Greyback’s patience lasted eleven days before it finally cracked.
His scouts had combed every magical district in Paris, bribed low level Ministry clerks, and even managed to intercept a few owls meant for the British delegation. None of it produced anything useful. Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass had simply vanished from the city the same day the tournament ended, and nobody seemed to know where they’d gone. Not the hotel staff who’d hosted the British team. Not the tournament officials who’d handled their paperwork. Not even the reporters who made a living finding out things people wanted kept quiet.
“It’s like they were never here,” Varulf said, crouching beside their campfire with a look of frustration on his scarred face. “No portkey records. No apparition trace. The Ministry’s got nothing on file past the closing ceremony.”
“Somebody’s protecting them,” Greyback growled, staring into the flames. “Somebody with real resources. That kind of disappearing act doesn’t happen by accident.”
“Dumbledore?”
“Maybe. Or someone even more careful than him.” Greyback had spent enough decades avoiding capture himself to recognize the signs of professional concealment when he saw them. Wards that left no trace. Travel arrangements that vanished from every official record. Whoever was looking after these two brats knew exactly what they were doing.
That realization should have worried him more than it did. Instead, it just confirmed what he’d suspected since Rookwood’s letter first arrived. These weren’t ordinary students who’d gotten lucky in a duel. Somebody powerful had taken an interest in them, and that meant killing Elstan hadn’t been some accident of circumstance. It meant the boy and girl responsible were valuable enough that important people wanted them kept safe.
Which made Greyback want them even more.
“We could keep searching,” Varulf offered, though his tone suggested he already knew what the answer would be. “Widen the net. Try the countryside estates, the smaller magical communities outside Paris.”
“Waste of time.” Greyback stood, his joints popping from days spent crouched in the forest undergrowth. “If they’re hidden this well, they’ll stay hidden until they choose to surface again. And when they do, it won’t be in France.”
“Britain, then.”
“Britain.” Greyback said the word like a promise. “That’s where they live. Where the girl’s family holds their lands. Sooner or later, they go home. Everyone does eventually, no matter how careful they are.”
He gathered his pack that evening and gave the order to move. Forty werewolves broke camp in the darkness, melting back into the forests of northern France, angling steadily toward the coast. They traveled the way they’d traveled since Romania, quietly, efficiently, avoiding populated areas and leaving minimal trace of their passage.
Along the way, Greyback permitted himself small indulgences. A remote farming village in Picardy lost most of its adult population over the course of a single night, the survivors added to his growing collection of new recruits. A magical trading post near the Belgian border suffered a similar fate two nights later. He wasn’t being reckless. Each attack was calculated, chosen for isolation and lack of magical defenses, timed to avoid drawing attention from the kind of authorities who might actually pose a threat.
But he also wasn’t holding back anymore, not the way he had during those patient weeks outside Paris. If he couldn’t reach his true targets yet, he could at least keep building his strength for when the opportunity finally arrived.
“You’re getting sloppy,” Varulf observed after the Belgian attack, though there was no real criticism in his tone. More curiosity than anything else.
“I’m getting impatient,” Greyback corrected. “There’s a difference. Every village we take makes the pack stronger. Every wizard or witch who doesn’t survive conversion just means one less obstacle when we finally reach Britain.”
“And the boy? The girl?”
“They’ll keep.” Greyback’s smile held no warmth whatsoever. “Fear does interesting things to people when it has time to work. Let them enjoy their victories, their tournament trophies, whatever else makes children like them feel safe. By the time we’re ready to move against them properly, they won’t even see it coming.”
The pack continued west, leaving destruction scattered across the French countryside like breadcrumbs nobody wanted to follow. Ministry officials in three different countries began comparing notes, slowly realizing they were dealing with a single coordinated threat rather than isolated incidents. But by the time anyone managed to organize a proper response, Greyback and his werewolves had already crossed into new territory, always staying one step ahead of anyone trying to track them down.
Britain waited on the other side of the Channel, and Greyback intended to get there one way or another.
XXXXX
Nicolas Flamel’s estate in the Loire Valley looked even more impressive in high summer than it had during Harry and Daphne’s brief visit the previous month. Sprawling gardens stretched in every direction, filled with plants that Harry suspected weren’t entirely mundane, and the main house itself seemed to shift subtly depending on the angle you viewed it from.
“You’re staring again,” Daphne said, nudging his shoulder as they walked up the gravel path toward the front entrance. “It’s just architecture, Harry.”
“It’s architecture that occasionally has an extra wing that wasn’t there yesterday,” Harry pointed out. “Forgive me for finding that mildly interesting.”
“Fair point.”
Nicolas himself met them at the door, looking every bit as spry and cheerful as he had before, despite being well over six hundred years old. Perenelle stood beside him, her expression warm but carrying that same watchful quality Harry had noticed during their first visit.
“Welcome back,” Nicolas said, ushering them inside. “I hope the tournament celebrations weren’t too exhausting. Winning three championships in a single week sounds like quite the ordeal.”
“It was exhausting in a good way,” Daphne said. “Though I think we’re both ready for a quieter summer now.”
“About that,” Perenelle said, her tone shifting into something more businesslike. “Quiet isn’t exactly what we have planned for you both.”
Harry exchanged a glance with Daphne. “What did you have in mind?”
“Education,” Nicolas said simply. “Real education, the kind that doesn’t come from textbooks or standard Hogwarts curriculum. We’ve arranged for you to study under some very talented specialists over the coming weeks.”
“What kind of specialists?” Daphne asked.
“Curse-breakers, for one,” Perenelle said. “Gringotts has agreed to lend us one of their senior tomb specialists for a fortnight. Practical curse identification, disarmament techniques, the sort of thing that could save your life if you ever encounter cursed artifacts in the field.”
“We’ve also secured time with a retired hit-wizard from the German Ministry,” Nicolas added. “Someone who spent thirty years hunting dark wizards professionally before retiring. His knowledge of combat tactics against genuinely dangerous opponents goes well beyond anything you’d learn in a school dueling club, even with someone like Alastor Moody instructing you.”
Harry felt something settle in his chest, a mixture of excitement and gratitude that he wasn’t entirely sure how to express. “Why are you doing all this for us?”
Nicolas’s expression grew serious. “Because you’re both facing threats most children your age never have to consider. Because the world is changing in ways that concern me, and I believe you two will need every advantage you can get. And frankly, because teaching genuinely talented students is one of the few pleasures that hasn’t grown stale after six centuries of living.”
“We’re grateful,” Daphne said quietly. “More than we probably know how to express properly.”
“Then express it by working hard and absorbing everything these specialists have to teach you,” Perenelle said, though her tone was gentle rather than stern. “That’s all the thanks either of us needs.”
The curse-breaker arrived three days later, a weathered Egyptian witch named Nafisa Hassan who’d spent two decades clearing tombs and pyramids for Gringotts before transferring to European operations. She wasted no time on pleasantries, launching straight into practical instruction from their very first session.
“Most people think curse-breaking is about brute magical force,” she explained, laying out a collection of clearly cursed objects on a workbench in one of the estate’s converted outbuildings. “It’s not. It’s about patience, observation, and understanding intent. Every cursed object was created by somebody, and that somebody had specific goals in mind. Understand the goal, and you understand how to counter it.”
She demonstrated with a small jeweled box, walking Harry and Daphne through the process of identifying the layered protective enchantments without triggering any of them. Her hands moved with practiced precision, wand tracing careful patterns while she narrated each step aloud.
“See how the outer layer responds to touch but not to proximity? That tells you the creator was worried about theft, not detection. Different priority means different counter approach.”
Harry found himself genuinely absorbed by the work, his usual instinct toward direct offensive magic tempered by Hassan’s methodical patience. Daphne, predictably, took to the analytical aspects even faster than he did, her mind naturally suited to the kind of systematic problem solving curse-breaking required.
“You’ve got good instincts,” Hassan told her after watching Daphne successfully disarm a complex binding curse on only her third attempt. “Most trainees take weeks to develop that kind of pattern recognition. You’re doing it in days.”
“I like puzzles,” Daphne admitted. “Curses are just puzzles with consequences if you get them wrong.”
“That’s exactly the right attitude,” Hassan said approvingly. “The wrong attitude gets curse-breakers killed. Fear makes people rush, and rushing makes people careless.”
The hit-wizard, a gruff Bavarian named Otto Krueger, brought an entirely different energy to their training. Where Hassan emphasized patience and precision, Krueger focused on speed, aggression, and the harsh realities of combat against genuinely lethal opponents.
“Dueling club teaches you sport magic,” he told them bluntly during their first session, his English heavily accented but perfectly clear. “Good for points, good for trophies, useless when someone’s actually trying to kill you. Real combat is ugly. Real combat means you fight dirty because your opponent certainly will.”
He drilled them relentlessly on techniques that had nothing to do with tournament regulations. Disarming spells combined with physical strikes. Using environmental hazards as improvised weapons. Recognizing when to break off an engagement entirely rather than pushing for a decisive victory that might not be worth the risk.
“Your Professor Moody, he taught you good foundations,” Krueger acknowledged after watching them spar against each other under his supervision. “Paranoia keeps you alive. But foundations aren’t enough against professional killers. You need instinct, and instinct only comes from pressure.”
He proceeded to apply exactly that kind of pressure, running scenarios that forced Harry and Daphne to make split second decisions under simulated stress. Some of the exercises left them both exhausted and occasionally bruised, but the improvement in their reaction times became noticeable within the first week alone.
“You two fight well together already,” Krueger observed one afternoon, watching them coordinate against a pair of enchanted training dummies programmed to mimic aggressive human opponents. “Better than most partnerships I’ve seen, and I’ve seen many. But you rely too much on each other. What happens if you’re separated? If one of you goes down and the other needs to survive alone?”
The question hung uncomfortably in the humid summer air. Harry glanced at Daphne, and he could see the same flicker of worry crossing her features that he felt in his own chest.
“We haven’t really trained for that,” Harry admitted.
“Then we start now,” Krueger said, already rearranging the training space. “Because the day might come when you don’t have a choice.”
The sessions that followed were harder than anything they’d faced before, deliberately isolating them from each other and forcing individual problem solving under difficult conditions. More than once Harry found himself frustrated by his own limitations without Daphne’s tactical input. But by the end of the second week, both had developed a level of independent competence neither had possessed before.
“Better,” Krueger grunted approvingly during their final session. “Still not perfect, but better. Keep training this way even after I’m gone. Don’t let yourselves become too dependent on each other, no matter how good your partnership is.”
The international duelist who arrived next was someone Harry actually recognized by reputation, a Portuguese witch named Ines Cardoso who’d won the adult European Championship three times running before retiring from competition two years earlier.
“Nicolas tells me you two just took home three trophies of your own,” she said by way of greeting, her dark eyes assessing them both with obvious professional interest. “Impressive for debutants. Let’s see if the reputation matches the reality.”
What followed was less traditional instruction and more advanced sparring, Cardoso pushing them through techniques and tactical scenarios that exceeded anything they’d encountered at the tournament itself. Her spell work was elegant and economical, every movement serving multiple purposes simultaneously.
“You’re both talented,” she told them after their first proper sparring session left Harry breathing hard and Daphne nursing a minor scorch mark on her sleeve. “But talent only gets you so far at the highest levels. Above a certain point, everyone’s talented. What separates champions from merely good competitors is efficiency. Never waste movement. Never waste magic. Every spell should accomplish exactly what it needs to and nothing more.”
She spent considerable time refining their existing techniques rather than teaching entirely new spells, trimming away wasted motion and unnecessary flourishes that Harry hadn’t even realized he was including in his casting.
“You flick your wrist too much on spells,” she told him during one session, demonstrating the correction herself with a motion so subtle Harry almost missed it. “Wastes maybe a tenth of a second, which sounds insignificant until you’re facing someone who doesn’t make that mistake.”
“A tenth of a second matters that much?”
“Against another newbie? No. Against someone at true professional level?” Cardoso’s expression turned serious. “That tenth of a second is the difference between winning and dying. Fix it now, while the habit’s still breakable.”
Harry fixed it. Along with a dozen other small inefficiencies that Cardoso identified with ruthless precision over their weeks together, each correction shaving fractions of seconds off his casting speed and improving his overall magical economy. Daphne received similar treatment, Cardoso apparently finding just as many small flaws to correct in her technique despite Daphne’s already impressive natural talent.
By the time Cardoso’s tenure with them concluded, both Harry and Daphne felt like fundamentally different duelists than they’d been at the start of summer. Faster, more efficient, more adaptable. The kind of improvement that would have taken years under normal circumstances, compressed into a handful of intensive weeks.
XXXXX
McGonagall arrived at the Flamel estate during the third week of July, her expression full of stern satisfaction that usually meant she had good news she wasn’t quite ready to share yet.
“Professor,” Daphne greeted her, genuinely pleased to see a familiar face amid all the new instructors. “We weren’t expecting you until next month.”
“Circumstances changed,” McGonagall said, settling into a garden chair Perenelle had conjured for the occasion. “I understand your animagus training has reached a critical juncture, and I wanted to be present for the final stages personally rather than relying on correspondence.”
Harry felt his pulse quicken slightly. They’d been working on the transformation process since before the tournament, months of careful preparation involving meditation, potion brewing, and the kind of intensive magical theory that made even Daphne’s head spin occasionally. But actually achieving the instinctive transformation itself remained frustratingly elusive.
“We’ve made progress,” Harry said, “but neither of us has managed a full transformation on instinct yet. Just partial shifts, bits and pieces here and there.”
“That’s entirely normal at this stage,” McGonagall assured him. “The final breakthrough often comes suddenly, once the underlying groundwork has been properly laid. Show me what you’ve managed so far.”
They demonstrated in the estate’s private training yard, Harry channeling in internal magic without resorting to concentrate on his form. The transformation began instantly, his skin roughening and darkening, fur beginning to emerge across his forearms before the shift stalled entirely, leaving him in an awkward half state that was neither fully human nor fully his animal form.
“Interesting,” McGonagall murmured, circling him slowly with professional interest. “The partial shift is remarkably stable for this stage of training. Most students struggle to maintain even that much control. What’s holding you back from completing it?”
“I’m not sure,” Harry admitted, letting the transformation recede back to normal. “It’s like there’s a wall right at the final threshold. I can feel the form waiting on the other side, but something keeps stopping me from actually crossing over.”
“Fear, most likely,” McGonagall said. “To complete the transformation, you must truly surrender your human perspective, if only for a moment. Some part of your mind is resisting that surrender. When you have time, you eventually overcome the fear, but when you're forced to transform instantly, that resistance keeps the transformation incomplete.”
Daphne’s attempt produced similar results, her human form beginning to shift before stalling at nearly the same threshold Harry had encountered. Snowy fur emerged along her arms, her eyes shifting shape, but the full transformation remained just out of reach.
“Both of you are exhibiting the exact same pattern,” McGonagall observed. “Which suggests the block isn’t purely individual. Something deeper might be at work here.”
“The Horcrux,” Harry said quietly, the realization settling into place even as he spoke it aloud. “Nicolas mentioned Occlumency was important partly because of it. Maybe the fragment is interfering somehow, some kind of resistance to genuine transformation.”
McGonagall’s expression grew troubled. “That’s certainly possible, though not something I’ve encountered in my research on animagus training. Perhaps we should consult Nicolas directly.”
The conversation that followed involved all four of them gathered in Nicolas’s study, working through the theoretical implications with the kind of intensity that came from genuinely difficult magical problems. Nicolas listened carefully to McGonagall’s assessment before offering his own perspective.
“The soul fragment exists as a kind of foreign presence within Harry’s magical core,” he explained. “Animagus transformation requires complete integration of magical will and physical form. It’s possible the fragment creates just enough disruption to prevent that final integration, at least for Harry specifically.”
“But Miss Greengrass is experiencing the same block,” McGonagall pointed out. “She doesn’t carry any fragment.”
“No, but she’s spent considerable time in close magical proximity to Harry,” Perenelle said thoughtfully. “Their bond, whatever its exact nature, might be creating sympathetic resonance. If Harry’s transformation is blocked, perhaps some echo of that block is affecting her as well.”
“That’s a rather unusual theory,” McGonagall said.
“These are rather unusual circumstances,” Perenelle replied simply.
They spent the following days experimenting with different approaches, McGonagall drawing on decades of teaching experience while the Flamels contributed their own theoretical knowledge. Eventually, the breakthrough came not through some elaborate new technique, but through a simple shift in approach that Nicolas suggested almost offhandedly.
“Stop trying to force the transformation,” he told them during a session that had produced yet another frustrating stall at the threshold. “You’re both approaching this like a battle to be won, forcing your will against some invisible resistance. Try surrendering instead. Let the form come to you rather than reaching for it.”
Harry closed his eyes, releasing the tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying throughout every previous attempt. Instead of pushing toward the transformation, he simply allowed himself to exist in the space between human and animal, accepting whatever happened without trying to control the outcome.
The shift came suddenly and completely, his body reshaping itself with fluid ease that felt nothing like the strained, effortful attempts from before. When he opened his eyes again, the world looked different, colors shifted subtly, sounds sharper and more distinct, his perspective lower to the ground and very familiar now.
Turning his head, he saw Daphne mid transformation as well, her own form settling into something equally striking. A snow furred wolf with intelligent sapphire eyes that held clear recognition despite the animal shape, her tail now tipped with the same shade of blue as her eyes.
Harry focused on shifting back, and the transformation reversed just as smoothly as it had begun, leaving him human again and slightly breathless from the experience.
Daphne shifted back as well, her expression mirroring his own amazement.
“You’ve both accomplished something remarkable,” McGonagall said, genuine pride evident in her voice. “Fully instinctive animagus transformation is exceptionally difficult magic, and achieving it at your age, with such distinctive forms, speaks to considerable magical talent.”
They spent the rest of that week practicing the transformation repeatedly, gradually building comfort and control.
XXXXX
The letter from Ted Tonks arrived on a Tuesday morning, delivered by a tired looking owl that had clearly traveled considerable distance to reach the estate. Harry read it twice before passing it to Daphne, his expression carefully neutral despite the implications contained within.
“He’s found something,” Harry said. “About the artifacts the goblins wanted.”
Daphne read through the letter quickly, her eyebrows rising as she absorbed the details. “One of the five accounted for. That’s more progress than I expected this soon.”
Ted had explained the situation through careful legal language, the kind he always used when he wanted to soften bad news before delivering the parts that mattered. Two of the five goblin forged artifacts the bank had demanded were sitting in vaults the Black family hadn’t touched in three generations, buried under wards so old even Gringotts had needed to consult its own archives to confirm they existed, but unfortunately, the magic imbued within them had withered away after being influenced by those wards for so long. Ted guessed the artifacts were easily over two millennia old. However, a third had been traced to a private collector in Austria who Ted believed could be persuaded to sell, given enough time and the right approach.
“That leaves four,” Daphne said, scanning further down the parchment. “And he doesn’t sound optimistic about those.”
“He wouldn’t be writing if he’d already given up,” Harry said, though he understood her caution well enough. Hope had a way of curdling into something worse if you let it get too far ahead of the facts.
They brought the letter to Nicolas and Perenelle that same afternoon, hoping the ancient couple might offer additional insight given their extensive knowledge of both magical contract law and goblin custom accumulated over centuries.
“Goblin forged artifacts rarely stay lost,” Nicolas said, examining the letter carefully. “They are proud of their work in a way that borders on obsession. If a piece changes hands, word travels through their circles eventually, even among the ones who no longer speak to their own kin.”
“Can you help find any?” Harry asked directly. “Ted’s good, but he’s working through official channels. I don’t imagine goblins are eager to help a solicitor track down artifacts a bank already has its claws into.”
“I maintained certain connections with individuals outside Gringotts’ usual reach,” Nicolas offered. “Some considerably older than the bank itself. I will make inquiries. No promises, but I have found that a few centuries of patience tends to open doors that gold alone cannot.”
“Thank you,” Daphne said, and meant it. She had watched Harry carry the weight of this contract for months now, the quiet way it sat behind his eyes even when he smiled, and anything that lightened that load even slightly felt like a mercy.
The conversation shifted gradually from artifacts and legal maneuvering toward something more personal, the way it always seemed to lately whenever the two of them were left alone for more than a few minutes.
“Can we talk?” Harry asked her later that evening, after Nicolas and Perenelle had retired for the night and left them alone in the garden beneath a canopy of stars bright given the estate’s remote location.
“About the artifacts?” Daphne asked, though something in her tone suggested she already suspected he meant something broader.
“About us,” Harry clarified. “About what happens after everything gets sorted out. Assuming it does.”
Daphne settled closer beside him on the garden bench, her expression thoughtful rather than anxious. “We’re already betrothed.”
“I know. It’s just that betrothed still feels like it’s got one foot in something we didn’t choose. The contract forced our hand on timing even if it didn’t force the feelings.” He turned to face her more directly, taking both her hands in his. “I keep thinking about everything we’ve built together this past year, and I don’t want any of it to feel like it happened because a bank and a dead man’s paperwork left us no other option. I want it to be something we’re choosing, deliberately, regardless of what the goblins decide to do with those artifacts.”
Something softened in Daphne’s expression, the careful composure she usually maintained slipping just slightly to reveal genuine emotion underneath. “I choose you, Harry. I chose you before Andromeda ever asked us that question in her office, and I’ll keep choosing you whether Nicolas finds those artifacts in a year or never finds them at all.”
“Even if your father never comes around fully?”
“He’ll come around,” Daphne said, with more certainty than she probably felt. “But even if he took longer than either of us would like, that’s separate from this. From us. My feelings were never waiting on his permission, only my patience was.”
Harry felt something loosen in his chest, tension he hadn’t fully acknowledged carrying finally beginning to ease. “I love you. Not because some ancient document says I’m supposed to, but because you’re brilliant and stubborn and somehow put up with all my nonsense despite constantly having better options available.”
Daphne laughed, the sound carrying genuine warmth into the summer evening air. “I love you too, you absolute prat. Even when you’re being ridiculously sentimental in gardens under starlight, which honestly isn’t like you at all.”
“Special occasion,” Harry said, leaning in to kiss her softly. “Discussing our actual future deserves at least a little sentimentality.”
They talked long into the night after that, moving past goblin politics and contract law into genuine conversation about what they actually wanted from their eventual life together. Not the formal expectations imposed by pureblood tradition or magical contracts, but their own hopes and plans, gradually building a shared vision that felt entirely their own regardless of whatever external pressures continued to complicate their circumstances.
XXXXX
Dumbledore’s visit came unannounced, though given his general tendency toward dramatic entrances, nobody at the estate seemed particularly surprised when he simply appeared in the garden one afternoon without prior warning.
“Albus,” Nicolas greeted him warmly, though something in his tone suggested he recognized this wasn’t purely a social call. “I trust you have news.”
“Some concerning developments,” Dumbledore confirmed, settling into an offered chair with characteristic grace despite his considerable age. “I thought it prudent to share them directly rather than trusting such sensitive information to owl post.”
Harry and Daphne joined the gathering, both sensing immediately that whatever Dumbledore had come to discuss carried genuine weight. His usual twinkling good humor was notably absent, replaced by grave seriousness that reminded Harry uncomfortably of their previous conversations about Voldemort’s continued existence.
“Voldemort’s supporters have been growing bolder,” Dumbledore began without preamble. “Several incidents across Eastern Europe over recent weeks suggest coordinated activity, though we’ve struggled to confirm his direct involvement given his current diminished state.”
“What kind of incidents?” Daphne asked.
“Disappearances, primarily. Individuals with connections to previous Death Eater activity, resurfacing after years of apparent obscurity. Small gatherings that dissolve before authorities can investigate properly. Nothing definitively linking these events to Voldemort directly, but the pattern feels familiar to those of us who witnessed his original rise to power.”
“You think he’s rebuilding,” Harry said, the implication settling uncomfortably in his stomach.
“I fear it’s likely,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Whatever remains of his consciousness and power, diminished as it might currently be, appears to be actively working toward restoration. Whether through gathering loyal followers, seeking magical artifacts, or pursuing other means entirely, I cannot say with certainty.”
“What about Greyback?” Daphne asked. “Is there any connection between his activities and Voldemort’s resurgence?”
“An excellent question, and one that concerns me considerably,” Dumbledore said. “Greyback’s pack has continued moving westward across Europe, leaving substantial destruction in their wake. Whether he’s acting independently out of personal vengeance, or whether Voldemort’s remaining influence has somehow directed his actions, remains unclear.”
“But you suspect a connection,” Harry pressed.
“I suspect many things, though certainty remains frustratingly elusive,” Dumbledore admitted. “Voldemort has historically maintained relationships with various dark creatures and factions, Greyback included. It would hardly surprise me if some communication exists between them, however indirect.”
Nicolas leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “What would you have us do with this information, Albus?”
“Continue your excellent work here,” Dumbledore said. “Mr. Potter and Miss Greengrass’ training remains crucial, perhaps more so given these developments. I would also ask that you maintain heightened vigilance regarding your security, particularly as summer draws toward its conclusion and they eventually return to Britain.”
“You believe Greyback intends to follow them home,” Harry said.
“I believe it’s a distinct possibility we cannot afford to ignore,” Dumbledore confirmed. “His pack has been moving steadily westward for weeks now, and Britain represents both your home and, presumably, his ultimate destination given his personal motivations.”
The conversation continued for another hour, Dumbledore sharing details about intelligence reports and defensive preparations already underway at Hogwarts. By the time he finally departed, promising to remain in regular contact throughout the summer, Harry felt the familiar weight of responsibility settling back onto his shoulders, temporarily lightened by weeks of training but never entirely absent.
“We knew this was coming,” Daphne said quietly, watching Dumbledore’s retreating figure disappear beyond the garden’s boundary wards. “Moody warned us Greyback wouldn’t simply give up his pursuit.”
“Doesn’t make it easier to hear it confirmed,” Harry replied. “Especially with Voldemort potentially involved as well.”
“We’ll be ready,” Daphne said, though her voice carried more determination than certainty. “We’ve spent this entire summer becoming stronger, more capable, and better prepared for whatever comes next. That has to count for something.”
“It does,” Harry agreed, though privately he wondered whether any amount of preparation could truly account for every possible threat lurking in their future.
XXXXX
Word of their tournament success had apparently traveled further than either Harry or Daphne initially realized, judging by the increasing volume of correspondence arriving at the Flamel estate throughout late July. Letters from various magical organizations, requests for interviews from international publications, and, more concerning, several communications that felt distinctly like recruitment attempts disguised as friendly outreach.
“Another one,” Daphne said, holding up an elegantly sealed envelope during breakfast one morning. “This time from something calling itself the Confederation of Progressive Magical Development.”
“Sounds ominous,” Harry said, accepting the letter she passed across the table. “What do they want?”
“Officially, they’re offering mentorship opportunities and access to advanced magical research facilities across Europe.” Daphne’s tone carried obvious skepticism. “Unofficially, based on the specific language they’re using, I suspect they’re more interested in establishing political influence over two young duelists who just won three European championships.”
Harry scanned the letter’s contents, noting the careful phrasing designed to sound generous while remaining deliberately vague about actual expectations or obligations. “This is the fourth one this week, right? Or fifth?”
“Sixth, actually,” Daphne corrected. “Though most follow similar patterns. Vague promises of support and opportunity, careful avoidance of specific commitments, obvious interest in associating themselves with our reputation.”
Nicolas, who’d been reading his own correspondence at the head of the table, glanced up with knowing amusement. “Welcome to the reality of public magical prominence. Your victories have made you valuable commodities in certain circles, whether you appreciate that framing or not.”
“Valuable how, exactly?” Harry asked.
“Association with rising talent carries significant political and social capital,” Nicolas explained. “Organizations that can claim connection to promising young duelists gain prestige, credibility, and potentially useful future allies. You’re both being courted, essentially, though the courtship comes disguised in various forms depending on who’s doing the courting.”
“That’s deeply unsettling,” Daphne said.
“It’s simply how magical society operates at higher levels,” Perenelle added, joining the conversation from where she’d been tending to garden plants near the breakfast table. “Best to recognize these approaches for what they are and respond accordingly, rather than either naïve acceptance or paranoid rejection.”
“So how do we respond?” Harry asked.
“Politely decline anything that requests specific commitments or obligations,” Nicolas advised. “Accept genuine offers of education or opportunity that come without strings attached, while remaining alert for hidden expectations disguised as generosity. And trust your instincts regarding which approaches feel legitimate versus which feel manipulative.”
They spent considerable time that afternoon working through the accumulated correspondence, sorting genuine opportunities from thinly veiled political maneuvering. Most letters fell clearly into the latter category, various organizations and prominent families seeking to establish connections that would benefit their own reputation rather than offering anything of genuine value.
A few seemed more legitimate. An invitation from the International Confederation of Wizards’ youth outreach program, offering real educational opportunities without obvious strings attached. A request from a respected dueling academy in Switzerland, interested in hosting them for advanced training during future school holidays.
“This one’s interesting,” Daphne said, examining a letter without any obvious organizational seal. “It’s from someone claiming to represent interested parties within the British Ministry, expressing interest in maintaining friendly relations given our, and I quote, ‘evident future significance to magical Britain’s political landscape.’”
“That’s suspiciously vague,” Harry observed.
“Deliberately so, I’d imagine,” Nicolas said, examining the letter himself. “Whoever sent this wants to establish contact without committing to anything specific.”
“Should we respond?” Daphne asked.
“Cautiously, if at all,” Nicolas advised. “Acknowledge receipt without providing anything substantive. Let them reveal more before you commit to genuine engagement.”
They followed his advice for the remainder of their stay, gradually developing better instincts for spotting legitimate opportunities amid the growing flood of correspondence. It was, Harry reflected, an entirely different kind of education from curse breaking or advanced dueling, but one that felt equally necessary given where their lives seemed to be heading.
“Everyone wants something from us now,” he said to Daphne one evening as they walked through the estate’s gardens, the accumulated weight of political maneuvering and recruitment attempts sitting heavily on both their minds.
“Not everyone,” Daphne corrected gently. “Nicolas and Perenelle want nothing except to help us succeed. McGonagall wants us prepared and capable. Our families want us happy and safe. It’s easy to focus on the vultures circling around our reputation, but plenty of people genuinely care about us independent of whatever political value we might represent.”
“You’re right,” Harry admitted, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “I suppose I just wasn’t expecting fame to come with quite this much unwanted attention.”
“You should’ve gotten used to it by now, given who you are,” Daphne said with wry amusement. “But something tells me this is only the beginning, especially given everything else we’re dealing with. Voldemort, Greyback, whatever comes after that. Our lives were never going to be simple or quiet.”
“No,” Harry agreed, taking her hand as they continued walking through the darkening garden. “But at least we’re facing it together.”
“Always together,” Daphne echoed, the familiar phrase carrying its usual comfort despite the uncertain future stretching out ahead of them.
To be continued...