.

Harry turned in place slowly, cataloguing each in silence.
Salazar observed from his chair, expression neutral but sharper than before.
“You expected this part,” the portrait said, voice dry. “That explains why you didn’t bother reacting.”
“I was counting the wards,” Harry replied. “They responded as soon as you acknowledged me.”

Salazar gave a faint grunt. “Acceptable deduction. Still no sense of occasion, though. You could at least pretend to be impressed.”
“I don’t fake awe,” Harry said. “You’ve earned my attention, not my theatrics.”
That pulled the faintest edge of a smile from Salazar.
“Good. Let’s begin, then.”

He gestured toward the first door on Harry’s left. The arch around it bore interlocking circular arrays etched in silver.

“The Ritual Vault . This is the foundation of the chamber’s practical use. The floor inside is etched with modular ritual arrays, anchored and layered for overlapping convergence. You can recalibrate it for blood magic, soulwork, elemental alignment, or structural bypass. Each layer operates independently. Nothing bleeds unless you design it to.”
He let the words hang a moment before continuing.
“It was not built for education. It was built for execution.”

Harry nodded once.
The second doorway came next. It was framed in burnished black stone, with thin vertical runes descending from top to bottom.

“The Forbidden Archive ,” Salazar said. “Dust-sealed. Temperature-controlled. The shelves contain grimoires and experimental texts outlawed by every institution that pretends to safeguard magical progress. Fragmentation theory, bloodline inheritance transpositions, memory splintering, structured self-possession, enhanced necromantic binding theory.”

His tone grew slightly colder.
“You will find several works on High Parselmagic in there. They are written for your eyes only. The lesser tongue cannot read the text. Some are meant for amplification. Others are meant for annihilation. All of them are dangerous. You’ll like them.”

“I already do,” Harry said.
The next doorway was far less ornate, but set in deep grey stone veined with green. Four cooling glyphs pulsed faintly at its base.

“The Ingredient Vault ,” Salazar continued. “Everything inside is real. No conjuration or duplication has been involved. Stasis fields preserve the contents exactly as they were sealed. You’ll find preserved phoenix marrow, powdered basilisk heartwall, unicorn nerve root, and maybe three vials of intact wyrm ichor, assuming the stasis held.”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly. “You built a Gringotts vault in your basement.”
Salazar lifted a brow in return. “Gringotts charges coin and cuts corners. I built something that doesn’t fail.”

He gestured to the fourth door. This one was slim, and surrounded by obsidian bands cut so precisely they looked etched by light.

“The Mirror Cell . A projection slab of volcanic glass, enchanted for memory anchoring and soul-state alignment. It can show you what your mind won’t, and correct what your spirit hides. It is not a toy, and it is not gentle. If you step into it unprepared, it will kill you without flair or apology.”

Harry’s tone remained level. “Understood.”
The fifth doorway bore the outline of two serpents twisted around each other, mouth to tail. The black stone was matte and seamless.

“This is the Binding Pillar Room ,” Salazar said. “Magical calibration, soul interaction, blood verification, restraint. In this chamber, truth is not just seen — it is extracted . It was designed to test lineage authenticity and magical compatibility. You may also use it for experiments that would turn lesser laboratories into craters.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t shift. “I assume it’s shielded.”
“Triple-layered containment fields keyed to bloodline,” Salazar confirmed. “Which is why you’ll survive it. Probably.”

The sixth and final door was the simplest — smooth stone with no marking at all.
“That leads to the Living Quarters . Functional. Ward-sealed. Hot water. Cold bed. Everything you need and nothing you don’t.”

Harry studied the door for a moment, then glanced back at the portrait.
“You lived down here.”
“I worked down here,” Salazar corrected. “I lived in the castle where I had to pretend to enjoy other people.”

Harry’s lip twitched.
The torchlight shifted again, returning to its steady glow. The runes faded from the floor, leaving the circular chamber exactly as it had been — minus the six new doors now waiting around them.
Salazar inclined his head slightly.
“Everything in this sanctum is keyed to my blood, my voice, or both. You possess the first. You speak the second. Which means, for the first time in a thousand years, it answers to someone again.”

He turned toward Nimrith.
The ancient elf had remained completely still during the entire exchange.
Salazar’s voice dropped slightly.
“You served me. You obeyed without question. You watched this chamber longer than any portrait ever could. But your bond is not to memory.”

Nimrith stepped forward, eyes bright.
“No, master. It is to truth. And it stands before me.”
Salazar nodded once.
“Then the bond passes now.”

Magic moved.
The magic passed from Salazar like a breath exhaled and settled into Harry without ceremony.
Nimrith bowed deeply, this time to him.
“I am yours, master Potter. I carry no secrets you cannot command.”

Harry nodded to the elf and stepped toward the second door on the left—the one Salazar had identified as the Forbidden Archive. The stone was blackened, smooth, bordered with fine etching that looked inert to the untrained eye. But the closer he got, the more distinct the hum of old magic became. This was not just protection. It was preservation.

He hissed the unlocking command in High Parseltongue.
The sound was low and laced with hissing cadence that vibrated faintly in his teeth. The door responded immediately. Stone pulled inward with no mechanical drag, revealing a temperature-stabilized chamber lit by a soft green ambient glow.

Everything had been sealed in climate-controlled stasis. The shelves were made of polished obsidian, each marked with subtle sigils. Some glowed as he passed; others remained cold. A long table of black marble sat in the center, unmarked, but surrounded by carved benches. It was a study hall for a sorcerer, not a scholar.

He moved slowly, eyes scanning the spines of books not organized by subject or author, but by magical type.
Ritual theory. Bloodline bindings. Soul-state theory. Structural necromancy. High Parselmagic—an entire wing.

He stopped there.
One shelf responded to his approach, the glyphs pulsing softly as he neared. His presence was a key. One book rose from the stack and hovered forward, slowly turning until its spine was readable.

“Shed the Flesh, Slip the Void.”
He caught it, weighing it carefully in both hands. The outline of a serpent in mid-coil, mouth open, fangs curved inward was engraved on the front cover.

He opened it to the first viable page and scanned.
The script shifted as he read, revealing lines of High Parseltongue interlaced with anatomical diagrams. The spell wasn't a metaphor—it was a transformation. A physical shift into vapor-form, aligned with the speaker’s breath and intent.

Flight without wind. Movement without boundary. Passage through wards.
The serpents carved into the page margins seemed to shimmer as he read.

He closed the book after only five pages. This one would need full parsing later. He returned it to the shelf; it hovered backward into place and resettled.

Another book activated immediately.
This one was thinner. Glossier. Marked with a curl of silver on black leather.
“Sacred Exchanges of Flesh and Flavor.”
He blinked once, then smirked.

The first page required verbal identification. He spoke his name in the high tongue. The text shimmered and shifted. The internal structure was meticulous—clearly academic. But the subject was unashamed.

The spell allowed the caster to modulate the properties of magical release—specifically taste, texture, and post-coital magical absorption rates.

He skimmed.
Caramel. Citrus. Spiced mead. Cool mint. There were customization methods listed in runes more complex than most potion recipes. Absorption enhancement spells were layered into the tail-end of the casting, allowing energy transference during orgasm to boost a partner’s magical recovery.

He let out a slow breath through his nose and closed the book with quiet finality.
It resettled itself without protest.
Harry turned back toward the entrance. There were more shelves—dozens—but tonight wasn’t for plundering. It was reconnaissance. Mapping the territory.

He left the Archive without speaking.
Back through the central chamber, past the ritual vault door, up the spiraled steps beyond the statue’s parted mouth.

The castle was still asleep when he reached the dormitory.
He entered his bed without removing his clothes.
His eyes shut before his head touched the pillow.
Tomorrow would be the start of something loud.

Chapter Text

The door closed behind the last boy with a faint wooden clunk.
Harry stood by the window, shirt half-buttoned, the pale grey light of morning outlining the budding bulk of Harry’s now broader frame.
His skin still felt charged from last night — the Chamber of Secrets had responded to him like a living thing. Stone had shifted at his voice. Doors had bowed. Even now, hours later, the weight of it hummed in his bones.

Behind him, Neville fidgeted. Breath shallow. One foot shifting on the stone floor. The occasional brush of fingers over sleeves. The hesitation of someone caught between obligation and guilt, waiting for silence to offer an exit or permission to speak.

Harry didn’t move. He knew Neville was still there. Had marked the moment Seamus’s boots scuffed off the steps. Had counted Dean’s laces slipping past the doorway. Ron had been gone early, rage carried like a shield. And now, only one lingered — the one who always lingered.

“I—uh… Harry?”
The voice cracked like a twig underfoot. Thin, apologetic, already retracting.
Harry didn’t answer. He tucked the final edge of his shirt into his trousers and adjusted the waistband.
“I just…” Neville’s throat cleared. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For not stepping in. Last night.”

There was a pause. Then Harry reached for his wand holster.
“I should’ve—should’ve said something. When Ron and Hermione were—when all that happened.” Neville’s words spilled over themselves like water too long held back. “You didn’t deserve it. And I just stood there like—like a coward.”

Harry finished tightening the strap on his forearm. The wand clicked into place with a quiet sound.
Then, finally, he turned.
“You waited,” he said softly, “until we were alone.”
Neville’s mouth opened. “I—I thought it’d be easier. Less—less public.”
“Less public,” Harry repeated, as if tasting the words. “So the apology costs nothing.”
Neville looked like he’d swallowed something sour. “That’s not what I meant—”
“But it’s what you did.”

Harry stepped forward.
“You had a chance last night. Ron and Hermione postured. I spoke clearly. I gave you people the floor.
I watched your face. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t object. You didn’t even look conflicted. You just watched.”
Neville flushed, ears going blotchy. “I didn’t want to make it worse—”
“For who?” Harry asked.

Neville hesitated.
Harry’s voice chilled. “For me? For truth? Or for your own safety?”
“I—” Neville shifted again. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did know,” Harry said, cutting him off. “You just didn’t do it. Because taking a side meant risk. It meant drawing fire. And you don’t draw fire, do you, Neville?”
Neville’s voice cracked, defensive. “That’s not fair! You don’t understand—people expect me to be some kind of leader. But I’m not you, Harry. I can’t just—just stand there and make everyone shut up.
“No,” Harry said calmly. “You stand there and wait for it to end.”
Neville’s breath hitched. “You think I’m proud of that? You think I slept last night?”

“I think you’re trying to frame this,” Harry said, voice sharp now. “To pre-empt the consequences. To patch over your silence with regret now that no one else is here to see it.”
Neville stepped back, clearly stung. “I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“But you did,” Harry said. “And not just yesterday. You’ve had three years. Three years to be more than a name on an old alliance parchment. Three years to say something — anything — when I was laughed at for not knowing the culture I was cast into. Three years where you watched me flounder and said nothing.”

Neville’s shoulders drew in. “I didn’t know how to help. I thought Dumbledore—”
Harry raised a hand. “Don’t. Don’t invoke him. Not here. He’s not your excuse. Neither is your Gran. Neither is the pressure of your name.”

Neville stared at him.
“You stood there,” Harry said, quieter now. “When I didn’t know what the Wizengamot was. When I didn’t know that being the Potter heir meant more than a vault and a vault key. When I asked you about the Black family and you said you didn’t know much. You lied. You knew. You just didn’t want to get involved.”
Neville opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Harry turned slightly, as if to walk away — but didn’t.
“You were supposed to be my ally,” he said, voice flat. “You were supposed to be family . And when it finally mattered, you hid.”

Neville’s hands clenched. “You think I didn’t want to help? I did. But I was scared. I’ve spent years hearing how I’m not enough. I’m not Frank. I’m not powerful. Every time I open my mouth, people assume I’m going to stutter or fail or forget the spell. And you—” His voice dropped. “You’re everything I’m not.”

“And that made it easier to stay silent,” Harry finished for him.
Neville looked at him, wounded — but behind the hurt was something else now. Less shaking. Less desperation. It was something akin to calculation.
“I didn’t know how to match you,” Neville said. “I still don’t. I’ve watched you come back this year… different. Harder. Smarter. Stronger. You’ve changed.”

“I had to change,” Harry said. “Because no one stood up with me. Because even those who were supposed to stand by alliance decided it was safer to stay in the middle.”

Neville stared as Harry took a step closer.
“You’re not neutral, Neville. You never were. You’ve always been just cautious enough to pass. Too visible to be called a coward. Too quiet to be called brave.”
Neville’s expression darkened. “You think you’re better than me? That you’ve never chosen silence?”
“I’ve paid for every silence I’ve kept,” Harry said. “You’re just now trying to escape the debt.”

There was a pause.
And Neville’s next words came without stutter.
“I never denied the alliance.”
“No,” Harry said. “You just never honored it.”
Neville remained silent.
“I’ll remember this,” Harry said. “The silence. The delay. The apology you offered only after it was safe.”

Harry’s gaze stayed locked on Neville’s a moment longer, eyes steady, breath measured. He watched every flicker of the boy’s face. The nervousness had faded. The stammer was gone. All that remained was quiet calculation.
“You’re not brave,” Harry said, voice low. “You’re not loyal. You’re a politician in training.”

He took a step back. The air in the room felt heavier than before, but Harry’s voice only cooled further.
“You wait. You watch. You pick your timing.”
Neville tried to deflect. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to get caught. But now,.." Harry said coldly. "I’ve seen you.” 

He turned, as if the conversation had been concluded with a gavel.
He crossed the room, opened the dormitory door, and stepped into the corridor.
The soft hush of morning in Gryffindor Tower greeted him. Low sunlight slanted across the stone floor, catching dust in the air like ash. Footsteps echoed from below — distant voices calling for breakfast.

Behind him, the dormitory door clicked shut, the final sound of Harry’s footsteps already fading down the stairwell.
Neville remained still, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the floorboards in front of him. The pretense had dropped.
It had been torn away. Harry had seen him—truly seen him—and left nothing behind but silence and truth.

The first breakfast of the year had always carried a unique kind of quiet. Less noisy than the Welcoming Feast, more subdued than any weekend morning to come. The returning students were adjusting their schedules, blinking into daylight after a restless night; the first-years were too overwhelmed to talk, and the professors — freshly back from whatever peace they’d carved during the summer — moved with the efficient boredom of routine.

Harry Potter sat halfway down the Gryffindor table, buttering a slice of toast with casual, automatic motions. He hadn’t said a word since entering the Hall and didn’t plan to. His eyes drifted over the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables without interest. He nodded once to Parvati as she passed, and she returned the gesture with a smile — equal parts curiosity and hunger.

Ron was further down the table, talking too loudly, shoveling eggs onto his plate like breakfast might vanish if he didn’t get ahead of it. Hermione hadn’t arrived yet. Fred and George were swapping prank ideas between mouthfuls. Ginny, halfway through a bowl of porridge, rolled her eyes at something one of them said but didn’t intervene.

It was, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary morning.
Then the owls arrived — in their usual cloud, spiraling in from the high windows with a flutter of wings and the occasional soft hoot. They carried parcels, letters, Daily Prophets, sweets, supply lists, half-forgotten summer correspondences — the usual detritus of magical life.
No one paid it much mind.

Until two owls peeled off from the rest and flew toward the staff dais in a straight line.
They weren’t school owls. These birds were larger, sleeker — built for speed and distance — and their feathers shimmered faintly with enchantment.
Goblin-bred.

The first landed in front of Albus Dumbledore.
The impact was soft. The owl didn’t shift or hoot. It lowered its leg with mechanical efficiency, and the scroll attached to it gleamed with a silver ribbon marked by the black-wax seal of the Gringotts High Ledger Authority.

Harry paused mid-bite. Only for a second.
He didn’t look long. Just enough to confirm the seal. Then he returned to his toast.

Dumbledore reached for the scroll without any visible surprise. He pulled it free, the ribbon dissolving at his touch, then unrolled the parchment and read it in silence.

Severus Snape, seated to Dumbledore’s right, was mid-sip of tea when the second owl landed with a far less elegant arrival — it slammed into the table, talons scoring faint lines in the wood, and dropped its scroll like a blade.

Snape stared at it for half a second, frowning. Then he set down his cup and took the scroll.
His fingers paused on the seal.
Black wax.
Gringotts High Ledger.

His brow furrowed. But he broke the seal anyway, jerking the ribbon loose with a motion far rougher than Dumbledore’s.

Harry didn’t watch them directly. He watched reflections. Movements. Reactions in the periphery.

Dumbledore had finished reading already. He rolled his scroll back up and placed it beside his plate, then reached calmly for his fork. He resumed eating, unhurried, not a single emotion visible on his face.

Snape was still reading.
The parchment trembled slightly in his hands. His mouth, already thin, pressed into a flat, bloodless line. His eyes narrowed with every passing line.

And then something in him snapped.
It didn’t happen with a shout—no—It was a violent stiffness that surged up his spine, followed by the sharp scrape of his chair skidding back against the stone.

The sound echoed down the Hall like a gunshot and conversations faltered.
Snape stood, jaw clenched, scroll crumpled in one fist, the other hovering an inch from his wand.
His gaze locked onto Harry’s without hesitation.

It was pure, unfiltered loathing. Not the familiar sneer or passive contempt he usually wore like a second skin. This was different. Personal. Volcanic. The kind of hate that came from a wound reopened.

Harry met his eyes briefly, then returned to his plate.
Snape took a step forward.
The motion was aggressive, like a man about to descend stairs into war. His cloak flared behind him. The muscles in his jaw twitched.
But then Dumbledore lifted one hand — fingers curling lightly around Snape’s forearm.
He froze.

Snape didn’t resist, but his entire frame vibrated with restrained fury. His wand hand was still half-raised, the knuckles pale.
Dumbledore remained silent, but shook his head once.

Snape didn’t sit right away. He stood there for a long second, every breath shaking. Then, finally, he wrenched his arm free and dropped back into his chair with a harsh exhale, the scroll hitting the table with a thud.

The Hall remained quiet for a breath.
Then whispers began — soft and speculative, rising in threads along each table.
Harry picked up his goblet and drank.

Snape didn’t look at his food. His eyes remained locked on Harry for the next minute — unblinking, venomous.
Dumbledore, in contrast, seemed already finished with the matter. He picked up a slice of orange and resumed his meal as if nothing had happened.

The rumor mill was in full swing: what kind of letter could make the most volatile professor in the school nearly draw his wand at breakfast — and not even earn a raised voice from the Headmaster?

Harry, meanwhile, chewed in silence, hands relaxed, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t need to glance at the dais again.
Snape hadn’t stopped staring. The professor's rage now smoldered beneath a forced calm that only made it more obvious.

A few minutes later, a soft beat of wings interrupted the routine once more.
The owl that came wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t fast, or proud, or sleek. It flapped once against the ceiling beams like it had nearly missed the turn, dipped in a shallow lurch, and glided awkwardly down toward the Gryffindor table. Its feathers were patchy, its flight uneven, and the moment it reached the bench near Ron Weasley, it dropped.

The bird pitched forward with a rough flutter and crashed onto the tabletop with a thud, sending toast and cutlery skittering. A single envelope, thick with multiple folded pages, slid across the wood and stopped in front of Ron’s plate. The owl remained where it had collapsed, breathing heavily, eyes half-lidded.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered. “Errol?”
Fred leaned over to check the sender on the envelope. “It’s from Dad.”
George was already frowning. “That’s not a normal delivery time. He never writes this early.”

Ron tore the envelope open, half-curious and half-concerned. Inside was a tightly written letter, lines cramped with Arthur Weasley’s unmistakable handwriting — narrow loops and crooked stems pressed tightly against the parchment edges as if penned in a hurry.

He scanned the first few lines, then blinked. “This is… for all of us.”
He lowered the envelope and spread the letter across the table. Fred and George shifted their plates aside to lean in, and Ginny stood and crossed behind Ron’s chair to read over his shoulder.

No one spoke for a few moments.
Then Fred exhaled, the sound barely audible.
“Dad says Gringotts froze the vault,” he said, voice low.
George didn’t look up. “They’ve declared a full Asset Reclamation. Everything’s been pulled back.”
Ron’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘everything’? We don’t owe anything.”

Ginny’s mouth thinned as she read. “We didn’t. But it says here we used money that wasn’t ours to spend.”
She looked at the line again, reading it under her breath.
“All disbursed funds traced to unauthorized vault access are subject to recovery and enforcement…”

Fred added, “It says that Mum had an access. Years ago. But there wasn’t any formal grant. Just a pass-through claim during the war, backed by Dumbledore. The goblins didn’t recognize it.”
George said, quietly now, “They traced every withdrawal from that access forward. Tuition, clothes, that new cauldron she got for Ginny last year... even the money for the broomsticks. All flagged.”

Ron’s ears had started to go red. “But—but we didn’t know. We didn’t take anything. That’s mad.”
Fred passed him the next page. “Read the numbers.”
Ron stared at the parchment for a long time, eyes drifting over the formal language, the ledger marks, the balances. Then his expression changed.
“We’re broke,” he said.
“No,” George replied. “We’re below broke. We owe Hogwarts back fees.”

Fred cleared his throat. “Dad says his Ministry account is being flagged too. Our vault had outstanding educational support logged against a holding that’s now been repatriated. They’re calling it misuse of protected heir assets.”

Ron sat back, stunned.
Ginny didn’t say anything. Her eyes were locked on the page, but she wasn’t reading anymore.
George kept going. “The goblins are invoking Clause 14-f. That means we can finish this year, but if repayment isn’t arranged before next term... we’re done. No more Hogwarts.”

Fred closed his hand around the letter and rested it on the table. “No wands, no books, no robes. We won’t even get clearance on a Floo license.”
Ron’s voice cracked. “They can’t do that. That’s not how Hogwarts works.”
George said nothing and Fred just shook his head.

Across the table, several younger students had gone quiet. A few older ones were glancing over now, trying not to look too directly but clearly listening.
Ron glanced down the table and caught sight of Harry. He stared for a long moment. There was no anger in his face, just confusion and a rising kind of helpless disbelief.

Harry didn’t return the look.
He remained exactly as he was — eating slowly, eyes steady.
Ron opened his mouth, but whatever he meant to say — whatever accusation was forming — never left his throat.

Fred leaned over and said quietly, “Don’t do it, Ron. Not here. Not with all these people watching.”
George’s tone was gentler. “You would only make it worse.”
Ron closed his mouth and sat back. His shoulders were tight, fists clenched on the bench beneath the table.

Ginny picked up the parchment and folded it neatly. She slipped it back into the envelope and tucked it under her plate without a word.

By the time Hermione entered the Great Hall, the atmosphere had returned to almost normalcy.
She walked briskly, but without poise. Her bag was slung too low on one shoulder, and her uniform blouse was buttoned one space off, making the collar tug unevenly across her neck. Her hair, normally managed by charm or frizz balm by this hour, hung around her face in half-tamed tangles.

She hadn’t slept.
That much was clear even before she reached the table. The red around her eyes was not the flushed, puffy stain of someone who had cried, but the dull inflammation of a mind ran too hot for too long.

She dropped her bag beside Ron and slid into the bench with a distracted huff, setting a thick stack of notes on the table like a shield.
“Morning,” she said, reaching for toast with one hand while flipping open a study schedule with the other. “Did the Prophet arrive yet?”

Ron didn’t answer. He glanced at her, then back down at his barely touched eggs.
Hermione spread jam across her toast.
“I reviewed our schedule for Arithmancy last night. The progression logic on the third-year sequence is completely different from what Professor Vector explained in her thesis work—”

She stopped as if the thought evaporated.
She blinked at the page, tried to remember what she was saying, then shook her head and kept going. “Anyway, the standard sequence is the same, but the upper function derivations seem to rely on a recursive charm that I… um, I wrote it down, just let me…”

She flipped through her notes.
Pages and pages of cramped handwriting stared back at her, half-coded diagrams and color-coded headings, but none of it helped. The symbols blurred. The index she’d memorized last year didn’t match the new section headers. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized she’d rewritten the same chart three times the night before and still hadn’t understood it.

She turned the page again, as if another glance might bring clarity.
Nothing did.
Hermione forced a smile and kept scanning. “It’s not a problem. Just... didn’t sleep much. Long night. Had to reorganize my cross-referencing tags for Ancient Runes—”
“You didn’t sleep at all,” Ginny said, without accusation.

Hermione bristled. “I don’t need to. I’ve studied plenty of times without sleep, my mind can take it.”
“You didn’t use to need to study like this,” Ron said. His voice was confused.
Hermione stared at him.
“I mean,” Ron went on, awkwardly, “you just remember things. You’d read it once, and it’d be all there. And now you’re making charts about charts and writing down indexes for your indexes.”
“That’s revision,” she said quickly. “It’s good practice.”

Across the Hall, Harry watched her from the corner of his eye.
He hadn’t turned his head, and hadn’t paused his breakfast. But he saw the way she fumbled pages.
The way her eyes didn’t light up when she explained a concept. The way her voice carried just slightly too loud when she insisted nothing was wrong.

She still thought the fog in her thoughts was just fatigue. That the extra effort was just what diligence looked like. She couldn’t imagine that something she had stolen had been taken back. That the edge she’d once wielded like a wand of its own had dulled without her noticing.

She kept flipping pages.
“Muggle Studies is going to be easy this year, at least,” she said, sounding almost relieved.
“I can repurpose last year’s notes if I just—”
“Hermione,” Ginny cut her. “maybe just eat something first.”

Harry’s attention returned to his plate. He broke a piece of toast and chewed slowly and thoughtfully.
Her stolen brilliance was steadily dulling. A once boosted mind sharpened to a blade, now worn down by overuse and denial, quietly grinding itself against the stone of forgotten knowledge.

He watched her turn another page, her eyes dragging across a text she no longer fully absorbed. The confidence in her posture hadn’t shifted, but it was hollow now. An echo of who she used to be. Or rather, who she thought she still was.

And Harry remembered what this reliance and refusal to let go of her undeserved brilliance led to.
It slipped into his awareness with the same quiet weight that the morning fog had carried — heavy, unwelcome, and far too familiar.

They had come at dawn, just as the wards folded for recalibration. Thirty-two witches and wizards — former allies, retired Aurors, a handful of mercenaries brought in under the Order’s new banner — all apparating at once, overwhelming the perimeter in a flash of synchronized betrayal.

Their hideout had been buried beneath a forgotten villa on the edge of the Brecon Beacons. Isolated and remote. Supposedly safe.
It wasn’t.

By the time the smoke cleared and the last escape route had been sealed behind a wall of hexfire, Harry stood between the wreckage and his women, shoulders tensed, chest heaving. His shirt was torn down one side, one knee already bloodied from the blast that had cracked the stone floor beneath him.

Behind him, Daphne crouched, wand raised and lip bloodied. Susan was cradling her right arm, fractured, but still ready to curse through the pain.
They were surrounded. Too many to count. All of them smiling.

Hermione Granger stood at the center of it, her hair wild, her wand already smoking, her eyes glassy with obsession. Her robes were buttoned wrong, one sleeve half-burned at the cuff. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

She didn’t even glance at the destruction around her. Her eyes locked on Harry’s the moment the dust settled.
“Give it back!” she demanded loudly. Her voice was raw and shaking.

Harry didn’t answer. His gaze swept the circle — thirty-two wands, all trained on them, all humming faintly. No one in that crowd looked unsure. No one hesitated, and some...looked thrilled.

One man laughed — a bark of victory.
Another muttered, “About time.”
“I know you took it back,” Hermione snarled, stepping forward, her boots crunching on broken tile. “You unbound the enhancement. You had no right.”

Daphne growled, “You’re insane.”
Hermione rounded on her, wand twitching.
“Stay out of this,” she snapped. “This has nothing to do with you.”

She turned back to Harry, and now her expression was something between desperation and fury. Her voice climbed into a pitch she couldn’t control.
“I need it, Harry. You don’t understand what it feels like to lose that mind. That clarity. That power. I was meant for it. I thrived in it. I—”

Her words tumbled, unraveled. She tried to steady her breathing, but failed.
“I rebuilt the Department of Magical Law. I kept the Ministry afloat when the old guard fell. I solved nine systemic failures in our international treaty compliance in a week. I saved Magical Britain—”

“You changed it for the worse by destroying its traditions,” Susan spat. “Not saved it.”
Hermione didn’t even look at her. Her attention was singular.
“You let it go to waste,” she said, shaking now. “You sat on it. You hoarded it. I could feel it after you reclaimed it. Like a hole tearing open in my head.”

Harry’s hands remained open. His wand wasn’t raised. He hadn’t tried to move. Every step forward from the circle of enemies was a step he would have to answer for — because Daphne and Susan were still boxed in behind him and h e couldn’t risk it.

“You didn’t even use it!” Hermione shouted, trembling with rage. “You think this gift was meant for you just because you were born with it? You couldn’t even grasp what it meant, what it could do. I was chosen by it, Harry. I became the mind Britain needed.”

Hermione’s wand jerked suddenly, and a thin curse shot forward, slicing through the side of Harry’s shirt and laying open a shallow cut along his ribs.

He didn’t move out of the way because Susan and Daphne would have been hit, and Hermione knew it.
“You think I’m the villain,” she spat, pacing now, wild-eyed. “You think this is about power. It’s not. It’s about efficiency. Stability. I was the one who kept this world from falling apart, and I did it with a mind that fit like a second skin. I was meant to have it. It was mine to own, not you!”

Daphne hissed, “You and Dumbledore tortured him for it when he was too young to know what he was.”
Hermione’s laugh came out broken. “He deserved it, and I deserve this gift back!”

Another curse struck, this time on Harry’s shoulder.
Hermione pointed directly at him now. “You don’t get to say no. You don’t get to deny me. You’ve done enough damage already. You’re not special. You’re just a relic with an undeserved brilliance.”

Her voice cracked.
“Give it back.”

Harry exhaled slowly, his gaze steady.
“You’re not asking for a mind,” he said. “You want to keep pretending it was ever yours.”

She raised her wand again like it was the only thing holding her together.
And the next curse she cast was meant to destroy.

When the memory faded he found his jaw had tightened around the last bite of toast.
He forced the swallow as he massaged the limb he lost that day.

Across the table, Hermione was still sifting through her notes, still chasing the clarity that used to come to her like breath.
She muttered something about bibliographies, her voice low, too steady for someone clearly unraveling.
The worst part was that she didn’t seem to know it. She believed she was still the clever one. Still ahead of the curve. Still Hermione Granger — the smartest witch of her age.

The Weasleys had gone quiet in their financial shock. Hermione continued scribbling through her haze of mental erosion. The staff whispered behind warded side tables. And the students, though pretending to eat and laugh, were all still watching the ripples from earlier.

So when the doors opened again, and Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones walked in side by side, the shift was immediate.

Their walk was smooth. Their expressions were neutral but quietly pleased, like they were in on a private joke no one else was sharp enough to catch.

Daphne’s black skirt hugged her hips sinfully, her blouse slightly open at the collar, just enough to reveal the line of her collarbone and hint at the generous swell beneath.
Susan’s sweater clung to her chest like it had been poured onto her skin, daring the viewer to pretend not to look.
Together, they looked like the answer to a wet dream someone had left too close to a spellfire.

The hall responded instantly.
A fork clattered against a plate. A first-year Hufflepuff choked on his pumpkin juice. Ernie Macmillan sat up straighter. 

Harry felt them.
Felt them the way someone felt heat before a fire entered the room. His peripheral vision caught the sway of hips, the turn of a cheek, the faint curve of a smile exchanged between them. He kept his face blank, his hands steady, but the pressure in his chest loosened by a fraction.

Susan and Daphne reached the Hufflepuff table and slid gracefully into their seats. They glanced subtly toward Harry sitting calmly, while half of the Gryffindor’s table was watching them.

Daphne leaned in, voice low and eyes glinting.
“Merlin, I’m going to sit on his face until he begs for mercy.”
Susan grinned, licking the butter off her spoon slowly. “You’ll have to fight me for it. I nearly climbed over the table last night. I swear if I have to go much longer without his cock inside me, I’m going to start humping the bedpost.”

Daphne’s laugh was soft and intimate. “Did you see the way he looks this morning? He’s getting thicker by the day. It’s coming back.”
Susan nodded. “It’s almost unfair we’ve got to wait for the ritual. I mean, he’s technically ours now. I sent the letter yesterday — asked aunty to meet us at the Three Broomsticks this coming weekend.”

Daphne’s lips curled. “Same. I told my parents Saturday morning. I didn’t even give them an option. Once they read the name Potter, the date won’t matter.”
Susan smirked. “I used Mipsey. Said it was urgent legacy consolidation. I even underlined ‘influence’ twice.”

Just then, two owls swooped in low over the table — one tawny, one coal-black — and dropped matching envelopes into their laps. They opened the letters right away.

Daphne scanned hers first, and her smile widened. “Saturday morning. Confirmed.”
Susan held hers aloft like a trophy. “Same. Aunty even reserved a private room. Says she wants to evaluate him as a suitor.”

They looked at each other, eyes gleaming. Then they leaned in, giggling like schoolgirls who’d just won a bet no one knew was being played.

A throat cleared beside them.
They turned in perfect sync, composed and mildly curious.
Cormac McLaggen stood there, arms folded and puffed like a rooster who mistook posture for charisma. He offered them what he clearly believed was a winning smile.

“Morning, ladies,” he said. “Quite the entrance earlier. Hogwarts hasn’t had this much excitement at breakfast since the twins tried to deep-fry a cauldron.”
Susan smiled politely. “Good morning, Cormac. I hope your summer was restful.”

He looked pleased by the civility and pressed on, as if momentum alone might carry him into their good graces, and then maybe…between their legs. “You’re looking… different this year. Not just different. Amazing, really. New hair or something?”

Daphne’s head tilted slightly, though her smile never reached her eyes. “Or something.”
“Right,” McLaggen said, awkward for a half-second before rallying. “Anyway, figured I’d say hi before half the Hall tried it. You two have become the main event overnight.”

Susan gave a small, polite nod. “That’s kind of you to say. But we’re just here to eat, like everyone else.”
McLaggen leaned a little too close. “Still, if you’re fine with walking the castle with me later, I’d be happy to show you some of the quieter spots, if you’re into—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Daphne said smoothly. “We know our way around. And we have no interest in being shown the parts of the castle you consider ‘quiet.’”

There was no venom in her voice, but it was icy.
McLaggen’s grin faltered. “Was just trying to be friendly.”
Susan met his eyes, her tone warm. “And we’ve received that friendliness. You may return to your table now.”

He lingered a second too long, but the chill between their words finally registered. With a muttered,
“Suit yourselves,” he turned and walked stiffly back toward Gryffindor, where he joined Ron, Dean, and the twins — all of whom glanced over at the girls with barely disguised longing.

Daphne exhaled slowly, then turned back to her plate. “They never realize it’s already over before they begin.”
Susan’s mouth curved. “It was kind of him to try. Misguided, but kind.”
Daphne snorted delicately. “He’ll recover. Eventually.”

Their tones dropped, shifting seamlessly into private conversation. If anyone was listening, they wouldn’t have caught more than a ripple of sound — two friends chatting about nothing at all.
Except they weren’t.

“The betrothal meeting is our opening,” Daphne whispered, voice low and sharp.
“We push the narrative gently. Titles first. House alliance second. Political merging last. It’ll seem less daunting if we frame it as formality first and strategy second.”

Susan nodded, chewing slowly. “I expect aunty to focus on his bloodline and reputation. She won’t argue if we present it as stabilizing the Potter and Black legacies.”
Daphne traced a fingertip over the rim of her glass. “And if your aunt accepts the framing, my parents will follow. They’ll recognize the tide.”

They paused as a shadow fell across their table again. Another boy, older — sixth year — lingered nearby, his mouth parting as if to speak, until he caught their glance and flushed.
He sat back down without a word.

Across the Hall, Seamus Finnigan, whose face returned to normal courtesy of Mrs.Pomfrey, leaned toward Dean, whispering, “Don’t you think one of them just looked at me?” His hopeful grin was short-lived as Dean didn’t answer. Instead he shook his head, eyes closed.

Another figure stepped forward, this time slower, more confident.
Zacharias Smith.
He moved with the ease of someone who mistook proximity for intimacy. His Hufflepuff robes were pressed sharp, his tone quieter than McLaggen’s, but no less entitled.
“Susan,” he said, voice dipped in casual familiarity. “You’re glowing this year.”
Susan gave a faint, closed-lipped smile but didn’t answer.
Zacharias looked her up and down. His gaze then shifted to Daphne and lingered a breath too many.

“I was thinking,” he said, “we’ve been friends for years, haven’t we? Maybe this is the year we move past that. You’ve clearly… grown into something remarkable.”
He said it with the kind of slow weight that assumed his words were gifts, as though she should thank him for the observation.

Daphne didn’t even blink, she always had it for the obnoxious ponce.
“Zacharias,” she said softly, “do you truly believe yourself capable of standing beside a woman like her?”
He blinked, confused. “I—what?”
“Do you believe you possess the political strength? The magical competence? The appearance even, to be anything more than a footnote in her day?”

His face darkened. “That’s uncalled for.”
“I’m simply asking whether your ambitions have matured along with your interest.”
He straightened, trying to recover. “You think you’re better than everyone else, don’t you? You should know your place, you snake. What are you even doing at our table? No one likes you over there?” He gestured toward the Slytherin’s table while saying the last line.
That’s when Susan finally looked up.

Her voice was calm, but her words didn’t waver.
“No one insults Daphne and remains in my good graces, Zacharias. I suggest you consider what you’re willing to lose before you speak again.”
Zacharias opened his mouth, then thought better of it. His jaw clenched. He turned on his heel and stalked off.
The girls didn’t watch him leave.

Instead, they glanced subtly toward the Gryffindor table.
Harry hadn’t moved.
He hadn’t turned to look. 
He remained where he was, eating quietly, his body loose, his posture relaxed.

He knew they could handle themselves, his calm told them everything.
The tension in Daphne’s shoulders faded slightly. Susan smoothed her napkin once and leaned closer.
Their conversation resumed in quiet whispers — just as fluid as before — their giggles soft and private, their expressions bright, as though nothing at all had happened.

The quiet hum of the Great Hall had returned to its usual morning cadence — spoons scraping bowls, parchment rustling beneath elbows, the dull clink of goblets being refilled. Somewhere near the ceiling, owls continued their deliveries, feathers drifting from enchanted rafters like lazy snow.

Harry sat with his shoulders relaxed, his posture unremarkable. He spread a bit of jam on  a toast, nodding absently to something Dean muttered about class schedules.
Across the hall, Daphne and Susan laughed softly over something only they could hear. Their plates remained mostly untouched.

Then came another sweep of wings overhead.
An owl barring Gringotts seals — stark black wax stamped with a silver goblin rune landed directly in front of Neville Longbottom.

Neville blinked at the envelope. His fingers hesitated before lifting and opening it with a trembling hand. 
For a moment, he didn’t react as he read the content of the letter.
Then he read it again.
The letter wasn’t long and the formality of goblin phrasing made it cold and inescapable:

To the attention of Heir Longbottom,

Following a comprehensive Asset Reclamation Procedure initiated by a routine Potter Estate Audit before ascension to Lordship, and conducted under the authority of the Goblin High Council, clause 7G of the Magical Inheritance Accord, we have completed our investigation into funds diverted through ancestral proxy channels dating back to the ratified Potter–Longbottom alliance.

It has been determined that for the past seventeen years, substantial assets belonging to House Potter were unlawfully drawn upon by the Longbottom estate under outdated proxy permissions linked to the long-term care of Alice and Frank Longbottom. Said permissions were neither renewed nor disclosed to the primary heir, Lord Potter, and have therefore been deemed invalid.

Effective immediately, the sum of 218,740 Galleons — inclusive of interest, administrative reclamation costs, and breach penalties — is now considered a debt owed by House Longbottom to the Potter Estate.

In accordance with clause 12B of the Goblin Contract Enforcement Charter, the heir or regent of House Longbottom is required to appear at Gringotts within thirty days of receipt to formalize a repayment schedule. Failure to comply will result in temporary asset seizure, suspension of vault access, and provisional declaration of house unsolvability until such time as the debt is settled in full.

Please be advised that continued delay will forfeit all claims to political protection within the Gringotts neutral council.

We trust you will act with the dignity expected of an allied House.

May your ledgers balance and your debts be brief,
Broker-Gornak
Senior Account Handler,
Gringotts Inheritance & Retrieval Division

Neville’s fingers trembled as he held the thick parchment, the Gringotts sigil glaring up at him in metallic ink. By the time he reached the signature his face had gone ashen.

Over two hundred thousand Galleons.

His hands began to shake.
Fred Weasley leaned slightly to one side to sneak a glance. “Bad news, Neville?” he asked with a grin that didn’t quite mask his curiosity.

Neville didn’t answer.
His mind was sprinting in thirty directions — none of them helpful. The letter blurred.
He had known, of course. Not the full figure, never that, but the arrangement — the proxy permissions. The whispered justification from Gran that “the Potters would have wanted it,” that “James and Frank were brothers in arms,” that “the vault was too deep to notice a trickle.”

But he knew that it hadn’t been a trickle.
It had been a river.

A deliberate, continuous siphon, unreported, unacknowledged, and now to be returned in full — with interest and penalties attached like iron shackles.
He should have known Harry would find it.

He should have known.

Ron noticed the silence now and leaned in. “Everything alright?”
Neville’s throat moved but no sound came.
George gave a low whistle. “You look like you swallowed a Howler.”

He did not answer. Could not.
He had hoped that Harry’s anger had cooled. That last night’s tension, this morning’s confrontation, had been about emotion. About feelings and loyalties and schoolyard wounds.

But this—
This wasn’t coincidence.

It had come dressed in formality — a routine audit, signed and sealed with goblin efficiency.
It didn’t matter how the letter was phrased. The result was clear.
Harry now knew.

How long he had known, Neville couldn’t say. He didn’t know when the realization had come, or how much of the financial trail Harry had managed to uncover. But it didn’t matter. The result was in his hands — in hard parchment, in numbers that carried shame like weight on his chest.

Harry had found out.
And even worse — he said nothing about it.

Neville risked a glance.
Harry was still seated, halfway through his eggs. He didn’t look in his direction. His hands moved with the same relaxed, unbothered rhythm as before.

The silent verdict of a man who no longer saw you.

Neville felt the breath leave his lungs. This wasn’t something he could fix with apologies or posturing.
The door was closed.
And he was out.

Out of Harry’s trust, out of his future. No more reflected glow from the Boy-Who-Lived where Neville could shine while taking minimum risks.
His own family’s greed, his own silence and reluctance to help, had burned the bridge beyond repair.

His fists clenched beneath the table.
He didn’t even notice the parchment crumpling in his grip.

Hermione glanced up from her barely-touched notes, sensing the tension. Her red-rimmed eyes flicked to Neville, then Harry, then back again.

On the far side of the Hall, Susan leaned slightly toward Daphne, keeping her voice low.
“He didn’t even flinch,” she murmured, eyes flicking toward Harry.
Daphne smirked, the corner of her mouth curling with delight.
“He never does. He cut once, never twice. That’s the mark of a man who knows where to stab.”
Susan let out a soft, breathy giggle. “It’s kind of unfair, isn’t it? We’ve got the only one who knows how to kill politely.”
“Silently,” Daphne said. “And in writing. Merlin, I’m dripping.”
Susan hummed. “Can we call that foreplay?”
“No,” Daphne whispered, her smile sharpening, “but we’ll ride the afterglow tonight with vibrating wands.”

They clinked spoons against each other with a giggle and went back to their fruit, posture straight, eyes serene.
As though nothing had happened.
As though the boy across the Hall hadn’t just been torn open without a word spoken.

Neville still sat frozen, panic coiling under his skin like a parasite. He knew Harry wouldn’t say anything to him today. Or tomorrow. Or ever again.
He had been weighed, measured, and dismissed.

And now all that remained was the letter in his hands, the stares he imagined from every corner of the room, and the echoing realization that the spotlight he once dreamed of sharing had moved on — forever.

Chapter Text

The air in Greenhouse Three was thick with the soft perfume of fresh soil and citrus pollen. Morning mist still clung to the lower glass panes, streaked with magical condensation from the watering spells Sprout had cast at sunrise. Rows of broad-leafed plants swayed gently in enchanted breezes, the temperature a controlled warmth that made cloaks unnecessary and sweaters just tight enough to draw attention.

Harry arrived early enough to choose his place. He selected the long wooden bench in the center of the greenhouse, directly across from the most active patch of Shrivelfig beds. Raised enough to provide room for movement. Exposed enough to make sure he’d be seen.

He slipped on his gloves slowly, the faint scent of dragonhide mixing with the plant-rich air. His shirt fit tighter than last year — he’d outgrown the boyish narrowness of his frame and the robes covered less than they used to. His sleeves were rolled up now, subtly exposing forearms he knew drew eyes. He had no glasses anymore. The slight downward tilt of his gaze gave him an expression somewhere between reserved and predatory.

Ron and Seamus stumbled in two minutes later, noisily. They made for the far bench,
Ron’s cheeks still pink from embarrassment, Seamus half-focused on the flex of his jaw as he chewed a twig like a toothpick.

The rest of Gryffindor filtered in next. Lavender and Parvati arrived together, giggling and already whispering as they entered. Neville brought up the rear, arms laden with gloves and tools like he always overprepared.
The Hufflepuffs began to file in.

And then she walked in.
Susan Bones didn’t make an entrance. She stepped into the greenhouse with an unhurried ease, her schoolbag tossed casually over one shoulder, gloves tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Her sweater clung to her like it had been charmed that way — hugging the swell of her breasts, outlining the soft compression of her cleavage as she walked. The bounce in her chest was real. So was the slow, unconscious sway of her hips. Her skirt hit just above the knee — regulation length, but the cut emphasized the curve of her ass so cleanly that every male head within five benches turned on instinct.
One second passed, then two.

A soft clatter as someone dropped a trowel.
Zacharias Smith, standing by the bench closest to the front, locked his eyes on her without blinking. His expression wasn’t subtle — a blend of territorial confusion and frustrated awe. He had tried and failed, and now the girl he believed owed him something was sauntering toward Potter with a sway in her hips that suggested very clearly who she had chosen.

Susan didn’t look at him and walked straight to Harry’s bench.
“Is this spot taken?” she asked, her tone light and cordial.
Harry tilted his head slightly. “Depends who’s asking.”

Susan gave him a small smile, one corner of her mouth lifting just enough to signal playfulness. “Someone with steady hands and strong recommendations.”
Harry smirked faintly. “I suppose I can risk it.”
She sat.
Her skirt rode a fraction higher as she lowered onto the bench. She adjusted it delicately, drawing it down with the tips of her fingers, ensuring the view behind her remained suggestive but never explicit. Her sweater shifted just enough to exaggerate the curve of her bust as she leaned forward to pull her gloves from her waistband.
The motion wasn’t provocative.
It was intentional.

Ron’s voice drifted across the bench row.
“Oh, here we go,” he muttered, not even trying to keep it entirely to himself. “Now he’s tall and mysterious and suddenly he thinks he can pull every girl in school.”
Lavender turned and she leaned sideways, one arm hooked around the back of the bench as she gave Ron a look like she was examining an overripe fruit.
“If the rest of you looked half as delicious as Potter does now,” she said, voice silky, “we’d be wading through a battlefield of panties every morning.”
Parvati nearly choked, turning away to muffle her laugh in her glove.
Seamus snorted.
Dean elbowed him hard, pretending he hadn’t laughed too.

Harry adjusted the angle of the Shrivelfig in front of him and picked up his pruning knife.
Susan slipped on her gloves and leaned slightly closer.
“I think you’ve gained some fans,” she said, voice warm.
Harry glanced sideways at her. “Jealous?”
“Mm. Not yet. I’ve got the seat.”

Their fingers brushed as she reached for the watering tin beside him.
She paused a breath longer than necessary, her gloved hand resting against the back of his for one silent beat.
Across the aisle, Zacharias shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tight, mouth pressed into a flat line. He hadn’t blinked since she sat down.

Susan leaned forward over the planter, carefully brushing aside the soil around the base of the Shrivelfig.
The move pulled her sweater taut again, the curve of her lower back arching ever so slightly, the line of her waist narrowing before flaring into a perfect, unapologetic ass.
It was an anatomical excellence meeting practical posture. The kind that made boys forget the difference between dignity and drool.

Harry stepped forward to adjust the angle of the sunlight spell with his wand. As he leaned in, his chest brushed her side — faint contact, plausible proximity. She turned her head back to look at him, her hair brushing his cheek.
Their eyes locked. Her lips parted slightly. Then, slowly, she bit her bottom lip.
The movement was controlled and elegant.
Just enough.

Seamus dropped a pot of compost with a loud thump.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “That’s just not fair.”
Ron made another noise of protest, louder this time. “What, now she’s playing coy ? Unbelievable. He’s not even trying.”
Lavender leaned in again. “Maybe that’s why it’s working.”

Susan reached forward again to brush away excess mulch, and Harry stepped behind her this time. His hand hovered near her hip as he reached for a bottle of nutrient potion. His arm brushed hers lightly.
She glanced over her shoulder with that look. And a smile that didn’t need teeth to bare intent.

Dean whistled low under his breath.
Sprout cleared her throat, pausing her explanation at the front of the room. “Everything all right in the back there?”
Harry answered smoothly. “All good, Professor.”
Susan added, “We’re just learning to share space.”
Professor Sprout gave a slightly amused glance, then returned to the diagram she was charming into hovering over the plant bed. She knew a performance when she saw one, but she also knew the value of letting teenagers think they were getting away with it.

Susan nudged Harry with her elbow. “You know, I used to think you were a little stiff.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Used to?”
“Now I’m reconsidering.” Her smile turned sly. “Maybe you’re just selective.”
“I’m not stiff,” Harry said, deadpan. “Just… composed.”
“Mm.” She leaned closer, brushing a fleck of soil from his chest. “I’ll compose you into trouble if you keep that up.”

Zacharias’s chair scraped audibly across the floor.
He didn’t speak. But his glare was acidic. Ernie Macmillan was pretending to focus on his notes, though his eyes hadn’t left Susan’s ass since she sat.

The silence between them hummed with the kind of tension that wasn’t hostile — it was heavy. Charged.
Lavender, watching them from the side, whispered to Parvati, “They’re not even dating. That’s what makes it hotter.”
Parvati murmured back, “She’s not just hot. She’s… dangerous. Like if you flirt wrong, she might hex your dick off.”
Lavender’s eyes sparkled. “I want to be her. Or under her.”
Dean’s trowel slipped off the bench.

Susan stood up straighter again and pressed her gloved hands together, brushing excess dirt from her palms.
“Shrivelfigs are surprisingly delicate,” she said aloud, her voice carrying now, like she’d been asked a question. “Most people try to cut too deep and damage the secondary roots.”
Harry said, “The trick’s in the pressure. Gentle but precise. Otherwise the pulp backfires.”
“Exactly,” Susan said, smiling. “Most boys don’t know how to handle sensitive fruit.”

Zacharias’s expression curdled.
Lavender burst out laughing. “I’m going to fail this class and I won’t even care.”

Harry turned back to the soil, adjusting the fig's rootline with subtle care.
Susan stepped behind him this time, reaching around to hand him a measuring spoon. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder.
It was nothing graphic, but it was devastating for the onlookers.
Harry took the spoon with a soft, “Thanks.”
She leaned in to whisper so only Harry could hear, “I’m enjoying this.”
“Me too,” Harry murmured, not looking away.

From the other bench, Ron finally stood up and snapped, “Oh, come on. What, are we all just supposed to watch this like it's normal?”
No one responded. The greenhouse had gone too quiet to support his outrage.
Lavender stretched her arms above her head lazily. “Maybe if you tried looking presentable, someone would flirt with you.”
Parvati snorted and Ron flushed.
Zacharias muttered, “Fucking Potter.”

Harry didn’t turn and Susan didn’t even acknowledge the noise.
The lesson and the act continued.
For the school, they weren’t dating.
But they’ll make sure that the room would remember this morning as the moment it began.

Susan turned slightly, planting her hand on the edge of the bench as she leaned closer to Harry, just enough to brush against him again. Her breath carried the faint scent of apple blossom and mint — there was no perfume on her, it was clean magic and toothpaste, but it still landed like a hex.
“What do you think?” she asked, nodding toward the shrivelfig now nearly done. “Did we pass the test?”
Harry examined the plant like it was a witness under cross-examination, then he glanced at her hands, still lightly dusted with peat.
His gaze lingered a second longer than polite on her chest before returning to her eyes.
“I think we’re an excellent pairing,” he said, tone dry.
Susan smirked. “Only in Herbology?”

From behind them, Seamus muttered to Dean, “He’s going to fuck her. I’m calling it now.”
Dean scoffed. “She’s not easy, you twat. She’s Susan Bones. That girl doesn’t need to spread her legs — men kneel for her.”
Lavender, overhearing, chimed in without turning around. “And she’ll only kneel back if they’ve got a wand worth the bow.”
That caused an actual cough-snort from Parvati, who fanned herself with a leaf sample.

Zacharias had moved to a second planter and was hacking at his shrivelfig like it owed him a debt. The roots were mangled, the pulp leaking sap across his gloves.
His teeth were clenched too hard to speak.

Susan, ever composed, tilted her head toward Harry again and whispered, “Should we give them a showstopper, or save that for next week?”
Harry’s lips curved faintly. “We’re still warming up.”
“Mm.” She plucked a damp cloth from the nearby bin and reached out, wiping a streak of dust from Harry’s jaw. She cradled his chin as she did it. “You had a smudge.”
“Do I still?”
“Not anymore.” She didn’t move right away, letting the silence settle again.

Neville, a few benches over, had gone completely still. His gloved hands hovered over his plant, eyes caught in a kind of helpless awe that mixed embarrassment with... something else. Something envious.
He wasn’t alone.
Half the boys were no longer pretending to care about their plants. The entire bench was a portrait of halted movement — a greenhouse full of distracted teenage boys who hadn’t realized class had continued without them.

Ron dropped his glove with a frustrated sigh and shoved his fig pot away slightly too hard. “It’s like he’s under a bloody charm,” he muttered, loud enough again. “This is pathetic.”
Lavender raised a brow. “You sound mad she didn’t put it on you.”
Ron glared. “She didn’t look like that last year.”
“She didn’t,” Parvati admitted, brushing back her hair. “Maybe you lack something that Harry has.”
Lavender added, “Maybe you don’t have the wand to make her purr.”
A soft “bloody hell” from Seamus was heard.

Harry turned just enough to glance across the room, catching Susan’s gaze in the reflection of a glass panel. He smirked inwardly and his hand settled beside hers on the bench — fingers splayed just close enough.
She moved closer with just a shift in weight. But the message landed loud and clear.

Zacharias stood suddenly, scraping his bench across the greenhouse floor. “I need a new pair of shears,” he said to no one in particular, storming toward the equipment bins with tight shoulders and a flustered jaw.

Susan tilted her head and whispered, “He’s going to trip over his own ego.”
Harry didn’t respond. But the corner of his mouth twitched again.

Professor Sprout, still engaged in animated discussion with Ernie over fig pod fermenting, didn’t even look up.

The air in the greenhouse had shifted. No longer just heavy with humidity and magic, it now thrummed with social pressure — with tension spun from half-glances, suppressed groans, and the slow-burning realization that something had changed .
They were watching a first spark become fire.
And no one wanted to blink in case they missed the next flare.
All according to plan.

The faint crack of sap rupturing under a botched pruning echoed from the far bench. Neville Longbottom winced as a stream of sticky fluid sprayed upward from the shrivelfig root he’d just sliced too close to the bulb. It splattered against his glove and dotted the front of his robes.
“Careful, Mr. Longbottom,” Professor Sprout called, frowning as she passed. “Shrivelfigs react poorly to stress. Like some of us before our morning tea.”

A chuckle rippled through the room, but it was short-lived.
Neville offered a weak grin, then wiped at the mess with a cloth, eyes flicking sideways to where Hannah Abbott stood a few feet away, perfectly angled for his performance. She hadn’t noticed — or if she had, she was too busy adjusting the neat braid that framed her face and sneaking glances at the central bench.
Specifically, at Susan and Harry.

Neville turned toward them just in time to hear Professor Sprout’s voice rise from the center of the room.
“Mr. Potter,” she called, eyes flicking toward the central bench, “what would you say about the maturity of this fig’s root structure?”
Harry glanced at the plant, then at her.
“The root thickening suggests it’s still maturing. If we cut now, we risk pulp collapse. The textbook says week three is the earliest safe pruning window, but if you trace the secondary vein line—” he pointed toward the base stem, “—you can see it hasn’t fully split. Meaning this one’s still in its juvenile cycle.”
Sprout blinked. “That’s… absolutely correct.”

Neville’s brow furrowed.
“Excellent observational work,” Sprout said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Five points to Gryffindor.”
Zacharias made a disgusted noise behind his gloves.

Susan, composed as ever, looked toward Harry and gave him the smallest of smiles — quiet praise in a sea of unspoken tension. Her fingers rested lightly on the table’s edge, posture straight, legs crossed at the ankle like a debutante at a press conference.

Sprout continued. “And what kind of symbiotic pest most commonly affects early-stage shrivelfigs?”
Neville’s hand shot up.
But Harry was already speaking. “Scalp mites. They burrow under the first layer of skin and confuse the plant into shedding early. If left untreated, the fig produces a dry husk instead of fluid pulp.”
Sprout blinked again. “Correct. Excellent, Mr. Potter. Another five points.”
Neville’s hand dropped.

Susan reached for her watering tin, casually brushing Harry’s side as she moved.
He didn’t flinch. He dipped his hand back into the soil and began examining another specimen, completely at ease.
Neville grit his teeth and turned back to his pot, hands moving faster now — trying to mimic the gestures Harry had just used. He dug too aggressively, his wrist flick sharp, and the stem cracked with a dry snap.
Hannah glanced over.
Neville went very still, then reached for his cloth again, trying to hide the evidence.

Susan’s eyes tracked the motion. She smiled then slowly leaned toward Harry’s ear, her voice as refined as ever, her expression poised enough to be sculpted.
“You keep answering like that,” she whispered silkily, “and I’ll suck you off right here. Just to see if you can stay composed while everyone else melts.”
Harry’s hand didn’t tremble. His posture didn’t shift. Only his eyes — for a fraction of a second — cut toward her with heat hidden behind cool.
She bit her lip again as a punctuation.
Then turned back to her fig as if she had commented on the weather.

Zacharias had gone utterly silent. His eyes kept bouncing between the two of them, as though he were waiting for Susan to show some flaw, some slip, some trace of the woman he thought she was — but she gave him nothing.
She was prime and radiant.
Professor Sprout passed once more. “Ms. Bones, would you be willing to summarize proper repotting procedure?”

Susan tilted her head, not missing a beat. “Of course, Professor. For shrivelfigs in particular, you want a high-absorption soil mixture with a pH no higher than 6.2. And you can’t remove the support band around the rootball for at least three days after transplant, or the new feeder threads will go dormant.”
Sprout beamed. “Excellent. Five points to Hufflepuff.”

Neville tried again to speak, raising a hand.
“Professor—”
“Yes, Mr. Longbottom?”
“I was just going to say—uh—that you can also mix in dried borage for fungal resistance, especially in winter cycles.”
Sprout nodded. “True, though not until post-harvest. The leaves react to heat binding and can restrict sap flow if done too early. Careful, please.”
Neville flushed.

Susan didn’t turn her head, but Harry felt the subtle nudge of her boot tapping his under the bench.
“He’s drowning,” she whispered, still watching her soil.
Harry reached forward and split the shrivelfig root with surgical care.
The sap ran clear. Perfect timing.

Sprout clapped her hands once. “That’s time! Clean your tools and repack your gloves. Homework is a short report on the growth patterns of magical rootstocks, due next session.”
The benches began to shift, students packing away tools and dirtied towels. But the conversation continued.

Susan turned toward Harry, brushing invisible lint from her skirt as she spoke loud enough to be overheard.
“You know, I don’t actually know what your favorite subject is.”
Harry shrugged. “Still figuring it out.”
“Well,” she said, eyes glinting, “maybe we can figure that out over dinner.”
Several heads turned.
She added, light and warm, “Join me at the Hufflepuff table tonight?”
Harry met her gaze with a smirk.
“Would be my pleasure.”

Lavender exhaled a breathy “Wow” under her breath. Parvati mouthed something obscene. Ron stood stock-still, lips parted, like he’d just watched a girlfriend leave him without even dating her.
Neville sat down harder than necessary as he missed the first handle of his bag.

Susan picked up her gloves, turned toward the door with one final brush of her hair behind her ear, and walked ahead of Harry — her hips swaying in that same unhurried, devastating rhythm.
The greenhouse had never felt hotter.

The corridor on the seventh floor was silent, save for the faint shuffle of portraits adjusting in their frames. Harry walked past the same stretch of bare wall three times.

A place where the three of us can speak.

The Room of Requirement answered when he finished his third pass. A broad wooden door emerged from stone, smooth and unadorned, fitting into the corridor wall like it had always belonged. Harry opened it and stepped into a space that already knew what they needed — and what they craved.

The lighting was low, the air comfortably warm. A subtle haze hung in the air, scented faintly with sandalwood, and old magical timber. The centerpiece of the room was a massive bed, king-sized and overbuilt, covered in green silk with gold trim and enough pillows to bury a smaller person. This was not a resting place. This was where they came to plan.

Harry’s robes vanished the moment he stepped inside. The Room stripped him clean with the efficiency of thought-based transfiguration. His shirt, pants, and underwear blinked out of existence. His skin was bare, his muscles loose, his cock already beginning to swell with anticipation.

He climbed onto the bed without ceremony and leaned back against the headboard. His legs spread comfortably. His cock rested thick against his thigh, already halfway to full and growing harder by the second.
He didn’t have to wait long.

Susan and Daphne entered together and like Harry, their clothes disappeared the moment they set foot inside the room. They walked with practiced ease, like they were returning to a bed they’d shared a thousand times before.
They were already hungry.

Susan reached the bed first. Her hips swayed naturally with each step, fully confident in how much attention they drew. Her breasts were large and firm, bouncing softly with her movements, nipples already hard from anticipation. She climbed onto the bed and settled on Harry’s right side, her thigh pressing against his.

Daphne joined from the left, her body just as enticing. Her breasts almost as large as Susan’s, her stomach taut, and her eyes locked on Harry’s cock as she crawled into the place on his left. She kissed his shoulder once in passing, then reached for his tight, as if laying claim by instinct rather than decision.

Neither of them hesitated.
Susan’s hand wrapped around his shaft as naturally as a duelist drawing her wand. Her grip was confident and smooth, stroking him from base to tip with a rhythm that clearly belonged to someone who had done this thousands of times and never once grown bored of it. Daphne joined her, curling her fingers just above Susan’s and sliding her palm over the head with a slow, firm press.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose. The feeling was not new. It was not unexpected. But it was perfect.
Susan leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, her voice low and already breathy.
“I missed the taste of you.”
She dipped her head without warning and took the head of his cock into her mouth, lips sealing tightly as she drew him in. Her cheeks hollowed slightly with the suction, and she moaned faintly around him as she slid down to the midpoint, then pulled off with a long, wet breath and a glint in her eyes.

Daphne immediately followed, taking Susan’s place with a smooth motion and engulfing him just a little deeper. Her mouth was hotter, her tongue more aggressive. She twisted slightly at the base, then pulled off with a deliberate pop and a string of spit connecting her lips to his shaft.

They alternated like that, casually, like it was simply part of their rhythm.
Harry reached out with both hands, his left sliding over Daphne’s stomach and dipping between her thighs, fingers spreading her open with practiced movements. She was already soaked.
His fingers pushed inside her without resistance. His right hand moved to Susan, gripping her full breast, squeezing once before he leaned forward and sucked her nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing gently before he switched to the other.

Susan groaned, her breath catching as she resumed stroking him with her slick hand. “You have no idea how hard it was not to climb on you during Herbology.”

Harry didn’t answer. He rolled her nipple between his teeth, making her gasp again.
“He brushed my hip,” Susan continued, voice shaking now, “and I nearly came. You could have leaned me over that planter and I would’ve let you fuck me until Sprout gave us a detention.”

Daphne laughed softly and kissed Susan’s shoulder before whispering against her ear. “If I’d been there, I would’ve pushed you down myself and told him to fuck you in front of the whole class.”

Harry switched sides, sliding his mouth over Daphne’s breast while his right hand dipped to Susan’s thigh. She opened her legs immediately, arching her back to make room. He slid his fingers inside her, two at once, but never going too deep.

Both girls were panting heavily now, but neither stopped.
Their hands continued moving on his cock — one base, one tip, switching places occasionally, fingers sliding over each other, palms curling together as they shared the shaft. The movement was fluid and practiced.

Susan leaned in and whispered near his neck, her words hot against his skin. “You answered every single question better than Neville. I thought I was going to cum just watching his face fall apart.”

Daphne grinned and dipped her head again, taking him into her mouth. She sucked hard and deep, her throat tightening just enough to make Harry grunt, then pulled off and let Susan take over without missing a beat.

Susan licked the head once, then wrapped her lips around him and moaned as she swallowed him back to the halfway point. She didn’t bob or tease. She just held him in her throat, humming against his length, before pulling off and stroking again.

Harry’s fingers curled inside both girls, keeping pace. He adjusted his angle slightly and began fingering their asses — slow at first, just a teasing press, then a steady rhythm that made their moans rise louder with every pass.

“I want you inside me,” Susan said, not whispering now. “In my ass. In my pussy. I want to feel both at once and let her lick me while I fall apart.”
“I want to ride your face,” Daphne said, voice ragged. “I want to cum on your tongue while you keep her pinned under your cock.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “You’ll get both.”
Susan’s hand tightened. “But not yet.”
“No,” he said. “Not until after the foreign students arrive. The ritual has to wait.”

Daphne froze for a second. “That’s two months.”
Susan blinked and stared at him. “You’re telling us we have to go without your cock for two more months?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “That’s the only way to do it right.”

Susan pulled back and stared at his cock. “Fuck the ritual. I’ll fuck you now and deal with the fallout.”
“You’d regret it,” Harry said. “If the ritual fails because we gave in, all of this was for nothing.”
Daphne growled, frustrated. “You’re asking for the impossible.”
“I’m asking you to trust me.”

The girls didn’t stop touching him. Their hands kept moving. Their bodies kept pressing into him. But the fire in their eyes had turned sharp, focused again.
Susan leaned in and kissed Daphne hard, tongue sinking deep. Their hands never left his cock, not for a second.

Harry’s fingers kept working them slowly— not deep enough to breach, but far enough to make both girls squirm with need. His thumbs circled their clits in turns, the pads of his fingers brushing slick folds and kissing the edge of where they both wanted more.

He kept them on the edge.
Susan’s breathing had turned ragged, her hips rocking against his hand in subtle rhythm. Her skin was flushed across her chest and collarbones, her large tits heaving slightly each time she moaned into Daphne’s mouth. She hadn’t stopped stroking his cock. Her grip was firm, perfectly placed, gliding from base to tip and back again, fingertips grazing his skin with each pass. Her palm was damp with spit and precum.

Daphne wasn’t gentler. She matched Susan stroke for stroke, her right hand sliding over Harry’s shaft while her left squeezed Susan’s thigh and reached around to cup her ass. She pulled the cheek apart and fingered her ass gently while kissing her along the neck just below the ear.

Harry leaned in and bit gently at Daphne’s shoulder, dragging his teeth down toward her tits. He sucked one into his mouth, tongue swirling around the nipple, before shifting to Susan again and doing the same. Their skin tasted like sweat and desire.

They were all breathing more heavily now.
Susan’s voice broke the silence first. “Two months.”
She delivered it like an accusation.

Harry exhaled, his jaw tightening as he rubbed a slow circle against her clit, then dipped the tips of his fingers inside again.
“After the foreign delegations arrive,” he repeated, calmly. “Between their arrival and the champion selection.”

Daphne kissed his temple, her voice tight. “The night before Halloween, then. That gives us one day. That’s the window.”

He nodded, switching pressure to her inner lips, massaging her outer folds, careful not to push further than he should. “We’ll plan it down to the hour. No one will know what’s happening until it’s over.”

Susan gritted her teeth. “You’d better fuck me so hard when this is done I forget my name for a week.”
“You’ll get more than that,” he murmured.

Daphne let out a shaky breath and dipped her head again, swallowing his cock partway.
Her throat worked him in slow, firm pulses, tongue stroking the underside. She pulled off with a sharp inhale, a thread of saliva trailing from her lower lip. “You’d better fuck us both until we scream. And then keep going.”

Harry curled his finger inside her just enough to make her jerk, then returned to Susan with the same teasing touch.
“I’ll take you both,” he said. “Together. When it’s time.”
Susan leaned down and took him into her mouth again, slower this time. Her lips slid down gradually, pulling a groan from Harry’s throat as she bobbed, sucked, and came off with a wet gasp. She didn’t stop stroking — her wrist twisted just right near the head, and Daphne’s hand followed with perfect sync.

“I swear,” Susan whispered, “when you finally fuck me, I want it deep. I want it hard. I want to feel your balls slap against my ass while you choke me.”
“I want to ride you until I break,” Daphne muttered. “In front of a mirror. So I can watch your cum drip from my pussy while you fill me again.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He kept fingering them both, now circling their clits more directly. Their hips bucked harder. Both of them moaned into each other’s necks and shoulders, their bodies shaking with every careful press of his fingers and every roll of his thumb.
“After the ritual,” he said again, voice lower now. “Only then. Not before.”
Susan grunted, frustrated, but didn’t pull away. She dropped her head once more and sucked him with deep, steady strokes that hollowed her cheeks. Daphne joined her, licking his shaft below Susan’s grip, mouths sharing him in wet tandem.

They didn’t speak for a moment — just sounds. Moans. Wet slurps. Their breath across his skin.
Harry pulled them tighter, arms locking around their waists. He resumed the motion of his fingers, teasing their assholes this time, with just enough friction to keep them on edge. His mouth found their nipples again in turn, sucking, biting gently, breathing heat into them with each slow pull.

Susan dipped her head, lips parting as she slid his cock deep into her throat. Her cheeks hollowed, then puffed as she pulled back slowly, a wet line connecting her mouth to his tip. Daphne kissed her before she fully surfaced, claiming the precum on her tongue, then dove in herself, swallowing half the length in one practiced motion and sucking hard until Harry’s jaw clenched.

When she came up again, she licked the corner of her mouth and leaned back, still pumping him lazily with one hand. “We need to talk about Saturday.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, his voice a low growl. “Go on.”
Daphne adjusted her position, still flush to his side, head tucked under his jaw while her free hand drifted to Susan’s thigh and caressed upward. “The trick is to walk them into it. We’re not selling a scandal. We’re presenting the most stable alliance Hogwarts has seen in thirty years.”

Harry’s fingers stroked harder, making her hips jerk slightly. She didn’t stop speaking.
“You lead with titles,” she said. “Start as the Heir of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter, fully acknowledged by the goblins. Then you add the Black connection second—by inheritance, even if not formally assumed yet. That will do two things: first, it’ll scare off any rejection on bloodline grounds. Second, it positions you as the keystone of two legacies that have no true heir left but you.”

Susan dipped again, engulfing Harry with more fervor now. Her strokes became needier. Her moans muffled around his shaft. Daphne kissed her neck, then resumed.

“Then we introduce the idea of betrothal not only as romance,” she continued, voice steady despite her heavy breathing, “but also as the logical result of legacy alignment. Two powerful girls from old families, one heir to two lines—rebuilding unity. Consolidating strength.”

Harry’s grip tightened around their waists as his fingers angled inward again. Susan gasped around his cock and came up for air, eyes wild and glassy.

“She’ll still evaluate you personally,” she panted. “Aunty won’t sign off unless she sees your conduct, your body, and your mind. She’ll measure everything.”

“I know,” Harry murmured. “I want her to.”
Susan kissed his jaw and bit at his earlobe, her voice a hot whisper. “If you show her even half the control you’re showing right now, she’ll be dripping into her chair.”

Daphne chuckled darkly. “Let her think she’s in control. You’ll pass every one of her tests, and you won’t even flinch.”
“She might ask about your magical performance,” Susan said. “She could also bring up your guardianship. She won’t press too hard—Aunty don’t posture—but she’ll prod for signs of discipline and hidden rage.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “She’ll see I have both. She’ll see I’ve mastered them.”
Susan rewarded that with a full, wet swallow down his length again. Daphne leaned in and tongued the underside of his shaft as Susan moved, their mouths colliding in the middle needily.

When Susan came back up, she pulled Daphne into a deep, sloppy kiss. Their tongues tangled between gasps, both of them flushed, leaking down their thighs, ass cheeks trembling under Harry’s firm touch.

Daphne licked her lips and returned to the point. “Once Amelia is in, my parents will follow. Father will care about the Potter-Black alliance. Mother will focus on social stability. They’re old-guard purebloods, but not idiots. They know this war isn’t over. They’ll see you as protection and prestige.”

Harry nodded slowly. His voice was even, despite the obscene way the girls’ hands kept twisting and stroking his cock in smooth, greedy tandem. “And after that?”
“After that we become untouchable.” Susan said, now moving faster with her hand. “We’ll announce the betrothal,” 

She dipped again, moaning around his cock as Harry pressed harder inside her ass. Daphne moved in, her tongue licking up the side of his shaft before joining Susan’s mouth at the tip,
sucking greedily.
Harry grunted and said to Susan. “Straddle me.”

Susan was already climbing into position when Daphne gave her a hand — not that she needed it. Her legs moved with a dancer’s grace, strong and fluid as she swung one over Harry’s hips and settled into his lap. Her pussy pressed against the length of his cock without hesitation, slick folds sliding along his shaft as she rocked herself slowly, building rhythm and pressure with every pass.

Harry leaned back, letting her rub herself against him. He reached up with both hands, cupping the underside of her massive tits, fingers kneading gently as she moaned above him. Her nipples stood firm, and she rolled her hips with abandon, gasping each time her clit dragged across the thick head of his cock.

“Fuck,” she breathed, “this isn’t enough—so fucking close—but not enough.”
“Hold that thought,” Daphne purred.
She moved beside Harry and slid one leg across his chest, straddling his face with a smirk of anticipation. Facing Susan, she leaned forward and met the redhead’s lips with a greedy kiss.

Harry wrapped his arms around Daphne’s thighs and pulled her down onto his mouth.
He licked her slowly at first — long, wide strokes up her pussy, lingering at her clit, then circling back down to her asshole. She was already soaked. He let his tongue tease her rim, then dip lower again. Her whole body jolted the first time he switched from slow laps to rhythmic flicks.

Her moans spilled directly into Susan’s mouth as the two women clung to each other, grinding together, palms exploring each other’s breasts with hungry need. Their hips rolled in sync — Susan riding his cock without penetration, Daphne grinding down on his tongue, both women chasing friction and heat and the edge of madness.

Susan let her head fall back, panting. “She’s twitching already.”
“She’s about to explode,” Harry muttered beneath Daphne’s body.
Daphne’s hands shook where they gripped Susan’s hips. Her legs trembled around Harry’s head. Her moans turned into gasping cries as her thighs squeezed tighter.
“Harry,” she growled, “use it. Now. Please—give me the tongue.”

He obeyed.
“Is this what you want?”
Parseltongue was a whisper at first — a hum that vibrated through her clit and asshole at once. She choked on a scream, grabbed two handfuls of Susan’s ass, and jerked forward.
“Fucking—!”

The language unspooled in hisses and clicks, each syllable a lash of sensation that shot straight up Daphne’s spine. Her hips bucked. Her pussy clenched. Her orgasm hit like a curse — blinding, shaking, leaving her limp as Harry eased her down beside him on the mattress, her chest rising in frantic waves.

Susan slid off Harry’s cock, her folds slick and twitching. Her eyes were wild.
“Me,” she growled. “Fucking do me. Now.”
He rolled her onto her back, positioning himself between her thighs. Her legs spread wide without prompting. He dove in, tongue flattening against her folds as he dragged a long, wet line from ass to pussy. She nearly came just from that.

Her moans went silent for a moment — just sharp exhales and whimpers of held breath. Then he hit her clit with a practiced flick, and she screamed into her hand.
Her thighs clamped around his head, and she rocked against his mouth like she couldn’t stop herself if she tried.
“Don’t tease,” she begged. “Just hiss into it. Please—please, Harry—give it to me.”

He spoke the same twisted tongue against her most sensitive spot, the syllables pulsing in waves of electric pleasure. Susan let out a sharp, high cry — then another, louder — and her whole body seized as the orgasm crashed through her like a spell gone wild.
She lay twitching, dazed and flushed, lips parted in shock.

Harry pulled himself upright and crawled between them.
They were both panting now, faces gleaming with sweat and eyes blown wide with lust and love. But their attention snapped to his cock as soon as he laid back between them.
“You didn’t come,” Daphne whispered.
“Not important.”
“Wrong answer,” Susan said, already sliding down his body.

They didn’t ask. They just took him.
Susan sucked the head into her mouth while Daphne stroked the base. They switched halfway — Susan stroked while Daphne swallowed. They took turns greedily, kissing around his cock, whispering praise, smirking as they passed him back and forth.

It didn’t take long.
He grunted once, then again, his stomach tightening — and with a thrust into Susan’s mouth, he came hard. Thick jets shot into her throat, and she moaned around him, swallowing as fast as she could.

Daphne leaned in immediately and kissed her.
Their mouths opened, tongues tangling as they passed his cum between them, kissing sloppily and hungrily until every drop was shared.

Harry collapsed his head backward, heart racing.
Susan curled into his right side. Daphne took the left.
They didn’t speak again. They just breathed — three hearts in one rhythm, bodies tangled, love written in sweat, taste and touch.

They were flushed, panting and radiant with shared release.
Their strategy was locked, their bodies satisfied—for now, and their unity total.

The plan was set. Only a few more days. Then the first move. Then the betrothal.
Then the beginning of their rise.

Chapter Text

The candlelight in Professor McGonagall’s office flickered, casting long shadows across the carved edges of her desk. Stacks of scrolls waited in ordered piles, as they always did — but this evening, she was clearing the last few items with the tired efficiency of someone already counting down to rest.

A knock came around seven.
“Enter,” she said without glancing up.

Harry stepped in quietly.
McGonagall looked up, eyebrows lifting faintly. “Mr. Potter.”
“Professor,” he greeted with a respectful nod. “May I have a moment of your time?”
Her chair creaked softly as she leaned back, fingers interlaced. “Of course.”

Harry stepped forward. “I need to leave the castle tomorrow morning. There’s a formal matter I must attend to in Hogsmeade.”
Her eyes sharpened. “A formal matter?”
“I’ll be at the Three Broomsticks at ten. It’s business I must conduct in my capacity as Lord Potter. Private, but time-sensitive. It should take about two hours.”

He was informing her, not requesting. It was a subtle shift — but it carried weight.
McGonagall’s lips thinned in careful consideration. “You know I am obligated to record any student departure.”
“Of course,” Harry said calmly. “I trust you to handle the logs however is required. I’m not requesting an escort, and I will return before lunch.”

She tapped her fingers against the desk once. “I’m curious, Mr. Potter, though I know you’ll say little. Does this formal matter concern House alliances?”
“It concerns many things,” Harry replied, meeting her gaze. “But yes. That’s part of it.”

There was a long pause. Then a nod.
“You’re an adult in the eyes of wizarding law,” she said. “I can’t prevent you from going. I only ask that you remember how visible you’ve become lately, and how much weight your movements already carry.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Harry said. “That’s why I’m keeping this quiet.”
McGonagall’s face softened marginally, a thread of pride flickering in her eyes. “You’ve had a strong first week. Your work has been admirable in theory and practicals.”

She reached for her logbook and made a notation with her quill. “You are cleared to exit school grounds at nine-thirty. Return by noon unless otherwise required. I’ll alert the staff.”

Harry bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Professor.”
“Good luck, Mr. Potter,” she said, folding her hands atop the closed logbook. “Though something tells me you’ve already handled most of the difficult parts.”

The sky over the castle was pale blue washed with a faint morning haze. The stones of the courtyard still held the night's chill, but the sun was already warming the east-facing arches when Harry stepped through the front gates.

He stood quietly near the base of the steps. His black wool coat hung just long enough to brush the back of his boots, unadorned by crest or color. Beneath it, a dark vest fastened clean over charcoal trousers, both tailored with elegance.
His wand was not visible — but it never was anymore.
His eyes were sharp, his posture relaxed, and more than one student passing at a distance paused to glance twice.
The sound of measured footsteps echoed behind him.

Susan arrived first.
Her coat was cream and gold, tightly belted to accentuate her waist before flaring just slightly over her hips. She wore a dark green turtleneck dress beneath it, one that clung at the chest with no shame and invited appreciation without a single vulgar detail. Her thick red hair was braided and wrapped into a smooth crown over her head, regal and timeless. The pride in her stride was effortless.
She brushed a thumb along the lapel of Harry’s coat as she reached him. “You’re too good-looking for peace, you know,” she murmured.

Daphne descended the stairs next, each step placed with regality. She wore a blue-grey wrap coat, waist-tied, with calf-high boots and silver-accented gloves. Her platinum hair was twisted into a loose bun pinned with a polished clip that caught the sunlight. Under the coat, the outline of her frame left nothing to doubt.

The three of them stood a moment in formation, aligned without having to coordinate. To anyone watching from the castle windows — and there were plenty — it was a tableau of balance and power.

Susan leaned in closer and kissed the line of Harry’s jaw once. “She’ll ask you if you’re ready for this.”
Daphne smirked. “We’ll see if she’s ready for us.”

They began their walk toward the village. The gravel gave beneath their steps. The lake shimmered, quiet but ever-present at their side. No words were spoken for a moment, just the hush of late summer wind and the shared rhythm of their steps.

Halfway down the hill, Daphne murmured, “Didn’t sleep much last night.”
Harry looked sideways. “Nerves?”
“Need,” she replied, plainly and brutally. “I kept grinding into my pillow like it would give me your cock.”

Susan groaned, her tone half-mockery, half-broken. “Same. Dreamt I was riding you in the Hufflepuff common room, in front of everyone.”

Harry kept his gaze ahead, but the faintest twitch of amusement curved his lips. “You two do know we’re about to convince your guardians I’m a respectable choice, yes?”

Susan’s laugh was low and musical. “We’ll manage. It’s not like we’re going to climb you in the middle of the pub.”
Daphne snorted. “Unless Amelia starts grilling you too hard. Might need to distract her.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his arm found its way to Susan’s back. “Last-minute changes?”
“Stick to what we planned,” Daphne said smoothly. “Titles first. Keep the language formal, not grandiose. You’re here to assure them this isn’t an adolescent mess.”

“Which it isn’t,” Susan added, slipping her hand against his.
“Speak like a lord,” Daphne said. “But don’t posture. She’ll smell it. Bones respects precision.”
“And don’t let her intimidate you,” Susan said, voice low. “Even if she raises her voice or pushes hard. It’s just her test.”

Harry gave a single, small nod. “Got it.”
Hogsmeade rose before them, warm light spilling from early storefronts. Rosmerta’s pub had its shutters open already, and the smell of buttered scones mixed with firewhisky drifted out like a siren call.

Susan stopped him just before the door. “Seriously though,” she murmured, adjusting his collar again, “get through this clean and I swear I’ll ride your cock until you forget your own name.”
Daphne leaned in opposite her. “My ass is ready, Harry. It’s been too long. I’m wet just thinking about how you’ll stretch me again.”
Harry’s jaw tightened, the amusement flickering hotter. “You’re not helping.”
“That’s the point,” Susan purred. “It’s motivation.”

They stepped inside the Three Broomsticks.
Rosmerta, always sharp-eyed, gave them a flicker of curiosity before nodding silently toward the private room tucked behind the right-hand wall.

The private room at the back of the Three Broomsticks had been warded in advance.
Amelia Bones stood near the hearth, arms crossed, her cloak shedding faint traces of early morning chill.
A tea service was already set on the low table between two curved sofas, untouched. She had arrived early on purpose.
Harry stepped in first.

Their eyes met and Amelia’s face revealed nothing. It was the face of a woman who had interrogated Death Eaters, who had sat at three trials that ended in executions, and who now found herself playing guardian to a niece she loved more than anyone in the world.
“Lord Potter,” she said, not moving.
“Director Bones,” Harry returned calmly.
Susan slipped in beside him, Daphne a half step behind.

Amelia’s gaze flicked to her niece — noting the subtle handhold, the easy proximity — then shifted to Daphne, and lingered.
The bone-colored Greengrass crest pinned discreetly at the neck of her coat was not lost on her.
“You’re early,” Amelia said.
“We planned to be,” Harry replied. “It’s important.”

Before anything more could pass between them, the door opened once more. Lord Cygnus and Lady Calliope Greengrass entered like smoke, with an air of cultivated detachment.

Cygnus wore layered black robes marked by green threading at the cuffs — subtle signals of his status as a dominant voice in the Neutral Bloc.
His expression was aloof.
Calliope’s robes were deep midnight with hints of silver, her hair styled into a classical coil at the nape of her neck. Her face was cool, but alert.
She took in Harry with a single glance, then turned her attention to her daughter with a more sustained, evaluating look.
“Amelia,” Cygnus said evenly, offering a polite nod.
“Lord Greengrass,” Amelia replied. “Lady Calliope.”
Calliope nodded with equal reserve. “Director.”

There was a moment of rearrangement — jackets removed, seats taken, a hush settling with the clink of teacups being shifted.
Amelia remained standing.
“I appreciate you arriving promptly,” she said, addressing the room. “What we’re about to discuss is not a social matter. It is a legal one. And for my part, I intend to ask difficult questions.”

“We’re prepared for that,” Daphne said, her voice measured.
Susan gave a single nod. “We expected nothing less.”
Calliope raised an eyebrow, almost curiously. “You seem remarkably sure of yourselves.”

Harry answered before either of the girls could speak. “Because this isn’t a whim. It’s not a game. We’re here to formalize something we’ve all thought through, argued about, and committed to fully. That’s what we’re asking your approval for.”
Cygnus looked directly at him. “You’ll find I care less about tone, Lord Potter, and more about what you bring to the table. Confidence is fine. But this arrangement is not common.”
Amelia’s voice sharpened slightly. “Nor easily accepted.”
“And we don’t expect it to be,” Harry said. “But we do expect it to be understood.”

The air in the room tightened slightly with the subtle weight of power moving into place.
Cygnus turned his head. “Shall we begin?”
Amelia finally sat down, crossing her legs as she reached for a quill and blank parchment.
“Explain this to me,” she said, voice firm but not unkind. “A triad is highly irregular. It is not illegal, but it is unusual — politically, socially, and magically.”
She paused, then added flatly, “And it makes my job harder.”

Harry's posture remained collected, spine straight, hands resting lightly on his thighs. He met her eyes with calm.
“I didn’t pursue this out of rebellion or novelty,” he began. “Susan and Daphne are not accessories to a title, or partners of convenience. They are both people I love deeply and equally.”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed a touch. “Equally.”
Harry nodded once. “I don’t differentiate between them in affection, in loyalty, or in future. They aren’t rivals. They aren’t temporary. They are the only path forward I see — and I refuse to choose between them when the truth is that they chose me as much as I chose them.”

Cygnus folded his hands together, watching without speaking.
Susan leaned forward slightly, her voice clear but gentle. “We weren’t planning to speak of it. But if the concern is how real this is… then maybe we should.”
Amelia glanced at her sharply.

Daphne nodded to Susan and continued. “It didn’t begin this summer. Or even last year. We’ve been with each other since first year. We chose to keep it private, because people would’ve interfered. But this bond isn’t new.”

Susan’s eyes didn’t leave her aunt’s. “We built this slowly. Carefully. It’s never been some flash of teenage rebellion or infatuation. We’ve already been through years of choosing one another, every single day.”

A faint flicker crossed Calliope’s expression — surprise, perhaps, or recalculation.
Amelia’s face remained composed, but her voice dropped a fraction cooler.
“You’re seventeen.”

“Eighteen,” Harry corrected smoothly. “All three of us. Our age has no bearing on our maturity. And what we’ve endured — emotionally, magically — has forged us into something rare. The kind of rare that doesn’t crack under scrutiny. It won’t shatter under tradition or duress.”

Amelia studied him, her gaze a chisel trying to find fault in granite.
“And what of Susan’s future?” she asked, voice dipping in tone. “You want to bind her to a relationship that defies norms. Do you realize what people will say? What doors may close to her?”

“I do,” Harry said without flinching. “And I promise you this — any door that closes to Susan because of me will be one I break open myself. She will never lack opportunities, influence, or support. If anything, this bond strengthens her standing — as it does mine, and as it does Daphne’s.”

Amelia held silence for a beat too long.
“And how will you balance them?”
Harry tilted his head, eyes cool. “I already do. This isn’t a promise to be divided. It’s a promise to be whole. We move as one. That’s the foundation. There’s no negotiation on that.”

Calliope’s eyes flicked toward her husband, a shadow of interest sharpening her posture. Cygnus still hadn’t spoken — but now his expression registered something faintly resembling approval.

Amelia tapped the table once. “And if they ever disagree?”
“They won’t.” His voice remained calm. “Because we’re not three voices in a room. We’re a single bond, split across three people.”

Amelia raised her brows.
Harry didn’t blink. “And that bond has already proven itself. In private. In planning. In loyalty. We share decisions. We share burdens. We trust each other absolutely. That’s not theoretical — that’s our lived reality.”

Another silence followed, but this time it wasn’t filled with tension. It was filled with the weight of consideration.
Amelia finally exhaled. “Well then. I suppose we see if the girls feel the same.”

Amelia’s gaze shifted at last, moving from Harry to the girls seated beside him. Her posture remained unchanged, but the air in the room seemed to tilt — from pressure to scrutiny.

“Susan,” she said, voice a notch softer but no less direct, “do you understand what you’re proposing? What it means to bind your future to this young man — and to share him, openly and permanently?”

Susan didn’t even hesitate.
“I do,” she said plainly. “And I welcome it.”
Amelia’s eyes sharpened. “Why?”
“Because I’ve seen what it’s like to walk through life afraid — of rejection, of vulnerability, of not being enough. But with Harry and Daphne, I don’t have to fear any of that. I’m seen, loved, and understood.”

Her hand found Harry’s without flourish, resting against his palm like it belonged there. “We’re stronger because we love each other. Not despite it.”
Amelia turned toward Daphne.
“And you?”
Daphne expression was calm as she answered. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Her words were clear and steady. Measured like a line drawn in perfect ink.
“We’ve shared more than most people do in their lifetime. I’ve fought beside them, planned with them, and shared more truths than I ever thought I’d speak aloud. There is no jealousy between us, we share everything. It has been so from the beginning.”
Her chin lifted slightly. “We’re not confused teenagers chasing something thrilling. We made this choice with clarity. With eyes open.”

Amelia’s lips pressed together.
Cygnus stirred at last, speaking for the first time since sitting down. His voice was even.
“You would risk your name, your legacy, your independence — for this?”
Daphne glanced at her parents. “Yes.”
Calliope gave a faint hum.
“It is not often we hear a Greengrass heir speak so definitively,” she murmured.

Amelia folded her hands atop the table. “And if things grow hard? If the scrutiny turns vicious? The Prophet will tear into this. So will the Board. And don’t think Dumbledore won’t intervene quietly behind the scenes.”

“We expect it,” Susan said.
“We’re prepared for it,” Daphne added.
“And I don’t care,” Susan finished, voice quiet but diamond-hard. “So long as I have them, I’ll weather any storm.”
Amelia leaned back, the lines of her expression loosening fractionally. “You’ve rehearsed this.”
Daphne gave a dry smile. “No. We’ve lived it.”

The silence that followed was evaluative.
Amelia glanced between the two Greengrass and leaned back in her chair slightly, as if silently offering the floor.
Daphne took it without hesitation.
“We are not naïve,” she said, tone shifting from personal to political in a single breath. “This arrangement is irregular. The triad dynamic is almost extinct in wizarding Britain due to stigma. But it is also… unprecedented in opportunity.”

Cygnus’s eyebrows lifted by a fraction. He did not interrupt.
Daphne continued, poised.
“Harry James Potter is the Lord of House Potter and sole Heir to the House of Black. Together, these Houses represent centuries of accumulated wealth, land rights, political authority, and cultural presence across nearly every domain of magical society.”

Her gaze turned slightly toward Amelia. “Madam Bones, as Director of the DMLE and the political guardian of House Bones, you stand at the forefront of justice and enforcement. Your word carries weight in the Wizengamot. You have legal precedent and moral influence.”

Amelia said nothing, but her chin inclined.
Daphne’s attention turned back to her own parents. “And House Greengrass has long held the center of the Neutral Faction. Our strength lies in measured influence. Diplomacy. Tradition. Our reach is subtle, but undeniable.”
She paused. Just long enough.
“The alliance formed by this betrothal is stable and domineering. Potter and Black offer weight. Bones offers legitimacy. Greengrass offers strategy.”

Calliope’s eyes narrowed slightly in thought.
“We do not propose a romantic indulgence,” Daphne said coolly. “We propose a realignment of magical Britain's future. A triangle of houses that stabilizes three pillars — enforcement, neutrality, and inheritance. This is a political anchor during a time of global attention and volatile succession.”

Amelia’s fingers tapped once, slowly, on the table. But she was listening.
“If we do not formalize this, we risk exposure. Tabloid gossip. Interference from those who would see Harry’s legacy splintered before it matures.”

“And Dumbledore?” Cygnus said finally, his voice a silken razor.
“He will protest in whispers, not proclamations,” Daphne answered. “But he cannot act directly. Not against Amelia. Not against us. Not if we frame this as stability instead of subversion.”

It was chess board logic.
Susan folded her arms, adding quietly, “This is how we protect each other. Emotionally, politically and publicly.”
Daphne nodded once. “And by doing so, we fill the power vacuum Lucius Malfoy left behind with structure.”

Calliope’s eyes flicked again toward her husband, then toward Amelia.
The air was still laced with quiet tension, but the resistance had changed. It was no longer the disbelief of guardians confronted with a teenager’s rebellion — it had become the deliberation of allies weighing their next moves.

Susan saw it. And like always, she moved precisely when it mattered most.
She reached for her tea and took a quiet sip. Her posture was perfect and ladylike.
When she set the cup back down, her voice was light.
“There’s another layer to this,” she said, casting a glance toward Amelia that was both casual and pointed. “One that makes this triad a bit more… durable than most might assume.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Go on.”
Susan’s smile widened slightly — the kind that hinted at something more beneath the surface. “Harry isn’t just a symbol. Or a legacy. Or the echo of a name. He’s also… quite possibly the wealthiest wizard of his generation.”

Amelia didn’t blink, but her gaze sharpened.
Susan continued smoothly. “I don’t mean well-off. I don’t mean 'comfortable' in the way most pureblood scions are. I mean vastly beyond what most houses have ever managed, even at their peak.”

She turned her head slightly. “The Malfoy family has always flaunted itself as the paragon of wealth. But the Potter line, accumulated over centuries without dilution — and the Black inheritance that will soon pass into Harry’s hands — makes the Malfoys look like nouveau riche in comparison.”

Cygnus, to his credit, did not betray surprise. But his eyes flicked to Harry in a manner that, for once, betrayed the assessment of a banker rather than a father.
Calliope, however, blinked.
“How much…?”

Susan held her hand up. “We don’t speak numbers here. But I will say this: no Wizengamot motion, no academic investment, no social charity can be enacted without Lord Potter’s funding becoming a critical variable.”

Harry finally spoke. “Which is why I’ve done nothing with it — yet. Because influence used without credibility is just noise.”
Amelia exhaled once through her nose, but her expression had changed. It wasn’t awe. It was calculation. Respect.

Susan’s eyes sparkled, but her smile had vanished. “It means no one can dismiss this union as frivolous. No one can claim Harry isn’t a provider. And no one can pretend that standing against us comes without cost.”

Cygnus finally reached for his tea cup to lift it faintly before sipping.
It was a gesture of acknowledgment.
Amelia, after a long pause, leaned forward again and folded her hands.
“Well,” she said quietly, “you’ve certainly done your homework.”

The air settled into something more official. The atmosphere of a deal nearing conclusion. All questions had been asked. All arguments laid bare. There was no more maneuvering now. Only commitment.

Amelia reached into the interior pocket of her robe and withdrew a scroll bound in indigo ribbon. Its seal bore the Bones crest, waxed clean and unmarred.

At the same time, Calliope produced a narrower scroll from a side satchel — this one tied in deep hunter green, the Greengrass crest pressed into silver wax. She slid it across the table with grace.

Rosmerta entered just then—perfectly timed as always—balancing a tray with a light clink of glass — six tumblers and an old bottle of Ogden’s Reserve Firewhisky. She placed them down with the respect owed to a room charged with legacy, and departed without comment.

Amelia broke the seal on her scroll with a practiced thumb and unrolled it carefully. As she pressed it flat to the table, a soft shimmer of magic rose from the parchment — an authentication layer woven into the document.
“Witnessed and notarized,” she said plainly. “By Department protocol and my seal.”
Lord Cygnus Greengrass unrolled his scroll next, revealing an identical shimmer.
“Verified and counter-sealed,” he confirmed.

These were not parents indulging their children. These were stewards of ancient names, executing decisions with generational consequence.

Harry reached into his own coat and retrieved a third scroll — this one bound in crimson and gold. He unrolled it beside the others, aligning all three.
Calliope conjured a quill with a flick of her wand. The feather glimmered faintly with gold-trimmed veins.

Daphne took it first.
“I, Daphne Lyra Greengrass,” she said clearly, her voice measured and elegant, “commit my name and future to Lord Harry James Potter, and bind myself willingly to the triadic bond here formed.”
She signed.

Susan took the quill next. “I, Susan Catherine Bones, of House Bones, likewise commit my name and future to Lord Harry James Potter, and enter this triadic bond with full clarity, agency, and intent.”
She signed.

Harry took it last. “I, Harry James Potter, of House Potter and Heir of House Black, bind myself wholly to Daphne Lyra Greengrass and Susan Catherine Bones — in affection, alliance, and magical parity. I swear equal devotion to both, and take full responsibility for their future safety and honor.”
He signed.
The magic sealed itself with a hush, like a door locking into place.

Amelia reached for her tumbler and lifted it slowly. “To legacy, then.”
Lord Cygnus followed. “To wisdom.”
Calliope raised hers as well. “And to strength.”

Harry lifted his glass last, flanked by both girls.
“To all of it,” he said.
They drank.
The firewhisky burned like something ancient passing through them all.

After a moment, Amelia stood, as did the others.
Cygnus offered a stiff nod that almost passed for familial approval, and Calliope kissed Daphne’s cheek with the grace of an aristocrat acknowledging a contract well chosen.
Susan met her aunt’s eyes, and though no words passed, something in Amelia’s stance softened. Just a fraction.

Rosmerta appeared at the door, eyes sharp as ever. “Room’s clear for another hour if you’d like it.”
Harry offered a slight smile. “Thank you, Madam Rosmerta. We’ll take a minute.”

After saying their goodbyes, the guardians stepped past them, into the front of the pub.
And then, at last, the three of them were alone.

Susan pressed a soft kiss on Harry’s lips. “You were magnificent.”
Daphne kissed his jaw. “I’ve never been prouder.”
Harry’s voice was low. “Now we make it real.”

They then left, together, into a world that didn’t yet know what had just happened behind that sealed door.
No announcement would be made today.
But something irreversible had just begun.

The trees beyond Hogsmeade were quiet this late in the morning as the trio made their way back toward the castle.

Harry didn’t speak as they veered off the path. He felt Susan’s hand slide down his arm, and Daphne’s palm press into the small of his back with a possessiveness that needed no clarification. They guided him like predators who’d waited long enough.

When they reached the slight dip behind a cluster of old trees, Susan pulled them.
“Here,” she said simply, her voice low and urgent. She reached for his collar and yanked him in for a kiss that was all heat and hunger, her tongue plunging without restraint. Daphne joined a second later, hands moving over his back as she pressed herself to his other side.

Harry chuckled against Susan’s mouth, though it came out more as a growl.
“You two aren’t subtle.”
“We just signed our names to your cock in front of our parents,” Daphne whispered, biting lightly at his earlobe. “Now we’re collecting the down payment.”

Susan dropped to her knees first, her coat spreading open. She didn't bother undoing the buttons — she simply reached above it and yanked her dress down from the neck. Her breasts spilled free, high and full, nipples already hard from arousal.
“Get it out,” she murmured.

Daphne followed suit, kneeling on the other side, her coat already parting like silk. She tugged her blouse open from the middle, unfastening it with swift movements. Her breasts, almost as large as Susan’s and perfectly shaped, greeted the world with a jiggle.
“I want it between us,” she said, voice thick.

Harry unfastened his trousers and let his cock spring free — half-hard and rising quickly. Susan’s breath hitched.
“Fuck, I love this cock,” she whispered. “and It belongs to us now. Officially.”
Daphne grinned, her hands already wrapping around his shaft. “You’re not getting out of this clean, Harry. Not after that speech. Not after binding yourself to two hungry witches.”

Harry didn’t argue.
They leaned in together, pressing their breasts on either side of his shaft, and began stroking in tandem.
Susan’s were warm and plush, sliding smoothly against the base. Daphne’s were firmer, tauter, pressing in tight from above.

They moved in rhythm — their chests pressing and releasing as they trapped him between their bodies. Susan spat once between her globes and spread it down his length, just enough slickness to smooth the friction. Daphne followed her lead with a kiss to the tip, letting it smear her lips before plunging her mouth halfway down.

Harry hissed. His fingers knotted into Susan’s hairs as she leaned forward and flicked her tongue against his shaft.
Daphne pulled off with a pop and locked eyes with her. “Ready?”

Susan nodded.
Together, they leaned in and took turns. One would suck the head, swirling her tongue, while the other stroked the base with her breasts and hand. They switched seamlessly. They didn’t fight for control. They shared him — like they always did.

Harry looked down at the two of them, heads bobbing in tandem, red and platinum hair spilling like spilled magic over his hips and thighs. Their mouths were wet, open and greedy. Their tits pressed together like a perfect vise, warm and slick, clamping around his cock while they licked and kissed the exposed part between them.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice strained. “You two… you’re obscene.”
Daphne looked up, eyes gleaming. “You love it.”

Susan licked up the underside of his cock and let her lips hover against his head. “We’re not your good girls anymore, Harry. We’re your betrothed. Your sluts. Your future. You don’t get to cum without one of us taking it inside one of our holes.”

They doubled down.
Daphne leaned forward and cupped his balls, massaging them. Her other hand cupped the underside of her own breasts, pushing them tighter against his cock. Susan sealed her mouth around his head and moaned, letting her throat hum as she took him in deeper. Her spit coated the top half of his shaft now, mixing with their sweat and the faint sheen of slickness already running down Daphne’s chest.

Harry’s hands found the back of their heads.
“Merlin,” he ground out. “I’m close.”

Neither girl stopped.
Susan released him with a soft pop. “In our mouths,” she whispered.
Harry didn’t last another ten seconds.

With a groan that echoed through clenched teeth, he came — spurting hot and hard, the first shot painting Susan’s lips and chin, the second splashing across Daphne’s tongue as she sucked the tip, drawing out every pulse. They didn’t stop. They drank him down in turns, lips meeting around his shaft to lap at the remaining drops as they trailed down the sides.

When he finally sagged backward, catching himself against a tree, they didn’t move away.
Susan turned toward Daphne, eyes half-lidded, and leaned in. Their lips met — slowly and obscenely.
They kissed deeply, tongues sliding against each other, sharing the taste of him like a treat.

Harry watched this erotic display, panting.
His cock twitched again.
Daphne pulled back just enough to whisper, “We’re not done with you.”

Susan smirked, licking a streak of cum off her thumb. “But we’ll save it for later.”
They stood together, smoothing their coats and knees, buttoning slowly. Their nipples still peeked through fabric slightly — unapologetically. Daphne leaned in for one last kiss on his jaw while Susan adjusted his collar.
“Ready to face the castle, Lord Potter?” Daphne asked, voice rich with promise.
Harry exhaled through a smile. “We'll see.”

Daphne looped her arm through his left. Susan took his right. Their coats were mostly tidy again — mostly. Daphne’s shirt was still misbuttoned by a notch, and Susan hadn’t bothered to wipe away the faint gleam on her jawline.
She wore it like warpaint.

The late morning light filtered through the thinning leaves, warming their skin as they moved slowly back up the slope toward the castle.

Daphne spoke first. “We need to plan where we’ll fuck once the ritual’s complete.”
Harry’s throat gave a quiet sound that could’ve been a laugh. “You’re already planning that?”
Susan scoffed. “You say it like we haven’t been planning it since we came back.”
Harry glanced between them, lips twitching. “I’m starting to feel like I'm being hunted.”
“You are,” they both said at once.

The castle loomed closer, the courtyard just coming into view over the crest of the hill. They slowed again, eyes drifting to the windows above.
They stepped back onto the cobblestone path, faces composed. The front steps awaited.

And Hogwarts had no idea what was coming.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the Three Broomsticks meeting.
A week since the scrolls were signed, since blood and magic had sealed their bond in the eyes of the law.

The news hadn’t been announced, but Hogwarts already knew. The rumor mill moved on whispers, and whispers had never needed proof.
It was in the way Daphne held Harry’s hand openly as they walked through the Great Hall. The way Susan kissed his cheek before slipping into the Hufflepuff bench.
The way both girls stopped pretending they were anything less than obsessed with him — and he, in turn, stopped pretending he was above adoration.

The trio walked the halls in unity, drawing awe and jealousy in equal measure. They didn’t flaunt.
Their bond was self-evident.

Outside the Potions classroom, the corridor was lined with cold stone and tension. The first double lesson of the year — Slytherin and Gryffindor, as always.

Daphne stood at Harry’s side with one hand tucked loosely into the crook of his arm. She was affectionate — sweet, even. Her smile was soft, and her posture leaned into his like they’d grown up walking this way.
She brushed a bit of dust from the shoulder of his uniform, fingers delicate, eyes tracing his features as she spoke about some dry detail of the lesson they were about to endure. 

Across the corridor, eyes flicked toward them like moths to flame.
Pansy Parkinson’s lips were tight, jaw clenched so hard it looked like a hex had locked it there.
Millicent Bulstrode didn’t bother pretending. She watched with frank disdain, muttering something under her breath as if the sheer existence of affection offended her.
Blaise Zabini remained aloof, though his gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Theo Nott arched a brow like he was watching a mating ritual he didn’t quite understand but was too curious to look away from.

On the Gryffindor side, the expressions were rougher and less controlled.
Dean Thomas tried not to stare but failed, his eyes flicking between Daphne’s easy smile and the way Harry leaned just slightly toward her.
Lavender Brown was whispering furiously to Parvati, who looked like she’d missed a chance and wasn’t sure whether to cry or rage.
Seamus let out a slow whistle when Daphne laughed softly at something Harry whispered in her ear.
Neville Longbottom stood a few steps behind them, arms folded awkwardly across his chest. His eyes followed Harry with something between resentment and longing.
He said nothing, but the set of his jaw betrayed it all.

Hermione Granger sat on the floor near the wall, cross-legged. She had her Potions book open across her knees, flipping pages too fast to be absorbing anything.
Her lips moved silently as she tried to rehearse instructions, but the furrow in her brow deepened with each line.
She didn’t look up once.

Then there was Ron.
Ron Weasley leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed and a sour scowl painted across his pale, freckled face. His robes hung looser than before. He was shorter now.
At least two inches shorter than he'd been when he arrived two weeks ago. His shoulders had narrowed, his skin looked sallow in the torchlight, and the freckles on his face seemed more pronounced.

He hadn’t said much about it.
Madam Pomfrey had kept him overnight last Tuesday. The diagnosis had come back wrapped in vague phrases: magical exhaustion, chronic imbalance, a biological adaptation to reduced internal flow.
The mediwitch didn’t have a term for it yet, but she’d scribbled something in her notes about arcane regression . His magic hadn’t just faded — it had recoiled.

Ron didn’t understand it. No one did. But the loss hadn’t humbled him.
If anything, it had made him louder.
“They’re not even subtle anymore,” he muttered, voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby Gryffindors to hear. “Sickening. Like we’re all meant to swoon over Greengrass and her prize stud .”

Dean glanced toward him, then back at the couple. “They’re just holding hands.”
Ron scoffed. “She’s playing him. Can’t you see it? Girls like that — it’s all about the legacy. She’s got her claws on him because he’s got the name. Bet she fakes every moan.”

Parvati turned sharply. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you, Weasley.”
“I’m not jealous,” Ron snapped. “I’m just not blind. Potter’s lost the plot. Hanging off some Slytherin tart and thinking it makes him clever.”

Ron pushed off the wall, stepping forward as if to bait Harry directly. “You think this makes you look powerful, mate? Walking around like some bloody prince?”
The corridor stilled.
Half the Slytherins turned. Dean muttered, “Bloody hell,” under his breath.

Then—
“ Inside. ”
The voice sliced through the air like a blade.
Severus Snape stood at the far end of the corridor, robes billowing behind him like a curse still gathering power. His black eyes were fixed directly on Ron.

Ron flinched but tried to cover it with a glare.
Snape moved forward and as he reached the middle of the corridor, his eyes passed over Ron, then Lavender, then Blaise — but when they landed on Harry, they didn’t move. The faintest curl touched the corner of his mouth. 

“Inside,” Snape said again, voice thick with disdain. “Let’s not pretend this year will be any different.”
Then he turned his back and swept into the classroom without another word.
The door remained open and the students filed in.

Daphne leaned toward Harry just before crossing the threshold and kissed Harry’s cheek. “You know he’s going to try to provoke you.”
Harry’s eyes didn’t leave the classroom door. “His funerals.”
They stepped inside.

The dungeon was already cold. Always was. But today, it felt colder — like the torches themselves were holding their fire in anticipation.

Desks lined the long stone chamber in the same fixed order they had for decades: Slytherins on the left, Gryffindors on the right. The front wall was bare except for a dusty blackboard, before which Snape now stood silently, eyes scanning his prey.

Students filtered in with the same nervous energy that always accompanied this class.
Most knew by now that they weren’t here to learn.
They were here to survive.

Harry entered with Daphne beside him. Her posture was relaxed and her hand was brushing against his as they walked toward the center row. She chose their seat with the same ease she’d chosen her boots that morning.

Lavender Brown tracked them with narrowed eyes, lips pressed tight in envy. Parvati leaned toward her immediately, whispering something beneath her breath.
Across the room, Pansy Parkinson’s expression curdled into something between contempt and disbelief. Theodore Nott watched without blinking.

Snape’s gaze followed Harry and Daphne for a few seconds before he turned his attention elsewhere.
The dungeon door shut behind the last straggler with an echoing thud.
He stepped forward. His black robes moved like trailing smoke.
His expression was stoic, but his eyes had already begun their quiet scan of the room.

The torches lining the damp stone walls dimmed with a flick of his wand, enough to tint the space a little darker, a little less forgiving.
“Welcome,” Snape said without ceremony, “to another year of Potions.”

His gaze landed on the Gryffindor side first.
Dean Thomas — too stiff. Ron Weasley — already nudging Seamus with a shrug, his satchel half open and his ink bottle teetering dangerously on the edge of the desk.
Lavender and Parvati had turned their heads as if dreading to be addressed by name.

Snape’s lip curled.
“I see the summer has done nothing to repair the abysmal habits of certain houses,” he said silkily. “Optimism, it seems, remains a stubborn affliction.”

Some of the Slytherins smirked.
Seamus blinked at Ron, then reached to steady his ink bottle before it could tip. Neville Longbottom hunched over his notes with a pinched expression, pretending he hadn’t heard a word.

Snape let the silence stretch a moment longer. Then, his gaze swept the entire room in a single motion. When he spoke again, his voice was louder, but no less precise.
“Let me be clear. You will not float through this year on the fumes of reputation, fame, or”—his eyes paused, directly on Harry—“a public liaison.”

Several heads turned. A few glances darted between Harry and Daphne.
Harry didn’t respond. Daphne, seated beside him, was already arranging her parchment and ink with practiced care, ignoring the bait as if it hadn’t existed. Her posture was elegant and her movements were smooth. 

Snape continued. “Those of you who believe yourselves above scrutiny will discover the dungeons offer no pedestal.”

His words hung in the air for a beat. Then, with a controlled flick of his wand, the blackboard came alive behind him.

Lesson: Advanced Variant – Elixir of Clarity (Dueling Grade)
Required: Precision. Awareness. Control.
Deadline: 50 minutes. No excuses.

“The elixir you will attempt today,” Snape drawled, turning slowly to face the room, “is designed to accelerate the mind’s natural pathways: reaction speed, focus and resistance to panic.”
He glanced toward Neville. “Some of you may need triple doses just to function at an ordinary level.”
Neville’s face reddened. 

Snape kept walking as supplies began to levitate down from the wall cabinets in perfect rows. Cauldrons flared to life. Ingredient trays landed in place with soft clinks of glass.

Each pair received their set — flamegrass root, powdered scarab, hellebore, and valerian extract.
Harry’s tray landed with a dull clunk.
Daphne was already inspecting it.
The hellebore was pale. The scarab wasn’t powdered. The valerian extract? Cloudy and tainted.

Harry adjusted the heatstone under their cauldron by two degrees and reached for his scale.
Daphne murmured just loud enough for him to hear. “It has always been worse at the start of the year.”
“He’s petty,” Harry replied. “And predictable.”

The room began to bustle — knives tapping, pestles grinding, burners flickering.
Meanwhile, Snape stalked between rows.

He paused beside Dean and Seamus.
“Finnigan,” he said, voice frosty, “try not to explode anything before you’ve added your first drop. That would be a record, even for you.”
Seamus’s jaw clenched.
“Thomas,” Snape added, “perhaps you’d like to remind your partner which direction is clockwise.”'

He moved on.
Passed Hermione — who looked up expectantly, only to be dismissed with a sneer — and stopped at Ron’s desk.

Ron was halfway through slicing his root, and it showed.
“Mr. Weasley,” Snape said smoothly, “have you ever considered practicing before class? Or are you under the impression that slashing wildly is the same as technique?”
Ron looked up. “It’s just a root—”
“It was a root,” Snape cut in. “Now it’s pulp.”
He turned. “Five points from Gryffindor.”
Ron gaped. “What?”
Snape kept walking. “For murdering your materials before they had a chance to fail on their own.”

Across the room, several Slytherin students chuckled quietly.
Snape arrived at the central bench.
Harry didn’t look up.

Daphne was grinding scarab shell into fine dust. Her movements were smooth and precise.
Snape stood still.
“Sabotaged again, Mr. Potter?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who sent the ingredients.”
A flicker passed behind Snape’s eyes. “Sarcasm already. We’re not even fifteen minutes in.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Tell me — is Miss Greengrass also responsible for your essays, or just your potions?”
Daphne didn’t look up. “I’m responsible for what matters. He can handle the rest.”

Snape smirked.
“How noble,” he murmured. “Standing by your project.”
Harry’s spoon clicked softly against the cauldron rim as he set it down.
“I thought this was a classroom,” he said. “Not a stage for whatever personal problems you haven’t dealt with.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“Ten points,” he said coldly. “From Gryffindor.”
Harry didn’t react.
Snape’s voice sharpened. “For disrespect and your inability to shut your mouth.”
He turned on his heel, cloak sweeping behind him as he resumed his slow prowl around the classroom.

The students went back to their work, the tension clinging to the air like smoke.
Harry and Daphne's cauldron was now boiling in a steady, even spiral — potion perfectly stabilized despite every obstacle he’d laid.
Daphne added the root extract, and counted out loud. “One… two… three…”
The brew brightened.
“Beautiful,” Harry murmured.
She smiled faintly.

Snape’s voice drifted back from behind them, smooth and cutting.
“Of course it’s beautiful. When someone else does the work, it’s easy to pretend you belong.”
Harry didn’t look up. He was measuring scarab powder, tapping the rim of the spoon in a steady rhythm.
The grains were still uneven — slightly moisture-damaged, he put it aside.
His reply came softly, almost lazily.
“You say that like you need it to be true.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty points.”
Daphne, who was grinding hellebore, didn’t miss a beat. “For what, exactly?”

Snape didn’t answer.
Harry added a half-drop of valerian and tilted the cauldron to re-center the flame.
“Must be difficult,” he said, softly, “grading students when you’ve already decided who deserves to fail.”

A few heads turned.
Snape’s lip curled. “Thirty.”
Harry glanced at him briefly. “You always go for the numbers. Is that what gives you the high? Watching students bleed?”
Snape leaned in, voice like poison. “Careful, Potter.”
Harry’s voice remained calm. “You keep saying that. But never ‘correct.’ Never ‘well-reasoned.’ Just ‘careful.’ Like we’re not supposed to notice what you’re doing.”

Daphne sat down, and picked up her quill to jot down a few notes on her parchment.
Snape took another step closer.
“You want to prove something, Potter?” he asked. “Or are you just trying to impress the girl next to you?”
Harry smiled faintly, eyes still on the brew. “I don’t need to impress her.”
“Then what is this?” Snape asked, voice low but sharp. “Your little rebellion? Another performance?”
“No,” Harry said simply. “A performance needs an audience. You’re the only one still watching.”

Zabini looked up, blinked, and resumed measuring. Hermione’s quill slowed its scratching.
Across the room, Dean murmured something under his breath that Seamus elbowed him for.

Snape straightened. “Forty points from Gryffindor.”
Harry flicked the stirrer clean. “You should pace yourself. You’ll run out before we finish the potion.”
Snape exhaled sharply through his nose. His wand-hand twitched but stayed down.
“I will not tolerate this—”
Harry tilted his head slightly. “Then don’t start it.”
Snape blinked.
Daphne added, almost gently, “We're still mid-potion, sir. Maybe let us finish before you fail us.”
Snape turned his eyes on her.
"I expected better judgment in choosing your associations, Miss Greengrass."

The cauldron began its first shimmer — unstable, not yet correct. Harry adjusted the flame, gently rotated the base, and tapped the bottom twice. It calmed immediately.
Snape watched it settle, jaw flexing.
Harry reached for the final ingredient to pour in the brewing and inspected it.
The powdered scarab was still too coarse and uneven, so he resumed grinding. 

He didn’t look up as Snape’s voice returned, lower this time.
“Curious,” Snape said, “how even now, Potter can’t finish a potion without someone else cleaning the mess.”

The grinding stone in Harry’s hand paused for one beat, then resumed without a word.
Snape leaned forward slightly, just close enough that the Slytherins could hear him and the Gryffindors could pretend they didn’t.
“Perhaps it runs in the family,” he murmured. “Your father had the same affliction. He needed others to keep his work from unraveling. Couldn’t stay within the lines.”

Harry set the powder aside. His hand moved to the stirrer with poise.
“When a man repeats himself like you do, it’s either because he’s forgotten what he said,” Harry glanced at Snape. “or because he’s hoping that the target will forget how little it mattered the first time.”
Snape straightened. “You think that line disarms me?”
“No,” Harry replied. “I think it already did.”
Daphne’s quill didn’t falter, but a faint shiver traced its way down her spine.

Snape’s robes rustled as he stepped back.
This time, he didn’t walk away in a huff, he returned to the front of the room in total silence — thinking.
That was worse, the class knew it and held its breath.

The silence following Snape’s retreat lingered longer than the simmer of cauldrons would explain.
He stood at the front, his arms at his sides but the tension in his shoulders had returned. More focused this time. 

Then, without a preamble, he spoke again.
“Interesting, isn’t it,” Snape said, his voice returning to that low, cutting timbre, “how some legacies seem determined to echo their worst traits.”
Harry didn’t look up, so Snape pressed on.
“Arrogance passed down like an heirloom. The belief that rules are flexible when you carry the right name.”

The class wasn’t bustling anymore. Most had slowed their brewing rhythm to listen — pretending to focus on cutting or measuring, but ears angled toward the front. Even Draco, hunched over his workstation, seemed to have paused his mixing.

Snape stepped forward again, two paces from the chalkboard.
“Your father,” he said clearly, “was not the man your bedtime stories promised you. He was a reckless child propped up by louder ones. His skill was average. His ethics were absent. His legacy,” Snape’s voice sharpened, “is a noise without music.”

Harry stirred twice, then lifted his eyes.
He didn’t speak right away, but when he did, his tone was clinical.
“That’s a strange thing to say,” he replied, “for someone who’s dedicated most of his adult life to arguing with the echo.”

Snape’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t argue,” he said coldly. “I correct myths.”
Harry tilted his head. “Is that what you call it? Correction? Sounded more like projection earlier. But maybe I misheard.”

Daphne’s quill scratched a little too loudly once while marking a note at the edge of the recipe. Her face didn’t move, but she was listening with more attention than she showed.

Snape didn’t respond to Harry, at least not directly.
He turned halfway to the class.
“You all sit here in uniform rows,” he said, “as if your presence alone suggests worth. As if your names, your robes, your bloodlines excuse you from rigor.”

His eyes swept the room as he moved toward the center. “You’ve spent too many years mistaking proximity to power for power itself. The dungeons are not the Great Hall. Here, legacy does not insulate you.”
He reached Harry’s table, turned on his heel, and added coldly. “Especially not yours, Potter.”

Harry smiled faintly.
“I’ll let my potion speak for itself then.”
Snape took a single step closer.
“And if it fails?”
“Then I’ll take the mark. That’s what accountability means, isn’t it?”

Snape leaned in. His voice dropped just enough to make the next line intimate and brutal.
“Tell me,” he said softly, “do you enjoy playing your father’s ghost? Or is this the only act you’re capable of — echoing a man who never earned the robes he wore?”

Harry brushed the powder into the basin with the flat of his knife, wiped the edge clean with a cloth, then looked up.
“That ghost,” he said calmly, “walked lighter once the weight you stole was returned.”

The words hit clean.
Snape froze. It was half a second, maybe less, but the room caught it.
The students, who didn’t understand the reference, felt the drop in temperature.
Daphne’s quill scratched harder on the parchment.

Snape’s mouth thinned. “Cryptic nonsense.”
Harry shrugged lightly. “I find clarity tends to sound cryptic to those allergic to it.”

Daphne moved, just slightly — her sleeve brushing the vial tray as she tilted the heatstone one degree left. Their potion shimmered and caught the light. It was stable. Despite the inferior ingredients, it was one of the best brews in the room so far.

Snape’s eyes flicked down at it.
Then he spoke again, voice more clipped now, sharpened to a finer edge.
“You think clever lines make you clever.”
“I think they make you uncomfortable,” Harry replied.

Snape narrowed his eyes.
“You strut through these halls as if you own them — all voice and posture — as if that alone makes you powerful.”
Harry’s gaze held steady.
“Power isn’t loud,” he said quietly. “It’s measured by what remains standing after the noise fades.”
Snape blinked once.
Harry’s voice dropped half a note. “I thought Potions still taught fundamentals.”

This time, Lavender laughed under her breath. Parvati elbowed her, but she didn’t look annoyed.
Snape stood still for a few seconds.
“Confidence without capacity is just arrogance in dress robes.”
Harry leaned back.
“Then it’s lucky I’ve long outgrown the ones stitched for me.” Harry said.
He looked away from Snape and began stirring the brew.

Another shift in the room. Seamus’s quill paused mid-stroke. Even Hermione — who hadn’t looked up once — stopped flipping her book.
Daphne turned back to her parchment, jotting down a few more notes on the report.
Snape’s hand flexed.
It was the first involuntary movement since the duel of words began.

He stood over their table, gaze drifting between the potion’s steady swirl, Harry’s precise movements, and Daphne’s clear, composed report.
“So this is what passes for potential these days,” he sneered. “A Greengrass wasting her effort on someone too busy playing the part of a noble icon to do his own work.”

Snape’s voice dipped lower, coiled with disdain. “You may want to reconsider your betrothal, Miss Greengrass. Influence matters — and Potter has always been corrosive, arrogant and insufferable. Just like his father.”

The room quieted even further.
Harry didn’t look up from the potion he was stirring.
When he finally spoke, his voice was clear and unhurried.
“You always return there,” Harry said. “James Potter. Like clockwork.”

Snape’s nostrils flared.
Harry didn’t glance his way. “You’re not attacking me. You’re still fighting a schoolboy rivalry from more than twenty years in the past, hoping if you dig deep enough, you’ll find him instead of me. But he’s dead. And I’m not him.”
“You mistake tone for wisdom, Potter.”
Harry inclined his head, unbothered.
“And you mistake aggression for authority. And yet, here we are.”

Snape opened his mouth, but Harry continued, voice still level.
“You say I strut. That I think I own the Halls. But the only person I see desperate to be noticed is you.”

Harry went on, his voice cutting through the deathly silence of the room.
“You billow your cape into rooms like it’s a stage direction,” Harry said, tone sharp now. “You speak like you’re narrating a monologue — every pause pregnant with your own sense of importance. You drawl like the world moves too slow for you. As if we’re all insects and you’re doing us the favor of stepping around us instead of on us.”

Harry finally raised his eyes to meet Snape’s.
“You don’t teach. You perform. You stalk the aisles like a hawk sniffing for weakness, never to help or do your duty, but to mock. You change ingredients, thinking we won’t catch it. You sabotage our work, then blame us for the results. You call it rigor. You call it discipline. But it’s just sadism dressed up in academic robes.”

Snape’s lips parted, the beginning of a response on his tongue.
Harry didn’t give him the chance.
“You think that makes you a teacher? It doesn’t. It makes you a coward.”

His voice never rose. The words cut just fine without volume.
“You abuse the one field where most students have no prior experience. Where we have to trust your expertise. Where mistakes are dangerous. And instead of building confidence, you trade it for fear and control.”

The potion shimmered into its proper phase — gleaming silver with no residue.
Stable and flawless.
“You’ve spent years bullying children for not knowing what only you can teach them in this classroom. You hold your advantage like a dagger and act like you're the wounded one.”

Snape took a half-step forward, but Harry continued unbothered.
“You accuse me of arrogance,” he said. “But what’s more arrogant than failing every single year to inspire respect and still pretending you're some misunderstood genius?”

There was a soft noise from Lavender — a sound between a gasp and a stifled breath. Daphne hunched forward slightly.

Harry’s voice dropped half a notch. “If you were half the Potion Master you claim to be, why is your name never spoken outside of this classroom? Why do none of your works appear in scholarly journals? Why don’t we study ‘Snape’s Theorem’ or ‘Snape’s Reagent Law’ or ‘Snape’s Stabilization Curve’?”

The potion bubbled, then clarified. Perfect.
“You claim the title of ‘master’ but where’s the legacy? Nicholas Flamel. Damocles Belby. Arsenius Jigger. Zygmunt Budge. Even a retired potion professor of Hogwarts named Slughorn left something behind.
But you? What’s your mark on this field?”

Snape’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
Harry’s gaze held steady. “There’s nothing. Because you never built anything. You tear down. That’s all. You think you’re feared. You’re not. You’re resented. And the worst part? You earned it.”

Snape’s jaw worked furiously, as if trying to chew down a scream. He took two steps forward, voice raised now — brittle, cracking.
“You insufferable—”
“Still not a defense,” Harry cut in. “Still not a counter. It’s rage, again. You call this a classroom, but the only lesson you’ve ever taught is how not to be a man.”
A gasp rippled through the room as Harry carefully poured the potion into a waiting vial.

After a long while, Snape's voice sliced through the heavy quiet like a lash.
“Your mother would be ashamed of what you’ve become. Arrogant. Directionless. The spawn of a legacy you’ll never live up to.”
He didn’t say her name, but the meaning struck like a curse. It was the first time he’d ever spoken of Lily Potter in front of Harry, and it wasn’t to mourn her or honor her memory. It was to stab Harry where he thought it would cut deepest.
It was meant to wound. It was meant to end the conversation.

Harry stood up from the table while calmly sealing the vial, then he met Snape’s eyes expressionlessly.
“You know,” Harry said quietly — but it wasn’t the young man who had entered the classroom speaking now. It was the hardened time-walker, the man who remembered everything they tried to take. “You sound so sure of what she would have felt. So certain about the stories you spun to survive yourself.”
The tone wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t forgiving either.
“It’s strange how the people who claim the deepest grief,” he continued, “are often the ones who ignore the clearest truth when it’s right in front of them.”

Snape’s gaze narrowed. Something in the line of his jaw tensed in recognition. It was not the words alone, but the weight behind them, the knowing.
The memory of ink written in a hand he was never meant to see.

Harry went on, his voice cold as steel. “But then again,” he said, “some truths weren’t meant for everyone. And some pages weren’t meant to be turned by the hands that opened them.”
Daphne’s eyes didn’t shift, but her quill had stilled above her parchment. She understood.
Snape did too.

Harry looked deeply at him now, and though he didn’t smile, the calm in his expression made the next line sound like a blade’s edge.
“So when you speak of shame, Professor, I’d be careful. You’ve already read what she actually thought. You just didn’t like it.”

Snape’s breath hitched. He knew exactly what Harry meant — the truth he’d buried under years of denial. Lily’s real thoughts, written in her own hand, laid bare the man he truly was. And now, Harry had ripped that wound wide open.
His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. His wand hand clenched slightly. His composure strained like a bowstring stretched to its breaking point.

And then it snapped.
“Two hundred points from Gryffindor!” he barked, the words erupting so violently they echoed off the stone walls.
The class jolted. Seamus cursed under his breath, and Lavender gasped aloud. Even Draco flinched at the volume.

Snape was shaking.
“For insolence,” he snarled, “for arrogance beyond measure, and for poisoning this room with your grotesque self-importance.”
“Brilliant,” Harry said. “Take them all. Maybe if you steal enough from others, you’ll feel like something yourself.”
“Detention." Snape shouted. "For the rest of the term. Every Saturday. Every Wednesday. Every single one.”

Harry hoisted his satchel onto his shoulder.
“No.” He said, voice flat. “I don’t recognize your authority as a professor. And I’m not staying in a class that disguises abuse as education.”

Daphne stood silently beside him. She smoothed her skirt and adjusted her sleeve.
Then she flicked her wand and vanished the potion.
“You don’t deserve our work,” she said.

Snape’s eyes snapped to her. “You will both sit down.”
Harry started walking toward the door.
“I don’t take orders from men who betray the very duties they’re sworn to uphold.”
“You think you can defy my authority?” Snape hissed.
“I already have.”

The classroom felt frozen — even the torches were holding their breath.
Daphne crossed to the door and opened it without flourish. Harry followed, and neither looked back.
“POTTER!” Snape roared.
The door clicked shut behind them with the softest of sounds. 

Snape stood alone at the front of the room — chest heaving, face flushed.
Students stared, stunned. Gryffindor. Slytherin. All of them.
No one moved.

Chapter Text

The classroom door thudded shut behind them, but the echo barely registered. Daphne had already slipped her fingers into Harry’s and was pulling him along the corridor with a pace just a little too fast to be casual. Her walk was loose, hips swaying with quiet violence, and her smirk—Merlin, that smirk—was a thing that would make poets quit their careers in despair.

She didn’t speak right away. Her breath came through her nose in soft, delighted bursts, her chest rising beneath the cling of her uniform blouse. She was vibrating with something potent. Hunger.

Harry watched her out of the corner of his eye. “You’re awfully smug for someone who had to keep stirring while Snape melted down like a cauldron full of flobberworm guts.”

Daphne laughed — the deep kind that started in her ribs and rolled upward, half feral.
“Don’t pretend you weren’t watching me try not to cum during that verbal execution. My thighs are still clenched.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “I didn’t catch a thing. Were you really that worked up?”
“Oh, I was ,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You didn’t see what my other hand was doing under the table.”
He arched a brow. “Tell me.”
She leaned in and whispered, lips brushing his earlobe. “Tracing the edge of my knickers. Right along the seam. Every time you landed a clean line, I stroked it harder.”

His mouth twitched.
“And when you told him ‘That ghost walked lighter once the weight you stole was returned.’.” she continued, “I slipped a finger in. ”
Harry’s nostrils flared slightly, and Daphne purred at the reaction.
“I almost moaned,” she said, pretending to shudder. “The report would have been ruined.”
“The potion and the report were flawless,” Harry said.
“My control was the real brew,” she whispered. “Do you know how difficult it is to keep your writing steady and an emotionless face when your cunt is fluttering and your thighs are soaked?”

He looked at her fully now, head tilting. “Is that why you kept writing notes on parchment?”
“Well, because my clit kept brushing against the bench when I moved from the cauldron to the quill.” She grinned again. “Merlin, I wanted to get caught. Wanted that greasy bastard to look over and see me leaking all over his precious stool.”

Harry turned them down a side hall, their footsteps soft against the ancient stone.
“Greasy bastard,” he said under his breath. “He hates me more than ever now.”

Daphne pulled him to a stop beside a torch bracket and pressed her back to the wall, tugging him forward by his belt. “He’s not the only one obsessed with you.”
Harry braced one arm beside her head. “Mmm?”

Her hand slid under his shirt, palm warm against his abs. “When you said that —It’s strange how the people who claim the deepest grief are often the ones who ignore the clearest truth—, I was close enough to—Merlin, Harry. I nearly dragged you over the nearest broom closet. You’ve never sounded so owned. ”
“Owned?”
“By clarity. By power. By ruthlessness.” She licked her lips. “I know you weren’t even angry. That’s what made it unbearable. That’s also when my ass started clenching.”

Harry lowered his mouth to her neck and kissed, just under her ear. “You’re filthy.”
“I am,” she whispered. “And proud of it.”

Her hips rolled up into him, just enough for him to feel the heat through layers of wool and charm-thread.
He growled low in his throat.
She didn’t pull him closer. She wanted him off-balance.
“I imagined sucking you off while he was still shacking,” she said, voice lighter now. “Right there, in front of him. Let him see me gag on your cock while he unravels what you said to him.”
“Daphne.”
“I’d swallow every drop and lick your shaft clean.”

Harry bit her earlobe.
She gasped softly and wrapped a leg around his calf.
“I’m getting you back for this,” he murmured.
“I’m counting on it,” she replied, dragging her nails gently down his stomach beneath the hem of his shirt. “Just wait until Susan hears.”
Harry pulled back slightly, but didn’t release her. “You’re going to tell her?”
“She’s going to sniff it off my fingers.” Daphne grinned again, unrepentant. “We made a deal, remember? Anything good gets shared.”

His expression was halfway between exasperated and aroused.
“She’ll want details,” she added. “Every word. Every smirk. Every twitch of your lip when Snape tried to pretend he still had authority.”
Harry’s chest rose once slowly. “You’re dangerous.”
Daphne rolled her hips again. “You and Susan made me that way.”

He steadied his breath and peeled her off the wall, but not before dragging his hands on her ass, just to feel the warmth and suppleness.
As they resumed walking, Daphne leaned her head against his shoulder, her hand resting low on his stomach.
“I love how you ruined him,” she said casually. “You didn’t explode. You exposed. And the bastard never saw it coming.”

Harry stayed quiet, but the heat in his chest had very little to do with pride.
They rounded the final corridor, torchlight flickering ahead — and there, lounging against the archway to a shadowed alcove, was Susan.

She was waiting exactly where Daphne had promised — halfway down a forgotten corridor past the fourth-floor charms wing, arms crossed, one foot cocked against the wall. Her chest rose under her open robes, school blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of black lace. When she saw them, her grin widened.

“I thought you two would come giggling and flushed,” she said, pushing off the stone, “but this… this is even better.”

Harry had barely opened his mouth before Daphne surged forward and kissed Susan full on the mouth hungrily. Their mouths met with force, tongues sliding instantly into place, like they’d done it a thousand times before — which, of course, they had.

Harry watched them, arm crossed. He didn’t interrupt.
Daphne moaned into the kiss, and Susan pressed her closer, one hand sliding up under Daphne’s skirt.
When they finally broke apart, Susan’s eyes sparkled, but her voice dropped low.

“You’ve got a story in your mouth.”
Daphne grinned, flushed and breathless. “Maybe.”
“Did you cum during class?” Susan asked, already knowing.
“Close,” Daphne admitted. “Got a finger inside when he told Snape off.”

Susan purred. “Merlin.”
Harry exhaled through his nose. “You’re both animals.”
Susan turned to him, eyes bright. “You love it. Don’t pretend. You’re already hard.”

Her hand was on his waistband before he could reply. She slipped beneath his trousers in one fluid motion, her warm fingers wrapping around his cock.
“Still thick,” she said approvingly. “Still ours.”

Daphne stepped behind him, pressing close, her hands sliding around to join Susan’s — one cupping his balls, the other tracing a slow line down the V of his hips.
“You’re surrounded, Potter,” Daphne whispered into his ear. “Best surrender now.”

Harry’s head tipped back slightly, eyes closing just for a second. “This is how you treat war heroes?”
“No,” Daphne said. “This is how we treat the man who made Severus Snape visibly shake.”

Her grip tightened just enough to make him hiss.
She kissed his neck. “You didn’t just win. You humiliated him. He couldn’t breathe by the end.”
Susan shifted, biting at Harry’s lower lip as she spoke. “I want to reward that. We want to ride that.”

Harry opened his eyes, gaze sharp now. “And what would this reward entail, exactly?”
“War council,” Susan whispered. “Heavy tongue and tits involvement.”
Harry’s cock twitched in her hand.
Daphne chuckled behind him. “He likes that.”
“He loves it,” Susan purred, eyes locked on his. “He wants us kneeling at his feet, blouses undone, mouths stuffed full of cock.”

“I want a lot of things,” Harry murmured, voice low and steady. “But right now… I want something else.”

The shift in tone hit instantly.
Both girls stilled.
Harry gently guided Susan and Daphne's hands out of his waistband, kissed their wrists, then turned to face them both fully.

“You’ve asked,” he said quietly. “Both of you. You’ve teased me for going. Wondered what it looked like. What it feels like.”

Daphne’s lips parted, her chest lifting in a slow inhale.
Susan’s grin deepened, but the glint in her eyes changed — no longer playful, it was burning.
Harry continued. “The Chamber. Where I’ve gone almost every day. Where I’ve been seen and measured. ”

Susan’s voice dropped. “It’s time.”
He nodded once. “He’s ready. I didn’t take you earlier because I had to make sure he wouldn’t reject you. That he’d understand what you mean to me.”
Daphne stepped in closer. “And?”
Harry’s expression softened. “He knows now. And he’ll welcome you.”
He then turned and said. “Follow me.”
Susan asked. “You’re not having Nimrith take us?”
“No,” Harry said. “No shortcuts. You’re not guests. You’re part of me. So you walk the same stone I did. From the top. The old way.”
Daphne’s eyes gleamed. “It’s about bloody time.”

The three of them began walking toward the second floor.
This had always been the plan. Harry just had to make space in the ancient blood for two goddesses to follow.
And now, it was time.

They walked in silence.
The castle had a way of knowing when something sacred was about to happen. The halls beyond the second-floor landing were deserted.

They didn’t speak at first. Daphne’s hand was looped through Harry’s arm again, her body still humming from earlier, while Susan trailed a step behind with a look that bordered on reverence — and something filthier.

Her eyes hadn’t stopped moving since he’d told them.
“You’ve gone down there alone,” she said finally, voice low. “Almost every day.”
Harry nodded.
Daphne’s fingers tightened slightly on his arm. “Preparing him to meet us.”
“Making sure he wouldn’t turn you away,” Harry confirmed. “He’s old magic. Ancient blood. Doesn’t trust easily.”

They reached the door of the abandoned girls’ lavatory. It creaked open slowly with a push, revealing the damp, dim chamber beyond. Cracked tiles, rusted fixtures, and air that smelled faintly of mildew and mineral water.

Susan stepped ahead first, running her hand along the rim of the cracked sink. “So this is where you start.”
Harry didn’t answer. He stepped beside her, rolled his shoulders once, and tilted his head.
Then he spoke.
“ Ssarath’keth volmira.”

The response was immediate.
The sink trembled, metal grinding against stone as ancient magic stirred. Plates along the base spiraled outward, revealing a black shaft descending into nothing.
But it wasn’t just the movement that caught the girls off guard.

It was the language.
Daphne gasped sharply, like her breath had been punched from her. Her knees bent slightly, instinctively. Her thighs rubbed together as if something deep inside her had just been struck like a tuning fork.

Susan didn’t even pretend to hide it. She let out a soft, desperate sound and pressed a hand to her stomach, fingers curling in the fabric of her shirt.

Harry turned to them slowly.
Both girls were breathing harder. Daphne’s cheeks were flushed, and she was biting her lower lip like she was holding in something close to a moan.

Susan met his eyes, nostrils flared. “Say it again.”
“Not yet,” Harry said, smiling faintly. “Save it for later.”

Daphne blinked slowly, then stepped forward, standing beside the open shaft. Her hands moved to the waistband of her skirt, adjusting slightly to relieve pressure. Her nipples pressed visibly through her blouse now, hardened to points.

She turned to Susan. “Feel this. Right now.”
Susan didn’t hesitate. She reached forward, slid her hand straight between Daphne’s thighs, and cupped her through the knickers with practiced ease.
“Oh… fuck,” she whispered.
“She’s dripping.” Susan’s eyes were wild now. 

Harry watched without comment.
Susan took a breath, then reached around behind Daphne and slid two fingers over the cleft of her ass.
“She’s also twitching there.”
“I always twitch,” Daphne moaned. “You know how that tongue makes me .”
Susan grinned and sucked her fingers, tasting it like a delicacy while looking at Harry eyes half-lidded. “You’re saying that between my cheeks next time.”

Harry’s cock throbbed.
Daphne turned to face him, flushed and reverent. “There’s a magic to that voice, Harry. It hits us inside. Not just our ears.”
“I know,” he said. “It was like that for me too. The first time I heard it echo in my own mouth when I was finally whole.”

Susan pressed closer to him, sliding her hand under his shirt. “It makes my ass tighten like I’m being filled. Every word hums.”
Harry reached for her and cupped her ass through her skirt possessively. “Good.”

The stone stairwell descended in a perfect spiral, wide enough for comfort but narrow enough to keep the trio close. Torch brackets lined the wall — dormant and cold — until Harry’s foot crossed the third step. Then one by one, the sconces lit in sequence, casting a green-gold shimmer that stretched into the deep.

Susan’s breath caught softly in her throat. She touched the wall beside her as they descended, fingers trailing along the carved serpents etched into the ancient stone.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
Daphne followed her gaze, eyes reflecting the torchlight. “No one’s seen this in centuries.”
“Except you,” Susan added, glancing at Harry.
He gave a small nod. “I don’t think even Voldemort ever came here fully. Not like this.”

The sound of the girls steps echoed softly, rhythmic and respectful. Not one of them rushed.
Daphne ran her hand along the railing-less edge. “It doesn’t feel like Hogwarts anymore.”
Harry replied, “Because it isn’t.”

The magic was older down here. It wasn’t humming the way wards did in the halls above. “Salazar built this not just to hide things,” Susan said, thoughtful. “He built it to last beyond him.”

They passed a junction where the stair curved around a wide panel inset with deep carvings — a family crest unlike any Hogwarts house emblem. A snake wrapped in a rune-circle, its tail curled into the eye of the symbol.

Daphne slowed, her hand hovering just over the engraving. “That’s not Slytherin house.”
“No,” Harry said quietly. “It’s his crest. The one he sealed the inner sanctum with. It only revealed itself when I started using High Parseltongue.”

The steps under their feet leveled out briefly at a landing, only to begin spiraling again. As they continued downward, the walls grew smoother, less like carved architecture and more like shaped stone, intentionally grown to match the space.

Susan exhaled. “I’ve spent years hearing about The Chamber Of Secrets. I never thought I’d walk through it.”
“You’re not just walking through it,” Harry said. “You’re being welcomed. ”

That quieted them both.
For another stretch, they walked in reverent silence. The torches continued to light as they moved, one by one — green, warm, but flickering slightly slower than normal flame. The air had taken on a weight —every breath felt deeper, more stifling.

Daphne looked over her shoulder. “It feels like it remembers us.”
“It remembers him, ” Susan replied, glancing at Harry. “We’re walking because he carved the way.”

They reached the bottom after what felt like a hundred steps — though none of them had been counting. The stair gave way to a long stone corridor, low-lit and narrow, leading toward something more open.

As they crossed the threshold into the outer Chamber, the shift was immediate.
The ceiling stretched high, lost in shadow. Massive stone columns curved upward like rib bones, and mirrored channels of water ran between walkways, reflecting torchlight and giving the illusion of moving stars above.

At the far end, barely visible in the flickering glow, loomed the statue of Salazar Slytherin himself — tall, severe, his stone beard long, eyes narrowed in eternal judgment.

But the thing that drew the eye — and the breath — was the massive coiled body along the side of the chamber.

The basilisk.
Its corpse had not decayed. Preserved by residual magic, its green-black scales still gleamed faintly, and its size defied reason. Its body was thick enough to fill corridors, its head large enough to swallow a grown wizard whole. The fangs alone were swords in their own right.

Daphne stopped walking as did Susan.
Neither said anything right away. They just looked — really looked — at the thing Harry had killed.

Susan moved first.
She stepped slowly toward the corpse, her boots clicking softly on the stone floor. The echo traveled across the vast space, swallowed by the open chamber walls and the coiled body of the beast that had once lived here.

“Merlin,” Susan whispered. “I knew it would be big, but this is something else entirely.”
“It’s a dragon’s size,” Daphne said, her voice filled with awe. She moved to stand beside Susan, both of them staring at the massive, coiled corpse as if its existence defied the boundaries of everything they thought they knew.
“I can’t believe this thing was crawling through the pipes of a school.”

Susan pointed toward one of the exposed fangs, its edge still gleaming faintly under the ambient green torchlight. “That tooth is longer than my thigh.”

Harry’s footsteps echoed softly as he approached. He said nothing at first, watching the two of them process the sight, until they finally turned to face him. Their expressions were filled with amazement, but there was something else beneath the surface—a question.
It struck him then that they had never truly spoken about what happened here.
Despite the decades they had spent together, despite all the battles and blood and intimacy, this story had remained unspoken between them.

He hadn’t meant to hide it, and he trusted them with every fiber of his being, but there had simply never been a moment when it had come up. They had survived so much since, and the basilisk had always been just one piece of his past.
“You killed this?” Daphne asked, her voice shaded with disbelief that such a feat had been possible at all.
Harry nodded once. “I was fifteen.”
Susan blinked slowly, her brows drawing in. “You were fifteen, and your magic had already been cut down.”
“I didn’t have much left,” Harry admitted. “Ron had been holding a large portion of it, and Hermione had already taken most of my mental clarity by then.”

Daphne turned fully toward him, her body still as she studied his face. “And you still managed to kill it?”
He offered a small shrug. “It wasn’t magic that did it. The sword of Gryffindor appeared—Fawkes brought it to me.”

Susan looked at the basilisk again, eyes narrowing as she took in the sheer size of it. Then she turned back to him. “You stabbed this ?”
Harry nodded again. “Through the roof of the mouth. It bit me before I landed the strike. One of the fangs went through my arm. The venom was already working. I would’ve died if Fawkes hadn’t healed me. He cried into the wound and closed it.”

Daphne exhaled, and her whole posture shifted.
Then she stepped forward, pressed her chest to his, and kissed him fully, hungrily, and gratefully.
Her hand slipped around the back of his neck, pulling him tighter, her lips parting as her body leaned into his.
Susan was behind him a moment later.
She slipped her arms around him, hugging him from behind, her cheek resting against his shoulder. “That’s not survival, Harry. That’s a fucking miracle.”

He pulled back from the kiss and barely had time to grunt, “Wasn’t elegant,” before Daphne yanked him in again.
“Don’t care,” Susan said, her hands sliding down his front, beneath his shirt. “You did it. That thing would have swallowed anyone else whole. And you ended it with nothing but instinct and metal.”

Daphne broke the kiss, breathing hard. “I want to suck you off right here.”
Harry looked at her, expression stilling.
“I mean it,” she said. “Right now. With its head behind you.”
Susan’s fingers slid lower. “As soon as we finish the ritual, we’re coming back here. And we’re fucking each other senseless in front of this thing.”

Harry’s head tilted slightly. “You two are insane.”
Daphne smirked. “We’re horny.”
Susan reached into his trousers without pause and wrapped her hand around his cock — stroking once, then twice, with lazy movements. “Very, very horny.”

He hissed through his teeth, but didn’t stop her.
Daphne pressed her palm against the front of his thigh, eyes flicking downward as his length thickened in Susan’s grip. “You’re hard already. You like us worshipping you like this.”

“I like truth,” he growled.
Susan leaned around him and kissed his jaw. “Then the truth is… you're the reason we’re alive at all, after everything that happened in the future we left behind. Without you, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be hollow. Empty.”
“And this chamber,” Daphne added, now pressing kisses down his throat, “is going to hear everything. Moans, wet sounds, the slap of thighs — all of it.”
Susan stroked once more before withdrawing her hand slowly to lick her fingers. 

Harry straightened his collar, adjusted his waistband, and looked at them both.
“Come on,” he said.
He turned toward the statue of Salazar Slytherin at the far end of the chamber, its mouth still sealed, the path forward waiting for a word of command.
And this time, he wouldn’t be going alone.

They walked in silence, boots whispering over cold stone, past the corpse of the basilisk, past the empty pools of water and the dust-caked remains of past centuries. The statue at the far end of the chamber loomed just as before — Salazar Slytherin, tall and severe, carved from black-veined stone, his expression frozen in the imperious stillness of a man who had outlived his legacy.

Harry didn’t slow. Neither did the girls.
He stopped only when they reached the base of the statue, and he turned slightly to glance at the girls.
“Ready?”
Daphne’s expression didn’t flicker. “Of course.”
Susan gave a single nod. “Speak.”

Harry faced the darkness within the statue’s opened throat, and spoke a summoning phrase in Parseltongue.
“The heir returns.”

Susan shivered and Daphne’s eyes darkened slightly, her jaw tensing.
From within the statue’s hollow interior, something stirred then stepped forward.

Nimrith moved without sound. The steward of the Chamber, unchanged from the first time Harry met him: thin and wiry, pale as bone, ears long and flared, his black robes flowing like oilcloth over brittle limbs.
He stopped just before Harry’s boots, then bent fully into a bow, his palms flat to the ground, forehead nearly touching the stone.

“Master,” he said. The voice was low and reverent.
Harry nodded once. “We return as planned.”

Nimrith straightened. His eyes flicked briefly to the girls.
“Your bonded walk with you,” he said without prompting. “The magic has taken root.”
“It has,” Harry replied. “They have earned their place within the sanctum.”

Nimrith turned fully to face them now. His posture remained low and deferential.
“Lady Greengrass. Lady Bones. The Chamber acknowledges your binding.”

Daphne gave a small bow at the waist. “We thank the Founder’s steward.”
Susan mirrored it, voice level. “And respect the space we now enter.”

Nimrith inclined his head in return. “The wards have already recorded your presence. None but you three may pass inward now. All doors are sealed to outsiders.”
Harry gave a brief, satisfied breath. “Good.”
Nimrith’s long fingers folded together before him. “Shall I activate the sanctum wards and light the central hall?”
“Do it,” Harry said.

A flick of the elf’s hand sent a quiet surge of magic through the stone beneath them. The floor reacted with a deep hum. A pulse passed through the chamber. Torch sconces flared to life one by one within the darkened passage beyond the statue’s throat.

Harry turned. “Come.”
The girls followed him through the opened mouth, ducking slightly as they passed beneath the stone lips of the statue and into the narrower hall beyond. The walls bore faint serpentine etchings, glowing softly with the same script that only Harry could read.

Daphne didn’t speak, but her fingers briefly brushed the wall as they passed. Susan’s eyes moved constantly, tracking the slow arc of the runes as they curved toward the threshold.

They emerged seconds later into the familiar circular chamber: six arched doors spaced evenly along the walls, each sealed with its own lock array and ancient glyphs. The ritual vault, the archive, the ingredient store, the mirror cell, the pillar room, and the private quarters.

The girls halted at the edge of the room.
Daphne’s posture had shifted — shoulders back, spine regal, chin lifted in the manner of someone used to palatial halls.
Susan stood beside her in a mirrored posture. Whatever awe they felt didn’t reach their expressions.
Only their silence gave it away.

Behind them, Nimrith stepped in and stood to the side of the entrance.
Harry turned to the girls. “You’re the first to see this.”
Daphne’s voice came low. “It’s older than I imagined.”
“Older and untouched,” Susan added.

Nimrith spoke now, addressing them all. “The sanctum remains at your command, Master. Each sub-chamber awaits. Their defenses are keyed only to your blood, and now — to your bonded. All rights and privileges granted to you extend fully to them. Their hands will not trigger curses, nor will their magic disrupt the foundations.”

Harry gave a short nod. “We’ll begin with the portrait.”
“As you wish.” Nimrith bowed again.

But before they moved, Daphne spoke.
“What happens if others try to follow? Even unknowingly?”

Nimrith’s face remained calm. “They will not succeed. Should one force entry, the sanctum will reject them. Bloodlines not recognized by the core enchantment are removed.”

“Removed?” Susan asked.
“From existence.”
Neither girl blinked.
Harry glanced between them. “We’re home, then.”
Daphne’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “We are.”

Harry led the way. Daphne and Susan followed closely, their steps synchronized and regal, a matched pair of practiced tradition.
Black stone walls gleamed under a soft green ambient glow, and at the far end hung a single frame — massive, ovular, trimmed in wrought silver.
The portrait within stirred even before they approached.

As Salazar Slytherin's eyes opened fully, they cut straight to Harry.
“You brought company,” he said, voice dry but amused.
Harry stopped before the portrait. “They’re not company. They’re mine.”

Salazar’s gaze drifted — left to Daphne, then right to Susan. He blinked once. Then gave a low whistle.
“Throwing pearls to swine, aren’t you?”
Daphne arched one brow. Susan’s expression didn’t move at all.
Harry tilted his head. “You’re calling me the swine?”
“I’m calling you lucky,” Salazar said. “And either very persuasive, or deeply unworthy. Possibly both.”
Daphne’s voice was cool. “We chose him.”
Susan’s followed, equal in poise. “And we’ll keep him.”

Salazar’s mouth curled into something between a grin and a sneer. “Now that’s a proper response. Excellent posture, firm delivery and no simpering. Good taste, boy. Even if your hair is still a disaster.”

Harry smirked faintly. “It’s not the hair they’re with me for.”
“Obviously.” The founder’s gaze returned to them with open assessment. “Greengrass and Bones… You’re bonded already?”
“We are,” Harry said before either could reply. “The sanctum acknowledged the bond.”

Salazar nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the subtle magical current between them.
“As it should. There are only three arrays deep enough in the sanctum to register a binding. Two are brittle — designed for alliances or control, not for power born of mutual will. The one you triggered is older. Rooted in love and not in leverage. I didn’t expect it to stir.”

He leaned back, folding one leg over the other with casual elegance. “You must’ve chosen well. The Chamber doesn’t grant that kind of recognition for looks alone — though clearly, you didn’t neglect those either.”
Daphne’s tone was smooth. “Our choices are always accurate.”
Salazar chuckled. “Ah, the arrogance of youth. Delicious.”
Susan gave a polite incline of her head. “We call it confidence, Founder.”
“You can call it whatever you like, Lady Bones. I’m just pleased I won’t be bored.”

There was a beat of silence.
Then the founder leaned forward, eyes now focused. “You’re not just here to show them around. You intend to use this place.”

“Yes,” Harry said simply.
Salazar gave a satisfied nod, then flicked his eyes once more between the girls. “If either of them betrays you, I expect a creative punishment. Public, if possible. The halls could use entertainment.”

Daphne said, voice sharp. “If he fails us, we’ll bury him in basilisk meat.”
Susan added smoothly, “And keep the Chamber for ourselves.”
Salazar barked a laugh. “Excellent. I approve of your threats.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change. “No one’s getting betrayed.”
“Yes, yes,” Salazar waved a hand. “I know. Undying devotion, eternal love, magical oneness, et cetera. Spare me the verses. I like you better when you’re plotting something.”
“I’m always plotting something.”

“That’s why the Chamber opened for you.” Salazar’s tone dropped a note. “Now stop wasting your time on introductions. You’ve come for more than my charming company.”

Harry nodded once. “We’ll start the vault tour.”
“Mind the Mirror Cell,” Salazar said, voice more serious. “It shows too much, too fast, and it has no filter. Don’t bring fools near it.”
“Noted.”

Salazar’s final glance landed once more on the girls appraisingly. Then, with a soft smirk, he added, “You’ve chosen your bonded well. Keep them close. And let them keep you sharp.”
Then the portrait fell silent.

Nimrith stood patiently near the threshold, his hands still clasped. “Shall I open the Ritual Vault, Master?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “Let’s begin.”

Nimrith stepped into the center of the circular hall and raised one long-fingered hand.
“If the Ladies are ready,” he said smoothly, “I shall introduce the six sanctum chambers. They now recognize your presence.”

Daphne gave a short nod. Susan mirrored her.
Nimrith gestured to the first door — the one nearest to Harry’s left. The arch surrounding it bore silver-etched circles that nested within one another like plates of an ancient machine.

“This is the Ritual Vault. The sanctum’s core utility. The floor is embedded with ritual matrices that reconfigure depending on your chosen array — blood-based, soul-integrated, elemental, or structural bypass. Each array stack is modular. Layering is based on intention, not automatic.”

Susan’s eyes moved across the arch. “No overlap bleed?”
“None,” Harry answered before Nimrith could. “Unless you engineer it. I’ve tested six overlaps. Three worked. One nearly removed the floor.”
Daphne’s brow arched slightly, but she said nothing.

They moved on.
The second chamber had a taller arch, darker stone, and a vertical cascade of faint runes carved deep and narrow along either side.

“The Archive, forbidden by modern terms,” Nimrith said. “The air inside is dry-sealed and temperature-stabilized. The texts are organized by magical function and application class.”

He gestured toward the vertical script. “Many volumes are unrecorded in modern catalogs. You’ll find works on cognitive fracturing, inherited affinity transfers, necrotic alignment rituals, and soul anchoring through external tethering. A few deal with memory partitioning and self-possession frameworks.”

Daphne’s gaze sharpened and Susan’s eyes didn’t leave the runes.
“There’s a dedicated section for High Parselmagic,” Harry added. “I’ve read four so far. Two were instructional. One was theoretical. The fourth rewrote itself halfway through. It’s still doing it.”
Nimrith didn’t contradict him. “Those texts are living constructs. They adapt to comprehension.”

They arrived at the third vault. The stone here was grey-green, laced with fine veins that shimmered faintly as the trio approached. Four cooling glyphs rotated in quiet intervals near the floor.

“The Ingredient Vault,” Nimrith said. “Everything inside is real. Collected, not conjured. Each item held in stasis since acquisition. Magical properties are locked in time.”

Susan exhaled once through her nose. “How volatile is the containment?”
“Responsive,” Harry answered again. “You pull it with the wrong magical signature, the vault doesn’t punish you — it just deletes the sample. Permanently.”
Daphne glanced at him. “You tested that?”
Harry shook his head. “I listened to the warnings.”

They moved to the fourth chamber. This door was narrow, nearly recessed into the wall. Its surface was obsidian-dark and polished to the point that reflections hovered just behind it, never quite matching their movement.

“The Mirror Cell,” Nimrith said quietly. “One enchanted slab. Volcanic glass, tuned to deep-state resonance. If you enter, it does not ask what you want to see. It shows you what your soul cannot hide.”

His voice stayed calm, but firmer now.
“Memories you’ve buried. Splinters you’ve forgotten. Truths you’ve softened. If the structure beneath is flawed, the mirror will not spare you.”

Harry didn’t speak this time. He simply glanced toward the glass.
Neither girl moved.

The fifth chamber bore no inscription, only the image of two serpents entwined integrated into the black stone itself, as if fused during formation.

“The Pillar Room ,” Nimrith said. “It evaluates magical compatibility, bloodline truth, and core interaction. Originally used to verify lineage and verify pact-bound servants.”
He turned to them both. “The Chamber used this vault to confirm your bond to the Master. No falsehoods were detected.”
Daphne gave a fractional nod.
Susan spoke softly. “Good.”

Then they came to the last door; A smooth stone surface with a brass handle.
“The Living Quarters ,” Nimrith said. “They are self-sustaining. Includes a study, bath, bedchamber, and a preparation alcove. All wards are keyed to your triad. No creature, magical or mundane, may enter uninvited.”
“I’ve stayed there most nights,” Harry said. “The wards adapt quickly. Everything responds to intent.”

Nimrith stepped back into the center, folding his hands before him.
“The sanctum has now fully recorded your magical presence. Each of you may enter and use any chamber without risk. The wards will not interpret your spells as hostile. You are, from this point, fully bound to the sanctum.”

Harry turned toward the girls. “It’s all open. Choose when and how we use it.”
Daphne looked around the circle of doors with a measured gaze.
Susan’s eyes had darkened with concentration.

Nimrith gave a final incline of his head and gestured toward the living quarters.
“I shall have refreshments prepared,” he said. “There are fruit steeps and preserved breads within the house-elf cache. I will return shortly.”
With a faint shimmer of displaced air, he vanished.

The second he did, Daphne spun on her heel.
“Mine first,” she said, eyes gleaming.
“No chance,” Susan shot back, already three steps toward the black-framed Archive door.
Daphne didn’t argue — she dashed across the stone floor, robes flaring. Susan reached the Archive just as it pulsed open, and ducked inside with a breathless laugh.

Harry remained in the center of the sanctum for half a heartbeat before following.
He stepped into the Archive. Rows of perfectly preserved tomes stretched upward in rotating tiers. The air smelled faintly of ink, age, and something metallic, like static waiting to discharge.

Susan was already in the middle of the first ring, scanning a vertical display. Her hands moved with reverence.
“I could live in here,” she murmured. “I might.”
Harry chuckled. “You’ll be fighting Daphne for the square footage.”

Susan reached for a familiar spine — thin, black leather, marked with a curl of silver.
“Wait—” she said, half-laughing. “This one. You told me about this one.”

She turned it slightly. The title shimmered under the arcane glyph light:
“Sacred Exchanges of Flesh and Flavor.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes bright.
“I remember.” Harry said.
“It’s in High Parseltongue, right?”
“Completely,” he said, stepping closer. “Spells, rituals. There’s no translation layer. If you don’t speak it, the book ignores you.”
She turned the cover slowly. “And what did you learn?”
He met her gaze evenly. “You’ll find out,” he said. “When it’s time.”
Susan bit her lip once, grinning. “Tease.”
He kissed her cheek and turned back toward the corridor. “I’ll check on the drooling one.”

Daphne hadn’t closed the Ingredient Vault behind her — it pulsed faintly, as if holding its breath. Inside, Harry found her crouched near a containment shelf, hands pressed lightly to the edge, pupils dilated with academic lust.
She looked up when he entered. “Three whole vials of wyrm ichor. Untouched. Unspoiled.”

She stood, pointing now to a shelf behind glass. “Phoenix marrow not processed. The real thing, suspended mid-extraction.”
“And that—” she moved two steps to the right, voice reverent now, “—that is siren’s scale resin. Refined, stabilized. Thought to be impossible to find outside of mainland trade circles, and only in minuscule vials.”
Harry let her finish. He watched her move, the excitement real but laced with decades of discipline.

Then she turned, and her voice dropped. “That.” She pointed behind her. “That’s the one.”
He didn’t need her to say it.
She looked directly at him. “My father bound Astoria to Malfoy blood because it was the only way to acquire a single drop. It was the price for a cure to save her.”
Harry didn’t blink. “It’s yours.”

Daphne looked at him and stepped forward until she hugged him tightly. There were no words of thanks uttered, their history did not need them.

However, her hands slid down, cupped his ass, and squeezed firmly.
“Your next spurt of cum,” she whispered in his ear, “goes down my throat. That’s the price for heroism.”

Harry’s breath hitched.
She kissed his neck once and pulled back, already moving toward the exit. “I’m done. If I stay, I’ll try to sleep in here.”

They met Susan in the center chamber again. She was already walking toward the unmarked door of the Living Quarters.
“Come on,” she said without turning. “I want to see the bed.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do.”
“It’s a king, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
Susan pushed the door open without ceremony. “Good. We’ve earned it.”

The bed was impossibly large, draped in old Slytherin emerald and lined with furs that had seen centuries.
Its four stone posts arched into serpentine curves at the corners, and the central mattress dipped just slightly under the weight of the bodies sprawled across it — damp with sweat, limbs relaxed but pulsing with barely-restrained hunger.

Harry lay back against the broad headrest, one arm curled behind his head, the other bracing Daphne’s hips as she straddled him. Her platinum blonde hair was slightly matted from the exertion, a flush across her collarbones and chest where her blouse had been discarded without ceremony. She rocked her slick folds against the underside of his cock, rubbing the length from base to tip with slow drags. Her breath was light but quickening, and her hands pressed against his chest.
She rode the tease like she owned it.

Behind her, Susan was on her knees, bent forward with her face buried deep between Daphne’s firm, flexing ass cheeks. Her tongue worked with wicked devotion, every flick and swirl answered by a breathy moan from Daphne above. Her hands gripped the other girl’s thighs possessively as she tongued and licked with rhythmic abandon. 

Harry grunted low as Daphne shifted again, her folds dragging across the ridge of his shaft with maddening pressure. She didn’t look down. Her chin was high, her eyes half-lidded in delight. Her cunt was dripping freely, coating him in slick each time she rolled her hips forward.

Susan’s voice emerged, muffled but audible, from somewhere between Daphne’s cheeks. “So,” she said, licking once more before pulling back just enough to breathe, “Snape is officially unhinged.”

Daphne moaned — hard — her thighs quivering slightly. “Merlin, yes.” Her voice was breathy, but her tone was still sharp. “He’s not going to recover from that in private. And the class saw everything. He exploded.”

Susan licked again, a long, slow stroke up Daphne’s ass crack, then pulled back with a wet breath. “You’ve dismantled him, Harry. He’ll run to Dumbledore, no doubt."

Harry tilted his head back against the stone and exhaled through gritted teeth. “I’d bet on it,” he said, voice low. “And the goblins stripping his illegal trophies from the tower will make it worse.”

Daphne shifted higher, rubbing the ridge of his cock against her clit before dragging back down again. “Add in two hundred points, and the rumor mill will finish what you started.”

Susan dove forward again, licking deeply, one hand slipping between Daphne’s thighs from behind. Daphne gasped, her whole body shuddering. Her hips rolled harder, and Harry’s cock twitched in response.

But Daphne didn’t lose focus.
“Dumbledore will summon you,” she breathed. “He’ll need to reframe this before it escalates. To protect the myth.”

Susan pulled back with a hum. “He won’t want it public that one of his staff was one the verge of casting a spell on a student mid-lesson. Especially you .”

Harry smirked faintly, his abs flexing beneath Daphne’s grinding.
“He’ll try to call me alone.”
“No,” Daphne said at once, voice sharper. “He can’t. You’re betrothed. He’ll know better. The bond recognition is sealed. He tries to separate us now, he opens himself up to real political backlash.”

Susan’s voice returned, this time from between Daphne’s cheeks. “He may not care.”
Daphne gasped again, then growled through gritted teeth, “Then we make him care.”

She leaned forward, her breasts glued against Harry’s chest, her voice low against his jawline. “If he pushes for an isolated meeting, I’ll come as your direct bondmate. If he argues, we escalate.”

Harry’s hands slid down to cup her ass, spreading her wider to give Susan more access. Daphne moaned aloud, her teeth sinking into his shoulder.

Susan spoke again, her lips brushing wetly against Daphne’s skin. “And I’ll be there too. I’m not decorative. I’m your betrothed. Legally — magically — he can’t deny me.”

She licked again, slowly, then murmured something sending vibration through Daphne’s ass that made her twitch violently and grind down hard. Harry caught her hips to steady her.

Daphne’s head dipped to Harry’s shoulder, her voice now gravelly. “He’ll test boundaries. Snape’s fall wasn’t the only catalyst. You’ve been reclaiming pieces he thought lost — magical ones. Dumbledore’s house of illusions is cracking.”

Harry didn’t reply right away. He just let her move — let her glide her soaked lips up and down his cock’s length without penetration, feeling the pulse and heat and power between them. His eyes flicked down to Susan’s flaming hair moving rhythmically as her tongue plunged and swirled, her fingers slipping deep between Daphne’s cheeks now.

Finally, Harry spoke.
“Then we set boundaries first,” he said. “If Dumbledore overreaches, we respond publicly. We force his hand. Daphne, I want you to plan a sequence of deniable comments. Gossipable.”

“I’ll begin with the younger years,” Daphne murmured, kissing the edge of his jaw. “Gently. Without accusations, but with innocent questions. ‘Odd how the Headmaster lets that sort of thing happen,’ that kind of whisper.”

Susan pulled back again, breath hot and heavy. “And I’ll float the goblin angle. Whisper about how strange it is, the Headmaster losing heirlooms that weren’t his.”

Daphne moaned again and turned her face into Harry’s neck. “We always did love controlled chaos.”

Susan didn’t reply — she simply dove forward once more, her tongue plunging deep and her nails digging into Daphne’s thighs. Daphne gasped, eyes fluttering shut, hips jerking forward across Harry’s length again and again.

Harry grunted, teeth gritted now. “Stay focused.”
Daphne’s smirk curved beautifully, flushed and wicked.
“I’m focused, love. Every rub… every moan… it’s for the cause.”

Daphne had settled into a rhythm now — her slick folds dragging steadily along the underside of Harry’s cock, hips rising and falling in controlled waves. Each roll coaxed a groan from his throat, though he kept himself from thrusting. Barely.

Behind her, Susan’s tongue circled with relentless purpose. She was face-deep between Daphne’s cheeks, licking upward, then down, then tracing slow spirals around her rim before diving in it deep enough to make Daphne moan out mid-sentence. Her fingers alternated with her tongue too — knuckle-deep with two fingers, pushing into Daphne’s tight hole with lazy confidence.

It was obscene. And it was a routine born of countless such councils.
Harry exhaled through clenched teeth as Daphne ground lower, her soaked lips catching his length perfectly. Her voice was hoarse but clear.
“The goblins didn’t just reclaim what was stolen. They made sure every single retrieval was felt . Magical recoil. Triggered lockouts. Nullified enchantments. Anyone watching will know something serious happened.”
Harry grunted in agreement. “The tower’s still reeling. I discovered that one of the artifacts cracked an outer wall when it vanished.”

Susan pulled back, breath hot with slick, licking her lips without shame. “We can use it.”
Daphne was moaning lightly, but was still focused. “We already are. The goblins don’t care about headlines — they care about respect. If Dumbledore retaliates, or denies the seizure, he paints himself as either incompetent… or a thief. Neither looks good in parchment.”

Susan’s voice purred from behind, half-smothered between Daphne’s cheeks. “We let others ask the questions. Let them dig.”
Harry nodded slowly, eyes locked on Daphne’s dripping folds as they continued to stroke him. “What channels?”

Susan leaned back, just enough to breathe cleanly. Her chin and cheeks were wet.
“Not the Prophet. Too obvious. Academic newsletters. The old Hogwarts alumni bulletin. Letters to the editors in the Magical Law Review. People who wear suspicion in polite gloves.”

Daphne gasped as Susan’s tongue returned, then pushed down harder onto Harry, grinding along his length with messy focus. “We don’t accuse. We observe. We let the whisper start that not even Dumbledore is beyond goblin law. ”

Harry reached up, gripped her hips firmly, and guided her downward again. Daphne moaned lowly.
“We add one more prong,” he said, voice tight. “Snape.”

Daphne’s eyes fluttered open, glazed but attentive.
Harry continued. “We start compiling the numbers. Every house point deducted by Snape since he was hired. Every award given. Every term. We graph it.”

Susan gave a muffled moan in approval.
Daphne’s voice trembled slightly, hips still moving. “That will show Slytherin bias clearer than any speech. If he’s stripped hundreds more points from other Houses… if every year ends in a Slytherin Cup… the numbers will scream it.”

Harry growled low as Daphne’s folds caught the head of his cock just right, then slid down and off again with wet friction. “We don’t accuse Snape. We accuse the institution that protected him.”
Susan’s voice rose, clearer now as she withdrew for breath. “And Dumbledore made him Head of Slytherin. Let him answer why a Death Eater was handed authority over students.”
Daphne moaned. “Let him explain why he defended him for decades.”
Susan licked again, hard and slow. “Why he gave him children to punish. While stealing from the last living Potter.”

Harry’s fingers clenched around Daphne’s ass as she ground harder, faster, her folds now soaking his shaft from base to tip.
He hissed through his teeth. “We don’t just tear him down. We starve him of legitimacy.”
Daphne gasped, arching her back. “We expose the cracks. And we make sure everyone can see where he placed his faith.”

Susan slipped three fingers in now, slow and deep, as her tongue moved faster. Daphne cried out, a strangled sound into Harry’s shoulder.
“And if he tries to claim the moral high ground,” Harry said, eyes locked on Daphne’s flushed face, “we remind them of who he protected.”
Daphne’s voice broke into a wheezing moan. “And who he failed. ”

Susan didn’t pull back this time. She just kept licking.
Daphne’s hips began to shiver, her rhythm breaking slightly as her pleasure built — but her voice, when it came, was still political.
“We hit quietly,” she panted. “The press. The numbers. The whispers.”
Susan murmured something wet and pleased from below, not bothering to lift her face.
Daphne looked down at Harry with flushed cheeks and sharp, narrowed eyes.
“And when he demands loyalty,” she said, voice raw, “we give him facts.”
Harry smiled through his groan. “And let them do the damage.”

Daphne climbed off Harry's lap, pushed him onto his back and climbed on his face, knees wide.
She then lowered herself directly onto his mouth, facing Susan.
She gave one backward grind and moaned low as his tongue pressed between her folds.

Susan was already straddling Harry’s cock, her slick folds spreading open as she slid forward and back along his length. She leaned in, closed her mouth over Daphne’s nipple, and sucked firmly while grinding down again.

“Cultural control,” Susan said between licks. “We’ve cracked the outer shell. Now we shift from spectacle to center.”
Daphne hissed as Harry’s tongue circled her rim, her hips twitching once before settling back into rhythm. She leaned forward and bit softly around the edge of Susan’s areola. “Snape was the break. The betrothal is the pivot. Next step—turn consistency into credibility.”

Susan dragged her cunt slowly forward again, clit gliding the full length of Harry’s cock. “We’re already being watched. We let them keep watching. But we shape what they see.”
“Elegance,” Daphne said. “Discipline. Nothing sloppy. Every motion calculated.”

Susan pressed her tits harder into Daphne’s chest. Their mouths met, tongues flicking, before she spoke again. “No resistance and no rebellion. We’re not challenging the system. We’re improving it.”
Daphne moaned as Harry’s tongue slipped into her pussy and stayed deep. “We show them what strength looks like when it doesn’t need to shout.”

Susan bit Daphne’s nipple once before letting go with a wet pop. “Let them wonder if we’re manipulating things. Don’t confirm. Don’t deny.”
“We make tradition look progressive,” Daphne said, licking across Susan’s other nipple before sucking it deep. “We make authority look 'young'.”

Susan’s hips picked up pace. She rubbed faster now, cunt fully slick, his cock glazed in her wetness from base to tip. “And we make the Potter-Greengrass-Bones bond impossible to oppose.”

Daphne rolled her hips slowly across Harry’s face, her thighs twitching as he tongued her deeper. “We attract the undecided. Pull the clever ones. Give the bored ones something to orbit.”
Susan pulled back and panted against Daphne’s throat. “We let power mean proximity to us. Not access to rules.”

Daphne tightened her grip on Susan’s tits. “The faculty won’t stop us. Not if we play it as leadership. Not if we behave better than their favorites.”

“We frame everything we do as service to stability,” Susan whispered, cunt dragging forward again, her clit bumping the ridge of Harry’s shaft.
“We don’t dodge attention,” Daphne said. “We shape it.”
They kissed again, mouths open and wet between breathy gasps, they didn't stop their grinding.

Susan’s grinding turned frantic. Her soaked pussy dragged tight across Harry’s cock again and again, her thighs locking against his hips as she rocked through every inch of slick friction. Daphne’s mouth never left her chest — lips locked around her nipple, tongue swirling hard, suction deepening until Susan let out a violent gasp.

She slammed forward, rubbed once more, and came with a shudder that arched her spine and yanked a scream from her throat. Her thighs clenched. Her entire body seized and shook. Her cunt pulsed in wild rhythm, soaking Harry’s cock even more as her orgasm ripped through her.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—” she choked out, her voice breaking across the word as Daphne bit down on her nipple just enough to push her further over.

Daphne didn’t pause. She pressed harder on Susan’s tits, pushed her chest up, and watched her ride it out with a smirk that didn’t waver.

Then Harry growled under her.
The next lick across her asshole came with a pulse of power — a hum, a serpentine syllable that didn’t belong in any human tongue. High Parseltongue vibrated through her rim as his thick tongue pushed in, deeper than should’ve been possible, and every nerve in her lower spine fired at once.

Daphne’s head snapped back.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out — not for the first few seconds, until another flick inside her asshole made her scream.

Her thighs shook. Her hands slapped the bed. Her pussy clenched hard enough to drip clear fluid down Harry’s chest.
“Oh Merlin—again—again—fuck, Harry, I’m coming—”

He didn’t stop. Another syllable. Another twist. Another pulse that rocked her back down into his mouth.
She screamed again.
Susan, still shaking, slid backward off his cock and slumped down beside them, chest heaving.
Daphne collapsed next, panting hard, her ass twitching from the aftershocks as Harry licked her clean.

Susan pushed herself upright and grabbed his cock.
“Now him.”
Daphne didn’t argue. She rolled down beside Susan, gripped the base, and opened her mouth.

Susan licked the head first, slow and warm, while Daphne stroked. Then they traded — Daphne sucked halfway down, while Susan dragged her tongue up the side and flicked under the crown.
Harry groaned.

The girls kept going — stroking and sucking in tandem, moaning softly, spit dripping from their chins, their tongues meeting around the head as they kissed and passed him between them.
Harry’s hands found their heads, and his fingers threaded through their hair.
His hips twitched, then he hissed in Parseltongue.

The moment he came, a subtle shimmer passed over the head of his cock.
Daphne took it in her mouth just as the first pulse hit. She froze for half a second as her eyes went wide.
She pulled back and gasped. “You—fuck—you flavored it?”
Susan caught the next spurt on her tongue, then blinked and grinned.
“Strawberry. You absolute bastard.”
She laughed, wiped her chin, then leaned back in to suck the last few drops off the tip.
“You made your cum taste like dessert?”
Harry panted, still recovering. “Archive vault. New spell. Thought I’d test it.”
Daphne licked her lips. “I’ll take this spell over most Dark Arts.”
Susan sucked the head one more time and moaned. “You spoil us.”
The two girls kissed lazily, tongues flicking, still savoring the flavor, before collapsing on either side of him.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall hummed with soft clatter and layered voices as the dinner hour settled into full swing. Platters had just arrived, conjured in quiet harmony by the enchanted kitchens far below, and the long tables were filled with students leaning forward for their first bite.

At the center of the teacher’s table, in his usual chair beneath the enchanted ceiling, Albus Dumbledore sat straight-backed and still. His expression was neutral, lightly touched by amusement, one hand resting atop the other in his lap. His robes were midnight blue tonight, trimmed in silver, and embroidered with a pattern that resembled drifting constellations. He had not yet reached for a plate.

To most of the students and staff, he appeared as he always had: composed and radiating patience.
The slight twinkle in his eye and the faint crease at the corner of his mouth gave him that grandfatherly aspect that so many of them had come to associate with warmth, trust and stability.

But beneath that polished exterior, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was calculating.
His gaze moved slowly over the Hall, absorbing the patterns — who spoke with whom, who sat alone, who glanced toward the empty seat at the staff table with unease.

Severus was not here.
It was the first time in years that Dumbledore could recall his absence during a meal. Even during the worst of winter flu, even during final exams — Severus had always sat in that chair, spine tight, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

His absence now meant something. And Albus did not appreciate the implications.
It had been two hours since Minerva had passed along the fuller details of what had transpired in the fourth-year Potions class. Her expression had been tightly neutral — which, for Minerva, meant she was very nearly furious.
She had simply reported: Potter and Snape had exchanged words. Those words escalated. Snape had lost control. Potter had not.

The class had witnessed it. The hallways had magnified it. By evening, the story had spread through all four Houses — and judging by the wave of glances and half-hidden gestures sweeping the Hall now, it was still spreading.

Dumbledore shifted his gaze, tracking the momentum of those glances, until it landed — inevitably — at the Hufflepuff table.

Harry Potter sat with his back straight and his posture still, his expression calm in a way that had once belonged to Severus himself. Daphne Greengrass leaned into him slightly, her head turned toward Susan Bones who spoke with poise. They were speaking with Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott.

Hufflepuff.
Dumbledore noted it with clinical precision. A clever placement. The girl — Bones — had made the move, most likely. It was unmistakably coordinated.
Greengrass, representing Slytherin.
Potter, Gryffindor.
And now Hufflepuff brought into the fold.
Ravenclaw would follow, in time — or so they surely believed.

His eyes narrowed slightly, then returned to neutrality.
There had been talk of their betrothal, of course — the Great Hall had nearly exploded when the formal declaration was delivered. A triad. A magical union of three old families. No one had seen such a thing in living memory, and certainly not from students still in school.

They’re adults, he corrected himself absently. Fourth years and above were now legally classified as adult students under the revised curriculum structure. The Ministry had insisted on the term for funding purposes, but the castle still called them children. So did the professors.
So, occasionally, did Albus himself.

But they were not children, not in the legal sense.
Not in the magical one, either.

His eyes lingered on Potter’s face. There had been something in his eyes lately…a hardness.
A self-possession that didn’t belong to boys of eighteen.
Dumbledore had seen it before, during the war. It was the look of someone who had survived more than he should have. Someone who had stopped expecting fairness from the world.

Still. The boy was not a threat.
He was talented, yes. Exceptionally gifted in instinctive control. But he was not learned in law.
He did not understand precedent. He did not, Albus was certain, grasp the nuance of Magical Contract enforcement or the workings of the Inter-House Charters.
And above all, he lacked subtlety. He lacked the patience required to wield true power.

It was the girls who sharpened his edges. Greengrass had always been too intelligent for her station.
Bones, though rougher, was loyal in the old-fashioned sense — the kind of loyalty that burned heretical when turned against authority.

Still. Passion burned out. Time softened revolutionaries.
And if Potter had truly intended reprisal — he would have acted by now.

Dumbledore’s thoughts shifted back to the other matter. The real one.
The office tower had not yet been fully repaired. Wards had been restored, but the inner alcove would need a dedicated ritual to realign the cracked arch where the pensieve had once rested.

The Potter pensieve.
An heirloom, centuries old, intricately bound to blood and memory, and until recently, ensconced safely within Albus’s office, where it had rested since 1980.

He had not taken it lightly.
He had done so with clear magical intent, under what he considered to be fair and necessary precaution. When James and Lily were lost, the vault had defaulted to institutional freeze.
The boy was untrained. The world was unstable.
The items were too valuable to be left dormant.

He had acted for stewardship.

The same was true of the other pieces. The family grimoire. The potions compendium annotated by Charlus Potter himself. All removed, cataloged, studied, protected.

The intent had always been to return them.
Eventually.

When Harry was ready. When the world was ready. When they could be placed in hands that understood the weight.

The goblins, evidently, had disagreed.
Their letter in response to his appeal to reclaim the items they took had arrived two days ago in a scroll tied with red cord. The parchment had been magically reinforced.

The tone was final.
The message had been simple: Items improperly removed from the Potter family vaults had been recovered. No action against Gringotts would be recognized. The case was closed.

Albus had sent no further appeal.
Because there was nothing to contest. The vault ledger, which he’d accessed under now-questionable pretenses in the 1980s, had likely been re-audited. The heirs were of age. The goblins had acted within their rights.

Still, the seizure had not gone quietly.
The moment the retrieval magic triggered, one of the protective artifacts — a ceremonial obsidian ward disc — had exploded in mid-rotation. It had cracked an outer arch. Shattered three floating crystals. Set off three alarms.

He had been in the room when it happened.
The pain in his hand had flared — a known side effect of older goblin reclamation magics — and it had taken the better part of an hour to calm Fawkes, who had shrieked loud enough to rattle portraits down the entire corridor.

And Potter had said nothing.
Had not even looked at him with the hint of recognition.

Dumbledore leaned slightly back in his chair, still watching the boy speak to Macmillan. His voice seemed low. The girl to his left nodded. The other smirked faintly and lifted her goblet to her lips.

They were calm.
That, above all, convinced Dumbledore that they did not know.

Because if Potter had realized what the goblins had returned to him — if he had connected that particular set of vault losses to Dumbledore himself — then there would have been fury, outburst, and accusation.

There had been none.
Potter was naïve in matters of legacy. His education had never included estate law, vault structure, or the subtleties of heirloom entitlement. He had only just begun to operate at the level of public optics. Magical politics was a different arena entirely.

And Dumbledore had occupied it for over a century.
If there was risk, it was not immediate, and if there was fallout, it could still be guided.

He would speak with Harry. Perhaps this week. A private conversation with gentle words.
An invitation to reflection.
And an apology.
Not from himself, of course. From Harry.

He would speak with Minerva. Frame it as a correction of tone. The boy had overstepped with Severus. Understandable, perhaps, in the heat of adolescence — but unacceptable for maintaining order.

A show of humility would help him. Soften perception and reinforce trust.
Even now, the Hall whispered.
Order, after all, was the true legacy of Hogwarts.
And Albus Dumbledore had no intention of surrendering it.

The steam rising from the roasted lamb drifted upward toward the vaulted ceiling, caught briefly in the enchanted candlelight before fading into nothing. Across the Gryffindor table, students reached for serving spoons and fresh rolls. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed down the bench. The evening unfolded like any other.

Ron Weasley stared at his plate.
The food looked fine — perfectly roasted, just like always. But the smell turned his stomach.
Like eating would take effort he didn’t have.

He reached for the goblet, took a sip of pumpkin juice, and immediately set it down.
Too sweet. Or maybe too thick. Or maybe his tongue was just off again.

He glanced down the table. Harry wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t. He hadn’t sat with them since the term began. Not once.
He’d claimed a seat at the Hufflepuff table alongside Daphne fucking Greengrass and Susan bloody Bones like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the staff had let him. McGonagall had said nothing. Dumbledore hadn’t even looked surprised.

Ron stabbed at the potatoes. 
He didn’t want to look up, but he did anyway.

And there they were — laughing at something Ernie Macmillan had said, Susan nudging Harry with her shoulder, Daphne sipping calmly from her goblet like she owned the table.

His grip tightened.
They weren’t even being subtle about it anymore.
And people were eating it up.

Hermione sat beside him, posture tight, her back perfectly straight. She hadn’t touched her food either, but unlike Ron, her eyes kept moving to the parchment rolled up beside her plate.

It was the Arithmancy review they’d been assigned last week. She’d already finished it, of course, but something about it didn’t sit right. Her jaw was clenched, and every few minutes, she seemed to glance down at the roll of parchment as though hoping the runes had changed while she wasn’t looking.

Ron leaned in, trying to keep his voice low.
“You think Dumbledore’ll talk to him?”

Hermione didn’t look up. “He’ll have to. What happened in class was completely unacceptable. A student challenging a professor like that—”
“He humiliated him.”

The words came out sharper than intended.
Hermione blinked and turned slightly. “What?”

“Snape,” Ron muttered. “He didn’t just argue. He made him look weak. In front of everyone. And now—look.”
He gestured, not subtly, toward the Hufflepuff table.
Daphne tossed her hair back in a slow, liquid arc. Susan was whispering something to Harry, close enough that her lips brushed his ear.

Hermione watched for a moment, then forced herself to look away.
“Disgraceful,” she muttered, and reached for her fork.

Ron turned back to his plate. The lamb hadn’t moved, but the thought of eating it made his throat clench.
He set the fork down again, slower this time.
He hadn’t felt hungry all week.
The healers had called it “core fatigue.” A minor effect, they said, from excessive spell misfires and stress. Pomfrey had phrased it gently — something about over-extension during puberty.
That didn’t make sense. He was eighteen. He was supposed to be growing into his magic, not watching it slip through his fingers like bathwater.

His wand still worked. But he felt it now — every cast felt heavier. Like it came from farther away. Like something essential had gone quiet.

His hand curled into a fist under the table.
He hadn’t told Hermione.
She wouldn’t understand. Or worse — she would. And she’d look at him the way she looked at Harry now.

It wasn’t fair to be this vulnerable.

Especially when he’d had power. Real power. Parseltongue. For years, he’d kept it secret. No one knew.
A gift he never flaunted, never admitted, never used unless he was alone.

And then, it disappeared.
He had gone down to the second-floor girls’ lavatory two nights ago, long after curfew, heart racing with something between fear and hope. He’d waited until the castle was asleep, then hissed the command with quiet confidence.
Open.

Nothing happened. The sinks stayed still. The Chamber stayed sealed.
He’d tried again. And again.
The words felt wrong in his mouth — hollow, clumsy, inert. As if the magic had simply… left him.

The basilisk carcass was supposed to be the answer. Even if half-rotted, its remains would fetch a fortune — hide, bones, fangs, venom traces. The kind of money that could wipe debts, fix the roof, pay off school fees for him. The kind of find that would make the Ministry forget the Weasleys’ slide into irrelevance.
He’d done the math. Thought it through.

And now the one key he had — gone.
Vanished without cause. Without warning.
Just like everything else lately.

Hermione, meanwhile, was chewing mechanically. A carrot slice. It looked forced. She reached for her goblet, took a sip, set it down, and picked up her parchment again — just long enough to unroll it and scan the first few lines.

Then she sighed.
She had read the material. She had copied the formulas. She had done the extra reading. And yet… the final theorem didn’t click.

It should have clicked. She’d done this level of work before. She used to process runic arithmancy intuitively — back when she had the clarity.

She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t.

But things weren’t coming together like they used to.
And no one had said anything, but she’d felt it in class. The shift in energy when she raised her hand and got something… not wrong, but not fully right.
Blaise Zabini had raised his brow once. Padma hadn’t looked over during group work.
And Parvati — Parvati had taken notes off Daphne’s lecture today. Not hers.
That had never happened before.

Hermione rolled the parchment back up, slower this time. The numbers danced slightly on the edge of her vision.

She hadn’t told Ron.
He’d think she was being dramatic. Or hormonal. Or tired.

But deep down she knew — something had changed. Something fundamental. Her edge was blunter now.
Her reach shorter.
But she wouldn’t say it. Not aloud. Not even to herself.
She was still the brightest witch of her age.
She just needed more rest. More revision. Less distraction.
She looked up at Harry again — he was smiling slightly now, listening to Hannah Abbott speak.

Hermione turned away fast, as though caught.
“He’s not that clever,” she said aloud, half to herself.

Ron didn’t reply.

Dumbledore let his gaze pass calmly across the length of the Gryffindor table, eyes settling for a moment on Ronald Weasley.
The boy sat hunched over his plate, listlessly moving his fork through food he had no intention of eating.

His skin had taken on a strange pallor, the robust energy of summer having faded prematurely, leaving a texture that seemed loose, as though his body no longer fit him correctly.
The ambient magic that usually clung to a young wizard of his age had faded into something barely perceptible, thin and brittle like old parchment. Dumbledore could feel the difference.
Weasley’s core was failing, retreating from the center of him.

Beside him, Hermione Granger kept her back perfectly straight, posture flawless and rigid with habitual control. Yet there was no harmony in her rhythm.
Her movements had become too calculated, too mechanical, as if she were mimicking her own behavior from memory.
A roll of parchment sat beside her elbow, and though she opened it, scanned it, and rolled it again with impeccable neatness, she had repeated the action several times already without appearing to notice.
Her eyes moved, but did not absorb. Her focus shifted, but never sharpened.
It was the repetition of a mind that no longer trusted its instincts.

Dumbledore had noticed it a week ago. The small delays in her answers. The unevenness in her spellwork. The faltering certainty masked by the shell of academic rigor. She was trying to keep pace with an intellect that no longer responded at the speed she expected.

In Weasley, the deterioration had been even more evident—his appetite waning, his physical energy sapped, his aura beginning to recede like low tide leaving behind the wet stone of something gutted.

Now he understood why.
The rituals were beginning to recoil, as all unbalanced structures eventually do.
It was no longer a theoretical possibility or distant concern; it had become observable, measurable, and inevitable.

The traits he had once siphoned away from Harry Potter were making their slow, gravitational return to their original host.
He could imagine the lines of reabsorption through Ron’s faltering steps, through Hermione’s increasingly brittle logic.
The magic they had carried for years was withdrawing like warmth from fading embers.

He suspected it had been triggered by long exposure to one another.
Three years of magical intimacy, shared stress, emotional dependence, and proximity in every sense that mattered. Classrooms, dormitories, late-night escapades, ritual bonds formed by survival.

The principles underlying magical equilibrium were older than spellcraft, deeper than theory.
They resisted tampering.
Such gifts, once stolen, insisted on restitution. And now, the gifts were going home.

The unraveling was inconvenient, and it had come earlier than anticipated. But it was not unmanageable.
He allowed himself a single breath before leaning slightly back in his chair to think with the full weight of memory.

He had known the danger from the beginning. The moment he held Harry Potter as an infant—too small to speak, too young to understand his situation—he had felt it.
The child’s core radiated a potency that nearly made the air shimmer, a density of magic and thought packed tightly within an unformed mind.
Dumbledore had cast protective wards that night and nearly recoiled when his own spell rebounded ever so slightly, reacting to the sheer saturation of power within the baby.
It had been unlike anything he had ever encountered.

He had only felt that once before—in Tom, when he was a boy.
And in himself, long before he learned to fear what such power could become.

That memory had hardened into doctrine. No one—no child, no matter how innocent—should carry that much alone.
Left unmoderated, such power bent the world around it, distorted perceptions, inflated will, and unraveled empathy. Hubris did not grow from malice; it grew from density without dilution.
So he made a decision. And he acted.

The first ritual had been for Ronald.
They were six years old, both of them—Harry still confined at Privet Drive, Ron still small enough to be reshaped without resistance.
He brought Molly with him as reinforcement. Her loyalty was predictable, and her gratitude to what he intended to do made her pliable.

Harry had been in the cupboard when they arrived. Dumbledore had opened the door—just enough to expose him to the spell’s field, not enough to allow him movement or understanding.
The boy had stirred in sleep, unaware of what was being done to him, his core still vibrating with raw, unshaped magic.
The runes were drawn in chalk across the living room floor.
Ron was placed in the center, barefoot, eyes blank.
Molly stood as the external anchor, her presence helping to root the ritual through familial blood.

The transfer began.
A full half of Harry’s magical core was severed and bound to Ron through a lattice of bloodline invocation and name inheritance.
It was the kind of power Ron would never have known otherwise, a foundation his own birth would never have granted him.
But that alone was not enough.

Dumbledore added another clause wordlessly.
He reached into the coil of Harry’s soul and pulled away a fragment of the Parseltongue gift—an ancestral legacy that had once flowed freely through Salazar’s kin and had, through some strange mercy, awakened in young Harry with terrifying strength.
It was stronger than Tom’s had ever been. Too strong.
It needed to be blunted, scattered, hidden. Ron’s inert magical signature mixed now with young Harry’s made him the perfect vessel.

The gift was transferred but Harry had unfortunately woken up.
Before the boy could fully register the scene—before he could form the memory—Dumbledore reached into his mind and removed it.
It was efficient, even humane, in its own way.

Years later, when Harry turned fourteen, Dumbledore enacted the second ritual.
This time, the subject was Hermione.

Under the guise of the Muggleborn Orientation Program, Dumbledore had visited the Grangers at their home. Her parents were delighted. They welcomed him, made tea, and left him alone with their daughter in the sitting room without hesitation.

He had entered her mind gently, and what he found had pleased him.
A rigid internal structure. A reverence for institutional control.
A need to be right, to be superior, to be useful.
And beneath that, a tightly coiled selfishness disguised as moral clarity — the perfect foundation for a loyal anchor.

That combination of traits—intellectual rigor bound to obedience, a selfish will cloaked in rule-following righteousness—made her the ideal subject for the role he had designed.

He explained her place in the grand structure as he had envisioned it: as Harry’s compass in all things institutional and moral, a shaping presence meant to guide his choices and check his excesses.
She would serve as his intellectual guide, his stabilizing force, the quiet hand on the scale that kept him tethered to himself.
Through her influence, he would remain aligned with the fate he was destined to serve.

She agreed instantly, gleeful at the chance to claim more mental power.
The ritual had already been prepared in a secure chamber beneath the southern turret, protected by strong wards. Harry was brought there, asleep and unaware.
While he slept, a large portion of his mental gifts—his memory retention, pattern recognition, abstract reasoning, problem-solving instinct, and intuitive magical analysis—was transferred to her.

Harry stirred during the ritual.
Dumbledore removed the memory before it could coalesce.

The effects had been visible within a fortnight. Her brilliance exploded, her confidence crystallized.
She had become the intellectual force he needed her to be.
She had thrived, as he predicted.

And now, just as predictably, the unraveling had begun.
Ron was shedding strength as if his body no longer knew how to hold it.
Hermione’s acuity dulled with each passing day, and her compulsive rechecking of answers had already become habitual. The rituals had dissolved.
But it was not a failure.

Dumbledore’s fingers brushed the stem of his goblet.
The coming summer solstice would offer another chance. The alignment would be strong.
He would restore what had unraveled. The siphoned power would be claimed again.
The memories suppressed once more.
This time, he would weave the anchors more deeply—link them not just to magical identity, but to structural obligation: duty, and gratitude.

Harry had lived half a life once without it. He could live it again.
And in so doing, the world would remain safe from what he might become.

The mood at the Hufflepuff table was a quiet pulse beneath the broader noise of the hall.
Conversation here ran lower, more controlled, as if the very act of sitting beside Harry Potter and the two witches flanking him had sobered the energy into something more focused.

Harry sat with his shoulders relaxed but his spine straight, one hand curled lightly around his goblet, the other resting against Susan’s thigh beneath the table, his fingers idly brushing the crease of her robes.
Daphne was on his other side, posture regal, eating slowly — like a queen surveying the room between bites.

Hannah Abbott sat across from them, her tone warm. Her friendship with Susan was old and uncomplicated, grounded in shared roots and long afternoons filled with giggles.
She had been on board the moment Susan asked her to sit with them.

Ernie Macmillan, however, was still measuring the situation. He was polite, as always — back straight, chin lifted slightly in that way that made him look like a prefect.
But he was listening now, and Harry could see it: the angle of his eyes, the subtle way he hadn’t looked away once since the conversation began.

“We’re not building a rebellion,” Susan was saying, her voice smooth, “and we’re not staging a power grab. What we’re doing is simple. We’re preparing the future for people who actually care about how this place works.”

“And not just Hogwarts,” Daphne added, lifting her goblet slightly. “The Ministry is what it is because Hogwarts let it happen. Year after year, decade after decade. They all watched it rot.”

Ernie’s brow drew slightly downward. “Rot is a strong word.”
“It is,” Harry said.There was no apology in the tone. “But accurate. You saw what happened with Snape.”

Ernie hesitated. “He lost control.”
“No,” Harry said. “He revealed himself. He’s been protected for years — by policy, by precedent, and by a Headmaster who hides behind tradition when it suits him. Snape didn’t slip. He showed what he really is.”

“And what are you planning to do about it?” Ernie asked out of genuine curiosity, as if testing the edge of the answer.
“Not much,” Harry replied. “Not directly and not yet. That’s the point.”

Daphne smiled faintly, finishing for him. “We don’t need to tear anything down. All we have to do is make sure the right people stop pretending they don’t see it.”
“And once they see it,” Susan continued, “they’ll have to choose. Protect it — or stand with us.”

Ernie sat back slightly, folding his arms. “I’ve heard that line before. ‘Stand with us.’ It usually ends with someone getting thrown under the Knight Bus.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, his gaze level.
“I’m not asking for loyalty,” he said. “I’m asking for honesty. You know who I am. You’ve seen what Hogwarts has turned into. You know which professors run on grudges instead of logic. I’m not perfect. I don’t pretend to be. But I don’t want to burn this place down. I want to fix it. Keep the traditions that matter. Rip out the parts that have gone to rot.”

“And the Ministry?”
“It’s the same problem,” Harry said. “Too many bloodline puppets. Too many favors traded instead of policies enforced. Too many people like Lucius Malfoy calling the tune just because they write the biggest cheques.”

“They’re dead,” Daphne said quietly, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Lucius is already gone. And more will follow. Either by scandal or by accident.”
Ernie looked between them, then settled back into silence for a few moments.

Across the table, Hannah gave him a small nod.
Finally, Ernie exhaled. “You’re not wrong. And I’m tired of watching students get graded by surname and staff behavior justified by history.”

He paused.
“But I won’t sell out Hufflepuff values for political points.”
Susan smiled genuinely at that. “Good. We’re not asking you to. We’re asking you to hold onto them. Loudly.”
Harry nodded once. “We don’t need puppets. We need foundations.”

Ernie met his gaze, and this time, there was no reservation in the eyes.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s see if Hogwarts remembers what that actually means.”

The evening din had faded, replaced by the familiar shuffle of students filing out in twos and threes. The final plates had vanished minutes ago.
At the Hufflepuff table, Harry rose with Susan and Daphne close beside him.
A few eyes followed, but none lingered long — not when the trio moved as if the room bent slightly around them.

They exited the Great Hall together, their footsteps silent across stone as they slipped down a less-traveled hall near the main entrance. Susan opened the nearest disused classroom and held the door until they were all inside.

The room was quiet, walls lined with empty shelving and dust-marked desks. Daphne leaned back against one, crossing her ankles, while Susan turned to Harry with a look that was more confirmation than concern.
“He kept watching,” she said.
Harry nodded. “Six times. Maybe more.”
Daphne’s voice was cool. “He’ll summon us.”
“We’re ready,” Harry replied.
There was no hesitation between them.
Susan gave a slight smile. “He may not like the three of us showing up together.”
“Then he can read the charter,” Harry said. “We’re adults, and our betrothal is already declared. He has no grounds to deny it.”
Daphne tilted her head. “And if he tries to stall or isolate?”
Harry’s mouth curled just slightly. “Then he’ll get in trouble.”

Susan stepped in, hand sliding up Harry’s chest like she owned the shape of it, her fingers brushing his throat before she turned and grabbed Daphne by the back of her neck.
“No teasing this time,” she muttered, voice already thick. “I want tongue.”
Daphne met her halfway, mouths crashing together in a wet, open-mouthed kiss that had no courtesy to it. Their lips parted on contact, tongues tangling in a slick, hungry rhythm, Susan moaning softly into her mouth as she pressed their bodies flush.
One of her hands slid down Daphne’s side and cupped her ass, fingers squeezing hard enough to make Daphne gasp into her mouth.

“Fuck,” Daphne murmured when they pulled apart just enough to breathe.
Susan licked her lips, eyes still on Daphne. “You’ll get more tomorrow, love.”
Then she turned and grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt, yanking him down hard, her voice dropping to a growl.
“Now you.”

She kissed him like it was a dare — mouth open, tongue thrusting deep into his mouth like she meant to taste the back of his throat. There was no softness. It was wet, filthy need.
Her breasts flattened against his chest as her hips rolled against his cock through their robes, grinding with unmistakable hunger.
She moaned directly into his mouth, a greedy sound that made his hands twitch at his sides.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were wet and parted, her eyes dancing.
“You’re staying hard for me until I ride you tomorrow.”

Daphne was already moving, one hand sliding behind his neck as she pulled him in without a word.
She kissed slowly, but it was no less obscene — her tongue entering his mouth in a single, confident stroke, her hips tilting just enough for him to feel the heat of her body through the gap between their robes.
She sucked lightly on his bottom lip before biting it, then let out a soft moan right into his mouth as her fingers gripped the back of his collar tight.

When she broke the kiss, she whispered against his lips,
“Taste like that again tomorrow, and I’ll swallow every drop.”

She tapped his hip once, fingers trailing downward to brush his bulge. A wicked smile pulled at the edge of her mouth.
Susan snorted and grinned wide, then smacked his ass with a loud, satisfying slap.
“Don’t come in your trousers, Potter. We’re not done yet.”
“Not even close,” Daphne added, licking the edge of her lip.

With one last look the girls turned in perfect synchrony and sauntered out, hips swaying deliberately, robes sliding over curves with each step.
Susan glanced over her shoulder with a wink, and Daphne followed it with a slow sway that showed off the way her ass filled her skirt.

They vanished into the corridor like sin made flesh.
Harry stood still, lips tingling, cock throbbing behind his waistband, his breath finally catching up to him.
Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall had not yet filled. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling in soft amber hues, touching the long rows of tables with warm light that felt too peaceful to be real.
A thin fog of morning fatigue lingered across the room, muffled footsteps and clinking cutlery forming the backdrop to a breakfast hour. Students filtered in slowly, walking in clusters or drifting solo.
The Hogwarts undercurrent had shifted. Yesterday's chaos in Snape's class still echoed faintly, coiling beneath the calm.

At the Hufflepuff table, near its far end, the trio sat unbothered.
Harry in the middle, Susan to his right, Daphne on his left. Each moved with confidence, their gestures of closeness laid bare for all to see.
Daphne’s hand brushed his knee under the table when she reached for pumpkin juice. Susan tilted into him as she bit into a piece of toast, her cheek grazing his shoulder. Their connection wasn’t loud, but it radiated something unmistakable — unity with teeth.

Harry took a sip of strong coffee and glanced toward the entrance. They had arrived early on purpose, knowing the calm wouldn’t last. The whispers would begin again once Lavender and Parvati entered.
They always did when Gryffindor’s twin social stars and mistresses of gossip crossed the room.

They appeared five minutes later, side by side as usual. Lavender’s hairs bounced with each step, her uniform crisp but open at the collar, giving just enough of a tease.
Parvati moved with grace, her bangles clinking faintly with each motion.
They scanned the hall, eyes sharp beneath the charm, and made their way directly to the trio’s end of the Hufflepuff table as they were asked to this morning by Harry in the common room.

“Morning, darlings,” Lavender said, sliding onto the bench opposite Susan like she belonged there. Her tone was too bright to be innocent.

Parvati sat opposite to Daphne, and crossed her legs under the table. “Glad you saved room — would’ve made things awkward if we had to hover.”

Susan gave her a lazy smile. “You’ve both been circling this table for days. Ready to land?”
Lavender didn’t miss a beat. “We go where the fun is. And lately, that’s been centered around your seat.”

Her eyes flicked to Harry, lips curving slightly. The undertone wasn’t subtle. Neither was the way Parvati leaned forward, elbows on the table, her eyes dragging over Harry’s collar like she was picturing it undone.

Daphne made a soft sound, something between a scoff and a laugh. “You do realize he’s betrothed.”
Lavender raised a brow, unbothered. “Not dead.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “Always nice to be reminded.”
Parvati tilted her head. “We’re allies in waiting. Not mourners.”

Susan gave a short, quiet laugh and reached for a slice of pear. She bit into it slowly.
“Bold talk for girls who have not yet picked a side.”
Lavender shrugged. “We didn’t say we hadn’t picked. Just that we haven’t signed anything.”
“Besides,” Parvati added, “we like to watch the board before we move our pieces.”
Daphne cut a piece of sausage with the tip of her knife. “You’ll find the board resets fast these days.”

Lavender poured herself a cup of tea, stirred it once, and leaned toward Susan slightly.
“So. Snape didn’t show up to dinner last night.”
“He’s still missing,” Susan replied, voice neutral. “He’s apparently… unwell.”
“Shame,” Parvati said with exaggerated innocence. “He seemed so healthy when he tried to flay Harry’s dignity in public.”
Harry didn’t look up from his coffee. “He slipped.”

Lavender laughed sultrily. “More like crashed. The talk around Gryffindor is he lost half his dignity in that classroom.”
“Just half?” Susan murmured.
Parvati smirked. “Maybe three-quarters. Hard to say. We’re still finding the pieces.”

The conversation stretched comfortably. Around them, more students arrived in clumps — a group of seventh-year Ravenclaws, some fifth-year Slytherins muttering in pairs.
But the table’s far end remained oddly insulated, an invisible bubble forming around the five of them as they spoke.

Lavender stirred her tea again but didn’t drink it.
“So. Betrothal. That’s the talk of the dorms. Yours, obviously,” she added with a glance toward Harry, “but also the idea of doing them again, like old wizarding families used to. Greengrass and Bones — respectable names. Potter, well...”
She grinned.
“...not exactly subtle, is it?”

“Not trying to be,” Daphne said, tone even. “Subtlety’s for people who don’t have teeth.”
Susan tapped her spoon once. “Or power.”
Parvati looked between them. “You three really aren’t playing, are you?”
Harry finally looked up. “We’ve played enough.”

Lavender and Parvati exchanged a glance. For the first time that morning, the air shifted — just a shade heavier.
“You three make waves,” Parvati said, voice lighter than her eyes. “The rest of us just try not to get dragged under.”
Daphne didn’t look away. “You don’t have to stay on the edge.”

A long pause followed. Lavender broke it with a short sigh and a tilt of her cup.
“You know what the problem is?” she said, not waiting for an answer. “People remember the last war. The alliances. The blood. The betrayals. Sides weren’t just political, they were lethal. And some of us — not all — but some of us just want to stay out of the crossfire.”
Parvati nodded. “We’re not fighters. We don’t have Auror aunts or ancient vaults. We have beds, books, a couple clever charms. That’s it.”
“There’s safety in staying out of the line of fire,” Lavender added. “We’ve seen what happens when people speak too loudly.”

Susan didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached for the pot of coffee and refilled Harry’s cup without looking. Her posture was easy and her voice soft.
“You’re already involved,” she said.
Lavender blinked.
“You just don’t get to steer,” Susan continued. “That’s what neutrality really means. Watching someone else hold the reins and hoping the carriage doesn’t tip.”

Parvati frowned slightly. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” Daphne said, knife still in hand. “You think staying quiet keeps you safe. It doesn’t. It just lets someone else decide what’s normal. Who gets pushed. Who gets erased.”
“You think we’re starting a war,” Susan added. “We’re not. We’re building leverage. Insurance. Room to speak without being crushed.”
Harry’s voice followed. “You already know what silence does. The wrong people speak louder.”

Parvati looked down, just briefly, then back up. “And what — this group you’re forming — it’s just politics?”
Daphne answered. “It’s voice.”
“It’s visibility.” Susan added
“It’s survival. The kind that doesn’t require screaming, or dying. Just choosing to matter.” Harry concluded.

Lavender looked at Parvati again. This time the exchange was longer. There was something unspoken in it. When Lavender finally turned back to the trio, the flirtation hadn’t vanished, but it was no longer the lead dance.
“If we’re doing this,” she said slowly, “what does that actually look like?”

Daphne leaned forward slightly, setting down her fork. Her fingers laced together atop the table gracefully, in that trained Greengrass way that made even silence feel like an advantage.
She looked first to Lavender, then to Parvati, and for a long moment said nothing.
The pause was calculated.
“Control,” she said finally. “That’s what it looks like.”
Parvati arched a brow. “Whose?”
“Yours,” Daphne replied. “With our help.”

She unfolded her hands and picked up her spoon, twirling it absently in her fingers. The gesture was elegant, but her voice was all spine.
“You already own the looks,” she continued. “The whispers. The attention. Every time one of you walks through the corridor, five conversations shift, and at least three boys lose their train of thought. We don’t need you to fight. We need you to guide the things people say when they think they’re just talking. The little nudges that change a rumor’s shape. A tone of voice that turns curiosity into confidence — or doubt.”

Parvati’s expression sobered, just a touch. “You’re talking about influence.”
“I’m talking about direction,” Daphne corrected. “Most people follow whatever narrative is loudest. We make sure that narrative benefits us — and you. That it protects those aligned with us, and undermines the ones who need undermining.”

Lavender gave a slow, assessing nod. “So, steering gossip.”
“Shaping perception,” Daphne clarified. “We won’t feed you scripts. We’ll give you context. Insight. You’ll know where the danger is, where the pressure’s building, and how to tilt it. One sentence at a time. One raised eyebrow in the right hallway.”
Parvati leaned back slightly. “That sounds… manageable.”

Susan reached across the table and picked up a strawberry from Parvati’s plate without asking. She bit into it, then spoke through the sweetness. “And fun.”
Lavender looked from one to the other. “Let me guess. You already know who’s against you.”
“Of course,” Daphne said. “And some who think they’re still hidden.”

Harry nodded once. “Every time someone makes a snide comment about the betrothal, we listen. Every time someone pretends to forget Susan’s name but remembers who her aunt is — we log it.”

Lavender glanced around the Hall, instinctively checking who might be watching. “So this is more than a clique.”
Susan wiped a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth. “This is Vox Nova.”
Parvati tilted her head. “That’s Latin.”
“New voice,” Daphne translated. “Because the old ones got lazy, corrupt, dead.”

Lavender’s fingers tapped softly on her teacup, nails painted a shimmering dusk-violet. She looked at Parvati, who looked back. A weighty silence of two minds moving in tandem, running calculations beneath expressions that barely changed ensued.

Finally, Lavender tilted her head toward Harry. “And you’re the center of this?”
He set his mug down. “We are the center of this. But it’s not a monarchy. It’s a force multiplier.”
Parvati smiled faintly. “You sound like Flitwick.”
Harry’s reply was mild. “He’d probably agree with me for once.”

Lavender pushed her hair back from her shoulder and exhaled softly. “Alright. Let’s say we’re in. What’s our first move?”
Daphne smiled, a slow and dangerous curve. “Start with undermining the story that the trio is dangerous.”
“And replace it with?” Lavender asked.
“Effective,” Susan said.
“Composed,” Harry added.
“Desirable,” Daphne finished.
Parvati’s smile sharpened. “Oh, that last one writes itself.”

Lavender gave a low, amused hum, her voice dipped in honey. “You sure you want us making you sex symbols? There’s a rumor that Harry’s hung like a broomstick.”

Susan didn’t even glance up from her croissant. She took a slow bite, chewed, and said calmly, “He is.”
Both Lavender and Parvati froze — for all of a breath — then blinked in perfect, stunned unison.
Lavender's lips parted, then curled into a grin that flirted with feral. Parvati’s gaze dropped to Harry’s lap with open curiosity, then flicked back up, her tongue briefly wetting her lower lip.

“Well, fuck,” Lavender muttered, half-laughing. “We’ve been wasting time.”
Parvati let out a soft, wicked laugh. “You know someone said the three of you are part of a fertility cult? Something about ancient magic, power-sharing through sex rituals.”

Susan finally looked up, her expression unreadable except for the glint in her eye.
“Let them believe it,” she said, brushing a crumb from her robes with composure.
“They’ll believe worse soon.”

Parvati leaned in slightly, steering the conversation back on track.
“So it’s a seduction campaign.”
“Exactly,” Daphne said, pleased by Parvati's quick wit. “We don’t need to convince everyone we’re right. We need them to want to be near us. To imitate. To defer. To follow without realizing they are.”

Lavender looked down at her tea again and finally took a sip.
“I could work with that,” she murmured.
Parvati gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose it’s better than finishing my essays on time.”

Harry watched them with calm satisfaction. Their rhythm was good now, it barely needed verbal confirmation. The moment Parvati and Lavender said yes — even in tone, even in posture — the path had shifted again. Vox Nova was growing roots.

“I assume this remains private?” Lavender asked.
Daphne gave her a look like a blade unsheathed. “Until we decide it doesn’t.”
Harry followed. “But feel free to drop a few barbs in the right direction.”
Parvati lifted her cup and clinked it gently against Lavender’s. “To whispering campaigns.”
Lavender turned to Susan. “To sexy influence.”

Susan, never one to be outdone, lifted her glass of juice. “To allies who wear short skirts and sharpen daggers in the same breath.”
Daphne joined the toast. “To the new voice.”
Harry raised his cup last. “And to being heard.”
The five cups clinked in a muted chorus, like a bell struck in mist.

Around them, the hall had begun to fill with more students. The bubble was thinning. But the alliance had already been sealed.

And then, as if the toast had somehow signaled the universe to permit it — Lavender leaned toward Harry and said, just loud enough for the nearby bench to overhear, “Betrothal or not, I’m still reserving a broom closet.”
Parvati winked. “We’re allies. Doesn’t mean we can’t share fantasies.”

Susan didn’t flinch. She simply licked her thumb, met Parvati’s gaze, and said,
“You can borrow the fantasy.”

Daphne tilted her head, mock-considering. “Although I wouldn’t mind a review.”
Lavender gave a pleased laugh. “Oh, honey. You’ll get one in writing.”

For a moment, nothing but the scrape of cutlery and the faint rise of morning chatter reached them.
The five of them sat clustered at the far end of the Hufflepuff table, wrapped in the sort of conversation that looked casual but wasn’t. It had shifted, and everyone knew it.
The flirtation hadn’t vanished — it had simply matured. No longer bait, it was now negotiation.

Susan leaned forward just enough to offer a view of her cleavage — deliberately and unabashedly.
“So,” she said, picking up where the teasing left off, “you’re reserving a broom closet. How bold.”

Lavender raised her cup with a small grin. “I’m a Gryffindor. Bold’s practically policy.”
Parvati’s gaze slid to Harry. “Besides, we’re allies now. Doesn’t mean we can’t indulge the occasional… morale boost.”

Daphne set down her fork and looked between them, her smile languid. “You do realize that morale management, as you’re describing it, falls under a different department.”
Susan tilted her head. “Highly exclusive. Application required.”
Lavender’s eyes sparkled. “Is that an invitation?”
“More like a challenge,” Daphne said, sipping from her cup. “We don’t mind sharing dessert — if we’re both feeding it to him.”

Parvati’s eyebrows lifted, playful and appraising. “Teamwork. I like that.”
Harry, still calm and unbothered in the middle, raised an eyebrow. “You do know I’m sitting right here.”

Susan smiled and dragged her fingertip around the rim of her juice glass. “We count on it.”
Lavender leaned in. “You’re the center of this alliance, Harry. Surely you won’t object to a little… strategic intimacy.”

Daphne turned her head locking eyes with Susan. “If it’s strategic,” she said lightly, “maybe we can arrange a demonstration.”

Susan’s smirk deepened, eyes bright with something almost wicked. “After Halloween,” she said sweetly. “Harry’s cock is on sacred reserve until then.”
Lavender blinked, amused. “Is that a real thing?”
Harry gave a long-suffering sigh. “It is now.”
Susan didn’t look at him. “Don’t act like it wasn’t your idea.”

Parvati tapped a finger to her chin. “So no sex until Halloween… but teasing’s fair play?”
“Teasing,” Daphne said, “is encouraged.”
“Within reason,” Susan added.
Lavender let out a delighted, sultry laugh. “Merlin, you two are ruthless.”
“Experienced,” Daphne corrected. “Years of shared cock does that to a girl.”
Parvati choked softly on her juice. “Sorry — did you say years ?”
Susan winked. “We were discreet.”

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, though his lips twitched. “You realize none of this is going to help with your influence management, right?”
Lavender licked a bit of honey from her thumb. “On the contrary. A power bloc with a sex life this dangerous is irresistible.”
Parvati grinned. “We’re not just steering gossip, stud. We’re creating it.”

Daphne chuckled under her breath. “Then do it right. You want to fuel the fire, give them something real to whisper about.”
Lavender raised a brow. “And if they ask whether we’ve ever—”
Susan interrupted. “Say nothing. But smile like you did.”
“Add a stretch,” Daphne added, brushing hair back behind her ear. “Let the imagination do the rest.”
Parvati nodded with mock solemnity. “Understood. Weaponized implication.”
“Exactly,” said Harry.

Around them, the Great Hall was stirring into its full morning rhythm. Students milled through the doors in pairs and clusters, some yawning, some watching the trio’s table with poorly disguised curiosity.
The Hufflepuff's end now held not just a seating arrangement, but an orbit.

Lavender reached for the butter and passed it across Susan’s chest, brushing her hand briefly against the redhead’s breast. The gesture was subtle, innocent in motion — but it was clear for the five of them that she was testing water.

Susan didn’t react with a flinch. She leaned slightly into the motion and offered a small smile. “Gentle hands. Not bad for a Gryffindor.”
Lavender grinned. “I’m adaptable.”
Harry exhaled slowly. “Are you all flirting with each other now?”
Parvati gave him a look of false sympathy. “Darling, you’re not the center of attention. You’re the excuse for it.”

Daphne reached under the table and placed a hand high on Harry’s thigh. “He doesn’t mind. He likes it when we get ideas.”
“Especially the ones that involve tongue,” Susan said absently, buttering her toast.
Lavender leaned closer again. “Maybe we should write some of these fantasies down. Build a little black book for Vox Nova's internal use.”
“Operational notes,” Parvati chimed in. “Field readiness reports.”
Harry looked heavenward. “This is going to end with someone charming my pants off mid-campaign speech, isn’t it?”
Susan smiled wickedly. “Only if you deserve it.”
Daphne bit into a piece of melon and licked her lips deliberately. “Or if we’re bored.”

For a moment longer, the table was theirs. It was rare at Hogwarts for one group to command the air of a room so completely without raising a wand or a voice. Yet here they were: two factions unified, five bodies aligned by wit, desire, and ambition, casually rewriting the school’s power dynamic over coffee and innuendo.

Susan reached for the coffee pot and refilled all their cups, pouring last for Harry. Her movements were fluid, almost ceremonial.
When she finished, she lifted her glass high for this new alliance sealing toast.

“To Vox Nova,” she said.
Daphne followed, eyes locked on Susan, lifting her own. “To influence.”
Parvati raised hers with a smirk. “To well-timed flirtation.”
Lavender clinked her cup with hers. “To secrets shared and moans muffled.”
Harry raised his mug last. “To allies who make politics very hard.”
Laughter broke across the table, bright and unashamed.

Five cups touched in the center. Five minds with shared momentum, bound by intention, pleasure, and purpose.

And as they drank, the first great alliance of Vox Nova solidified with whispered sins, unspoken rules, and the promise of wicked things done together.

The Transfiguration classroom smelled faintly of parchment, sun-warmed stone, and chalk dust — an ancient perfume steeped into the walls, unchanging even as the students within shifted year to year. The light filtered through narrow windows in diagonal shafts, cutting across the tiered benches and illuminating the curves of polished wood desks.

At the far left, the Gryffindors filled in noisily. Ron dropped his bag with a graceless thump and Hermione followed two steps behind, her lips already pursed in anticipation.
Neville trailed after them, his expression guarded, clutching his new wand as though it might spring from his hand and solve his insecurities.

Harry entered last, seemingly unhurried, though he already knew exactly where he was going.
The back row, his favorite place to think without interruption.

He slid into his seat, and barely had time to adjust his robes before Lavender dropped into the seat at his right, her skirt suspiciously short for the uniform code.
Parvati then claimed the seat on his left, her posture too casual to be innocent.

Daphne Greengrass sat two rows down, poised and sphinx like — head tilted, lips parted slightly as she studied the seating chart with the serenity of someone watching a game play out exactly as predicted.

“Good morning,” Lavender purred.
Parvati smiled without turning. “Hope you’re well rested.”
Harry raised a brow. “For Transfiguration?”
“For what comes during Transfiguration,” Lavender corrected, hand already drifting under the desk toward his lap.

Her fingers brushed the edge of his robes, then the firm line beneath. Parvati's hand met hers a breath later, from the opposite side, and the heat of their shared grin pulsed between them like a hidden current.

Professor McGonagall entered, her robes crisp, her bun unforgiving. She strode to the front of the room with authority woven into every step. The students fell into silence. The chalk rose of its own accord and scrawled the lesson across the board:

Advanced Transfiguration: Animate-to-Inanimate Cycling

“Wands out,” she said without preamble. “You will need your full focus today.”
Harry shifted slightly, allowing Lavender’s hand more room to slip beneath his waistband. Parvati’s fingers brushed against hers, and the quiet sound of a zipper whispered between their seats.

Lavender let out a soft, slow exhale. “Merlin,” she whispered. “Susan wasn’t lying.”
Parvati’s hand wrapped gently around the base. “This… might require teamwork.”
Lavender’s palm slid up the shaft reverently. “This is why we sit in the back, isn’t it?”
“Focus, ladies,” Harry murmured under his breath. “We’re in class.”
“Exactly,” Parvati said, and then dipped her head, lips parting as she disappeared beneath the desk.

Lavender followed suit a heartbeat later, from the opposite side. The flicker of their heads dipping in sequence would have looked like them retrieving quills to anyone watching. To Harry, it felt like warm mouths closing around his cock from either side, lips wet and greedy and far too good at this to be improvising.
He wordlessly cast a strong Notice-Me-Not around them and his lap.

“She told us to do it this way,” Lavender said, voice muffled around him. “Susan said it makes you twitch if we alternate…”
Parvati added. “And swallow at the same time.”
Harry closed his eyes for half a second, breathing steady. “You’re overachievers.”
“No,” Lavender said, licking the tip. “We’re devotees.”

Below the desk, their hands met again — one gripping the base, the other stroking in tandem. Their tongues danced around each other as much as around him. They moved around him like ritual participants, every breath and flick of the wrist a practiced offering.

At the front, McGonagall continued. “This form of transfiguration is notably demanding. It is not enough to visualize the target object. You must suppress the innate magical residue of animation — reduce the motion, still the form, and impose the stability of inanimacy. Wand movement is a tight vertical flick, clockwise spiral, and release. Mr Weasley, you go first.”

Ron raised his wand, did the motion, and the spell sparked. A book fluttered, half-froze, then flopped open uselessly.
He tried again. The same result. His jaw clenched.
The third time, the book gave a brief shudder and did nothing at all.
Ron’s shirt clung to his back, the early sheen of sweat already gathering at his temples.
He gripped his wand tighter and tried to pretend he wasn’t trembling.

Hermione raised her hand without being called. “Professor, if I may—”
“Wait for your turn, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said coolly, not even looking up from her notes.
“Mr. Longbottom, proceed.”

Neville stood with the stiff motion of someone pretending he didn’t care how badly this could go.
He raised his new wand — polished yew with a glint of silver around the hilt. Expensive and symbolic.
He flicked it downward and began the spiral.
The quill on his desk shimmered. Then, halfway through the transformation, it began to rot. Feathers decayed in fast-forward, then the quill collapsed into dust.
Neville’s face went pale.

In the row behind him, Harry remained still, even as Parvati's lips slid down sideways on his shaft, her tongue tracing a wet, sinuous path. Lavender kissed his tip again before sinking down, her throat flexing around him. They worked in tandem now — one up, one down, switching rhythm like a shared language passed between mouths.

Daphne flicked her wand once and transformed a small pebble into a perfect silver spoon. She didn’t look at it. She was watching Harry, observing the way his chest rose, the way he breathed through exquisite discipline, the way his wand sat untouched on the desk in front of him.

McGonagall turned to face the room again.
“I expect better by now. Even for those with… setbacks.”
Her eyes flicked toward Ron, who stared straight ahead, lips thin.
“Mr. Potter,” she said next, tone crisp. “Would you care to demonstrate?”

Lavender and Parvati had just switched — their mouths still warm when they pulled back, his cock glistening, saliva trailing between their lips and the tip.

Harry adjusted his wand hand with the fluidity of muscle memory and pointed toward the wooden cube on his desk.
“Volaticus ex animi,” he murmured.

The cube dissolved into fine obsidian, solidified, and then snapped into the shape of a black, still raven. Inanimate, lifeless, perfect. Not a feather out of place. A level of control most students wouldn’t reach anytime soon.
McGonagall’s gaze held steady. “Well done.”
Then she turned without pause, moving on to the next student.

Lavender dipped down again, her mouth quick, tongue fluttering like applause. Parvati kissed the shaft below, whispering, “You didn’t even flinch.”
Harry replied without looking at her. “Practice.”
She kissed his shaft again. “Tell us when.”
“I’ll warn you,” he murmured. “Once.”
Parvati smiled. “Once's enough.”

Two rows down, Neville clenched his wand harder. He had felt a burst of control with the new one.
He’d seen the shimmer, the resistance give way. But it hadn’t lasted.
And worse — it didn’t matter.
Harry hadn’t even tried and he did it flawlessly.
He looked back at Hermione, expecting shared frustration, but she was staring ahead, eyes narrowed, calculating.

McGonagall’s heels clicked once on the stone floor as she paced back toward her desk, eyes scanning the parchment in her hands as though the world outside it were merely a passing thought.
Several Gryffindors leaned slightly forward, glancing at the perfect raven-shaped obsidian sculpture on Harry’s desk as though proximity might help them replicate it. 
“Now then,” she said. “We will attempt this in pairs. Cooperative casting to cycle between animate and inanimate form — a technique rarely taught before OWL level. You are in your fourth year, so you will find it draining. That is the point.”

Before Harry could glance toward Daphne — the only other competent student in the room, seated in quiet command two rows ahead — a voice cut across the gathering tension.

“I’ll go,” Hermione announced, standing with her wand in hand.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “With whom?”
Hermione’s chin tilted. “Harry.”
He didn’t move.
“Mr. Potter?” the professor prompted.
Harry lifted his wand gracefully and prepared the spell, not bothering to glance at either girl beside him. Below the desk, Lavender’s hand never stopped stroking, even as her eyes flicked toward Parvati, who was already adjusting her posture to prepare for the next pass. They moved like a symphony of control, a rhythm shared and practiced.

Hermione stepped forward, her wand raised, her eyes already focused on the glass orb provided as a neutral casting object.
“On my count,” McGonagall said. “Three. Two. One.”

They cast together.
Hermione’s voice was sharp and her flick precise. The orb shimmered, blurred and began to shift.
Then it faltered.
The glow has stuttered when her control slipped.

Harry's wand moved like breath. The orb stabilized mid-shift, locked in a halfway state that should have collapsed instantly.
Hermione's jaw clenched. She tried again.
The spell buckled.

Harry didn’t interrupt — didn’t even adjust his pressure.
McGonagall said nothing at first. Then, after a slow moment: “Thank you, Miss Granger. You may return to your seat.”

Hermione hesitated, mouth slightly open. But no protest followed. She nodded once and sat down, staring at her desk with unfocused eyes. Her fingers gripped her wand too tightly.

In the back row, Lavender dipped down beneath the table again as Parvati's stroking hand quickened.
This time, her descent was slower to savor every inch.
She ran her tongue along the underside of Harry’s cock before closing her lips around him with hunger.

Parvati leaned against him slightly, her hand steady, her breath warm on his shoulder.
“You made her want to make it disappear.”
Lavender moaned softly around his shaft.
Harry inhaled through his nose, outwardly composed.
“She’s not used to being outclassed,” Parvati murmured.
“With a cock like that, I’m willing to try,” Lavender whispered before taking him deep again.

She finally pulled off, mouth glistening and cheeks flushed with warmth.
She then leaned upright while licking her lips in delight.
Parvati shifted instantly, lowering her head in one smooth motion as Lavender’s hand took over the rhythm. Harry barely moved, but his cock throbbed slightly between them — the only acknowledgment of the slow-burning tension that had taken root and blossomed like ivy beneath the structure of the lesson.

Neville watched from two rows down, biting the inside of his cheek.
He had purchased the wand three weeks before term started. Dragon heartstring, nine inches, and supposedly attuned to sudden magical growth — a wandmaker’s polite way of saying for late bloomers. It had felt good in his hand. Responsive.

He’d imagined coming back to school and standing beside Harry, shoulder to shoulder. Showing the others he wasn’t just a clumsy footnote to the Boy Who Lived — that the Longbottom name meant something.

But it hadn’t changed much.
His magic had improved — yes. He could cast without the wand fighting him. But compared to the cold elegance of Harry’s silent spellwork, compared to the casual dominance with which he commanded a classroom without effort or even awareness — Neville was still crawling.
He looked at Ron, who sat slouched with his wand on the desk, face red with frustration.

Ron had managed one partial transfiguration and then spent the rest of the time massaging his wrist and pretending he was pacing himself. His magic worked, but it was weaker. 

Ron’s eyes found Hermione. She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking at anyone.
She was sitting stiffly, her fingers twitching, as though calculating where she went wrong for the hundredth time.

The truth was painful.
Her edge — that extra precision, the slicing sharpness of her academic dominance — had disappeared.
And now, she was simply… above average.
And worse than the loss of brilliance was the unbearable awareness that she had once held it — but it was no longer there.

At the back, Parvati moaned quietly as she pulled off, her lips parted in a breathy gasp as cum dripped from the corner of her mouth.
Lavender dropped her head without hesitation, taking Harry deep enough to draw a twitch from his thigh.
She swallowed once, twice — each time with a delicate hum of appreciation.
“You taste like they said,” she whispered. “Not just good. Addictive.”
Parvati’s hand stroked in rhythm. “They warned us. They said we’d get hooked.”
Lavender grinned before disappearing beneath the table again to get the scraps they left on his shaft.

Harry exhaled slowly, then turned his gaze toward the front.
McGonagall clapped her hands once. “Enough for today. Those of you who completed the transformation cycle will receive credit toward your practicals. Those who failed…” her eyes lingered on Ron and Neville in sequence, “...may wish to consider remedial revision. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Students gathered their belongings. Lavender and Parvati stood up one at a time, lips flushed and eyes shining. 

Harry tucked himself away and smoothed his robes without a word.
He stood just as McGonagall’s voice cut through the departing hum.
“Mr. Potter. A moment.”

Lavender and Parvati paused mid-step near the door. Parvati glanced back and Harry gave her a tiny nod.
She nodded back and disappeared into the corridor with lavender.

McGonagall waited until the room emptied.
Then she approached, her steps even.
“The Headmaster has requested your presence,” she said.
“When?”
“After dinner in his office.”
“Understood.”

Harry inclined his head slightly, then turned and walked toward the door. He left the perfect obsidian raven on the desk behind him.

In the hallway, Lavender was waiting against the wall, her fingers idly brushing Parvati’s hip.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
Parvati leaned in. “Did she ask what we were doing?”
Harry smiled faintly. “No.”

The door clicked shut behind them with a soft thud that barely echoed through the unused space.
Dust hung in the corners of the room, but the desks had long since been stacked against the walls, leaving a wide open center and a faint smell of aged parchment and dry stone. The last rays of afternoon sun filtered in through grimy glass panes, painting the floor in gold-slashed gray.

Daphne was already on her knees.
She didn’t wait for ceremony — her fingers undid Harry’s robes with clinical speed, pushing fabric aside and freeing his cock with a frantic grip. Her tongue was already out, the tip tracing a slow line along his shaft before she swallowed half of him in a single, elegant motion. The wet sound of her lips sealing around his cock filled the air like a soft, sinful rhythm — one that neither Harry nor Susan acknowledged at first.

Susan stepped in behind them, closed the last foot of space between her and Harry, and wrapped an arm around his side, her hand resting on his abs through his shirt. She wasn’t even watching Daphne — her focus was entirely on him.
“What do you think this little invitation’s about?” she asked quietly, her cheek pushing against his shoulder.

Harry exhaled slowly. His eyes didn’t leave the window. “The betrothal, for one. He’ll pretend it’s concern for my future, or a nudge toward tradition. But the real topic will come after.”

“Goblin business?” she asked.
“Mhm. Quiet questions. Indirect phrasing. He’ll dance around it like it’s all academic curiosity. He won’t ask about the vaults directly — he knows that would give too much away.”

Daphne made a quiet hum around his cock, and Harry’s hips responded almost instinctively. She didn’t let him move — her hands pinned his thighs with just enough pressure to command stillness.

Susan smirked without looking down. “She says you’re right.”
Harry chuckled under his breath.
Susan’s hand slid up his chest. “We’ll eat with Slytherin tomorrow, then. High table. We need to press the Carrows.”
“They’re watching us already,” he said.
“They’ll make the right move,” Susan replied. “Especially if Daphne sets the tone.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Daphne said between strokes, her voice muffled and hot around him. “They’re self-interested, not loyal. They’ll fall into line if we offer rebranding.”

Harry’s hand slid into her hair, fingers woven through platinum strands like they belonged.
“Their family name’s a mess,” Susan murmured. “Too much stink from the inner circle, not enough public distance. We give them a seat at the table, they get to reinvent.”
“They want to be seen as relevant again,” Daphne added, lifting off him briefly to speak.

She dipped back down, slower now, her lips trailing down the underside of his cock with affection.
Her tongue curled around the head before she took him again, deeper, swallowing as her throat flexed.

Harry’s breath hitched enough that Susan felt his chest rise.
She leaned up and kissed his neck. “She’s been eager since before lunch.”
“She told me,” he replied, voice steady. “Said she wanted to be the first mouth on me after class.”

Daphne moaned around him — a low, possessive sound — and didn’t come up for air.
Susan bit lightly at the curve of his jaw. “Did the Gryffindors make you feel powerful?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. His hand tightened just a touch in Daphne’s hair.
“I let the magic speak,” he said finally.

Daphne bobbed her head with increasing rhythm now, her tongue flattening each time she pulled back, her throat swallowing smoothly with each descent. The wet sounds were louder now — echoing off the empty stone, timed perfectly with the low throb building in Harry’s stomach.
His breath stalled.
Susan felt it instantly. “He’s close.”

Daphne didn’t break rhythm. Her mouth stayed sealed around him, her pace unrelenting. Her nails dragged lightly along the back of his thighs as she took as much of his cock as she could in her throat.

Harry grunted deeply as he came.
Daphne didn’t pull back. She took every pulse of it, not swallowing and letting it pool in her mouth, her cheeks stretched around the last twitching throb of him. Her eyes fluttered open, then up — locking with Susan’s.

Then, in one slow, fluid motion, she rose to her feet.
Her mouth stayed closed. Her tongue rolled slightly behind her lips, and when she reached Susan, there was no hesitation.

They kissed hard — mouths parting with instant hunger. Daphne’s tongue pushed Harry’s cum into Susan’s mouth with a forceful sweep, and Susan moaned against her lips as she swallowed — once, twice — before sucking the last of it from Daphne’s tongue with a wet gasp.

When they pulled apart, Susan’s lips glistened. Her eyes were half-lidded, her breath shallow.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “I needed that.”
Daphne licked the corner of her own mouth. “He tastes perfect today.”

Harry adjusted his shirt, fastened his trousers, and let his hands fall to their waists — left on Daphne, right on Susan. His breathing had already leveled out. His voice was dry when he finally spoke.
“Dinner’s in twenty. After that we'll meet with the Headmaster.”
“Are you sure you’re steady enough to walk?” Susan teased.
Harry glanced between them. “Not if you both keep kissing like that.”
Daphne grinned. “Then we’ll behave.”
“For the next half hour,” Susan added. “After that, no promises.”

They pulled away together, smoothing their robes, fixing their hair without a trace of guilt or urgency.
Harry opened the door. The corridor beyond was empty. Pale torchlight flickered across the floor.

They stepped out in formation — Susan on his right, Daphne on his left — and disappeared into the growing hush of evening, the taste of power and cum still warm on the girls' tongues.

Chapter Text

The winding staircase that led to the Headmaster’s office moved without sound or tremor. None of the three spoke as they ascended. There was nothing to prepare. Every line of argument, every rhetorical option, had already been sharpened before they came.

When the staircase came to a halt, Harry reached for the door first. He didn’t knock.
The invitation had been issued, and he saw no reason to pretend they needed permission.

The door opened with a low creak of aged hinges. The Headmaster’s office looked the same as it always had. More curated than lived in, it was a gallery masquerading as a workspace. Each surface gleamed. The shelves were full, the trinkets polished to a glassy sheen, the instruments humming softly with their arcane movements. A faint scent of lemon oil clung to the air, freshened just enough to give the illusion of care without effort.

The fire in the hearth crackled gently, casting long amber shadows across the dark wooden floor. The portraits along the upper walls dozed or pretended to. Fawkes sat silently on his perch in the corner.

But one space on the shelf behind the desk stood conspicuously empty.
A curved depression in the wood, framed with velvet, marked where the Pensieve had once rested — clearly, prominently. Its absence wasn’t highlighted, but it was obvious to anyone who’d ever seen the room before. Harry's eyes passed over the space once, stored the detail, and moved on.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk and smiled with all the warmth of a man greeting grandchildren he hadn’t seen in a long time. “Harry,” he said. “Miss Bones. Miss Greengrass. Thank you for coming. Though I do believe my note requested only your presence, Harry.”

“We are betrothed,” Susan said. “And under the terms of the Hogwarts Charter, section twenty-seven-D, a betrothed family unit is entitled to attend any non-examination administrative meeting concerning one of its members.”

Dumbledore’s smile remained, though it tilted slightly. “How thoroughly you’ve read the Charter.”
“We believe in knowing the rules,” Daphne said, already stepping toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

She lowered herself into the left chair without waiting for permission. Susan mirrored her movement on the right. Both shifted their seats a few inches forward once seated — a subtle gesture, aligning their chairs with Harry’s the moment he joined them.

Harry remained standing for a moment longer, letting the silence rest across the room.
Then he moved forward and sat between them, hands resting calmly on the arms of the chair, his posture relaxed without being careless.

Dumbledore folded his hands atop the desk and studied them for a breath. “I must admit,” he said, “it’s rare to see such solidarity displayed so early in the year. Many students are still adjusting to schedules, catching up with friends.”

“Most students aren’t adults,” Susan replied.
“Or preparing for national influence due to their betrothal,” Daphne added.
“I see.” Dumbledore’s tone remained gentle, but there was a shift beneath it.

He gestured toward the tea set arranged on the tray beside his desk, its cups steaming quietly.
“Would you care for a cup?” he offered. “The chamomile is fresh. I find it encourages honesty.”
“Then perhaps it’s best we abstain,” Susan said mildly. “Honesty is something best offered when it serves a purpose.”

Dumbledore’s fingers remained still, save for the smallest shift — a thumb tracing the back of his opposite knuckle. It was a thoughtful motion. He wasn’t rattled. But he was adjusting his approach.
“Well then,” he said. “If you’re all comfortable, I’ll begin.”

The girls didn’t respond but Harry nodded once.
“I want to say first,” Dumbledore said, “that I am glad to see you looking well, Harry. You’ve settled into the term admirably, from what I hear. Your professors have noted your focus and your… grounding.”
Harry tilted his head. “Has someone reported a lack of it?”
“No,” Dumbledore said. “But with the changes this year — new responsibilities, public attention — it’s only natural for concern to arise.”
“Concern rarely arrives without agenda,” Susan noted. “And never on time.”
Daphne crossed her legs smoothly. “If this is about the betrothal, we can save everyone time.”

Dumbledore smiled again, as if surprised they’d guessed it. “I admit, it has raised a few eyebrows. Even in my long years here, I’ve rarely seen a betrothal formalized so swiftly after an initial acquaintance. And between students, no less.”
“We’re not students,” Susan said.
“Legally, we’re adult candidates,” Daphne added. “The fourth year of Hogwarts onward functions under the same statute as any other magical institution of higher learning.”
“Which you know,” Susan said, “because you helped draft the transitional clause in 1958.”

That earned the briefest flicker of genuine reaction, but it vanished quickly.
“Very thorough,” Dumbledore said, voice touched with amusement. “Then allow me to ask plainly. Was this bond forged with intention? Or under pressure?”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “What pressure do you imagine, Headmaster? The sort born of affection? Of planning? Or maybe one of power consolidation?”
“I imagine,” Dumbledore said carefully, “that not all alliances are born in freedom. And when those alliances begin reshaping the political landscape, it is only fair to wonder what lies behind them.”

Susan’s smile was polite. “If you’re worried about the political landscape, I’d advise worrying in private, and not in your capacity as a Headmaster. We owe no explanations for how others choose to interpret our private lives.”
“It is only natural,” Dumbledore said softly, ignoring Susan’s jab, “for people to ask questions when three families of your stature converge. Potter, Bones, Greengrass — each one ancient and powerful. When a bond like this is announced, especially with such formality, it creates ripples.”
“Ripples are not disruptions,” Daphne said. “Unless you’re standing on very thin ice, or only rely on perception.”
“And if perception leads to gossip,” Susan continued, “then perhaps it’s because others are looking for scandal to soothe their own irrelevance.”
Harry concluded. “We’re not concerned with what others see. We’re concerned with what they do.”
“That,” Dumbledore said, “is precisely what I hope to prevent. Hogwarts functions best when unity is preserved. When influence is applied gently.”
“And when students marry quietly?” Daphne asked.

He didn’t answer directly.
“I merely suggest,” Dumbledore said, “that this level of visibility can produce instability. Other students may feel… overshadowed. Or worse, pressured to respond in kind.”
“Then perhaps they should learn to handle their insecurity without turning it into policy,” Susan said.
Daphne glanced toward one of the windows. “We don’t intend to disrupt Hogwarts, Headmaster. But we won’t tiptoe to avoid bruising egos.”

Dumbledore gave a slow nod, as if filing something away.
“Very well,” he said. “Then may I ask—”
“You may ask,” Susan said.
He paused, considering his phrasing.
“—if this union implies a broader strategy. In the Wizengamot, for instance. Or in less formal but equally influential spheres.”

Daphne shifted for emphasis. “If you’re trying to ask whether we’re forming a political bloc, you’ll have to do better than elliptical phrasing.”
“I ask only because I have seen alliances before,” Dumbledore said, “that began in sincerity and ended in conquest. Ambition is not always obvious at the start.”
Harry’s gaze was steady. “And not everyone who fears ambition does so for noble reasons.”

Another pause followed.
Then Dumbledore gave a soft sigh. “Well then,” he said quietly, “let me turn to a different matter.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair just enough to appear thoughtful, as though indulging himself in a harmless tangent.
“I’ve heard curious things from Gringotts,” he said, tone light. “Shifts in ledger activity. Certain vaults realigned. Ownership clarifications invoked under old bloodline laws.”
He let the sentence hang, then added, “Unusual, wouldn’t you agree?”

Susan didn’t even glance at Harry. “Unusual only if you believe the goblins report to you.”
Daphne reached for the hem of her sleeve, adjusting it casually.
“I wasn’t aware Hogwarts had an interest in private financial matters.”
“Not Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said softly. “Merely… myself keeping informed.”

Harry let a breath through his nose. “And what do you imagine you’re informed of, exactly?”
“I imagine,” Dumbledore said, folding his hands again, “that long-dormant assets being reclaimed by an heir with a newly formed political bond is more than coincidence.”
“That’s quite a bit of imagining,” Daphne said, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “You might be better served with documentation.”
Susan smiled faintly. “We’ve found it quite useful.”

Dumbledore met Harry’s eyes again. “I presume, then, that this was all planned before the term began?”
Harry didn’t blink. “That depends. Are you asking whether I had the right to reclaim what belonged to my family?”
Dumbledore spread his hands slightly. “Of course you had the right. I only wonder why now.”
“Because now,” Harry said, voice calm, “the bank no longer feels pressure for honoring my rights.”

That landed. A check, not a strike.
The Headmaster gave a slow nod. “The goblins are indeed cautious people. And yet… even they tend to avoid disruptions without cause. Especially where large vaults are concerned.”
“They weren’t disrupted,” Susan said. “They were corrected.”
Daphne smiled, just slightly. “And if that correction upset someone, perhaps they ought to ask why it was allowed to stand in the first place.”

Dumbledore tilted his head. “A fair point. Still, I worry that these… corrections, as you call them, may echo beyond finances. Titles carry obligations. Properties come with power. And not all power is welcomed — particularly when it arrives unannounced.”
“Then perhaps the problem is the people doing the welcoming,” Harry said.

Silence again.
Fawkes shifted slightly on his perch as he rustled his feathers.
“I’ll ask plainly then,” Dumbledore said. “Are you seeking to consolidate power within the Wizengamot? Your vaults suggest preparation.”
Harry looked at him directly.
“If I were,” he said, “would it matter?”

Dumbledore gave a long blink, as if considering. “It would matter if it created instability. This country has seen enough of that.”
“It would also matter,” Susan said, “if the Headmaster of its only magical school began involving himself in hereditary financial disputes and independent legal recoveries.”
Daphne added. “Or in matters settled by magical contract and blood seal.” 
Harry leaned back slightly. “You seem less interested in stability than in control.”

Dumbledore didn’t rise to the comment. He gave a slow breath and adjusted the position of a silver astrolabe on his desk with two fingers. The instrument didn’t respond but the motion had served its purpose.
A reset.

“I want Hogwarts to remain a place of learning,” he said. “Not a staging ground for legacy feuds.”
“Then perhaps it would be wise not to treat your students like pawns on a chessboard,” Daphne said.
Susan’s voice remained light when added. “Or assume the board is only ever being set by your hand.”

Dumbledore paused again.
When he spoke, it was softer still. “I’ve protected many students over the years. Some by interference. Some by silence. It is never easy to know which method serves best.”
Harry gave a small shrug. “That’s the problem with playing protector. Eventually you start protecting your own interests and calling it virtue.”

That, more than anything else, landed clean. Dumbledore didn’t frown, but the corners of his mouth flattened slightly.
“I am not your enemy Harry,” he said.
“No,” Harry agreed. “But I’m starting to wonder if you’re truly on our side.”

Dumbledore gave a faint smile, the kind that might’ve looked wiser if his opponents were younger, or slower.
“Well then,” he said, voice returning to something more formal. “Let us leave Gringotts to its vaults. I imagine you’ve already set your terms.”
Daphne nodded once. “They were overdue.”

Dumbledore looked at Harry again. “Then allow me one more topic. If you’ll indulge me.”
Harry nodded.
“It concerns Professor Snape.”

Dumbledore’s tone didn’t shift dramatically. It remained warm in its architecture, shaped to sound kind even when the mortar between the words was already setting.
“I understand,” he began slowly, “that your first Potions class of the year became… complicated.”

Dumbledore let a faint pause stretch, just enough to signal grace before judgment.
“Professor Snape has not brought forth a formal complaint. Nor have I asked him to. But several students mentioned a sharp exchange. One that concluded, by their accounts, with a public undermining of his position. I thought it best we speak plainly about what that could mean.”

Harry tilted his head a fraction. “He insulted my family.”
“I am aware tempers can flare,” Dumbledore replied, “especially where legacy and grief intersect. But Hogwarts doesn’t operate on personal offense. Its stability requires certain boundaries.”
“And what boundaries were in place when he called my father a reckless child in front of the class?”

Dumbledore didn’t respond immediately as he adjusted a scroll that didn’t need adjusting.
“I don’t defend his wording,” he said at last. “But Severus has endured much. And in the classroom, the lines between discipline and emotion can blur.”

“No,” Harry said flatly. “Not for an almost two decades veteran of the position.”
Daphne finally spoke. “He wasn’t emotional. He was surgical. Provocation is a strategy for him — a method, not a lapse in judgement.”
Susan’s voice followed. “This wasn’t an argument. This was a pattern, coming to its final form.”

“I understand,” Dumbledore said again. “But regardless of how we frame history, the public nature of that exchange has consequences. A staff member’s authority was damaged. And in a school such as ours — in a time such as this — order matters.”

He folded his hands together with great care.
“I must insist, Harry,” he said, “that you offer Professor Snape an apology. As a restoration of order.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. He looked at the fire. The flames flicked softly against the grate, heatless from this distance and loud in their rhythm. Then he looked back and spoke as if commenting on the weather.
“You may insist all you like,” he said, tone utterly dismissive. “But when it concerns a man who belongs in Azkaban, your insistence has no value.”

Dumbledore’s brows lifted.
“That is a serious accusation.”
“No,” Harry said. “It’s a serious omission. One you’ve protected for years.”
“Severus has served this school—”
“—by tormenting students he doesn’t favor,” Harry cut in. “By ridiculing non-Slytherins. By weaponizing bias. You call that service?”
He didn’t raise his voice, but the cadence struck like iron.
“He’s a liability. An abuser. And he was never challenged until the person he couldn’t belittle outmatched him.”

Dumbledore’s gaze narrowed, though his expression remained smooth.
“You speak with certainty for a matter only days old.”
“I speak with history,” Harry said. “You’re just not used to it speaking back.”

A silence followed.
Fawkes adjusted one wing with a slow, careful ruffle. The room seemed to still beneath it.
“I don’t deny Severus has made enemies,” Dumbledore said. “But he has also made sacrifices. Many you are not aware of.”
“That’s the problem,” Harry said. “He made them quietly, and then demanded loyalty as payment.”
“You speak as if I owe him something,” Dumbledore replied.
“You act like I do.” Harry retorted calmly.