“How is she?” Harry walked into the large bedroom, eyes fixed on his sister, asleep on the bed.
“She should wake up anytime now,” Arcturus looked at him, seated by the bed on a chair, “Have you healed?”
“Enough,” he answered, the relief that had awoken in his mind beginning to be swept away by anger, the more and more he looked at the bandage on Persephone’s face, and the image of her, bleeding and still on the ground, flashed before his eyes. He felt his magic rise, volatile and ready to unleash destruction once again, but a hand grasped his shoulder, grounding him and his emotions both.
“Control your emotions, Harry,” Arcturus calmly spoke, “Your body may have healed on the surface, but you need to exercise control for some time. Reign in your power.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” he sighed, instantly employing what little measure of Occlumency Arcturus had taught them, centering his mind and letting all emotions wash away into a metaphorical drain.”How did they enter the Manor? Artemis should have known about them the instant they were here.”
“A common misconception about how wards work,” he shook his head, “Kastro Mavros is a different case, Harry, since there are only four of us living there at any time—with the addition of Scylla, of course. It is quite simple to tether myself to the estate’s wards so that I know of all that is happening at a glance. But last night, the Greengrasses were hosting a couple of hundred people.”
“Artemis would have been overloaded,” Harry muttered, looking back at Persephone.
“Correct,” Arcturus nodded, tapping his cane softly on the ground, and a projection rose from the ground, translucent and green. ‘The Greengrass estate’, Harry realised as the three-dimensional projection rotated slowly before them, and four red dots appeared at different points.
“That is the main Hall we were in,” he bagan, pointing his can at the largest orb of crimson, before shifting it to two smaller ones clustered together, him and Persephone, “That is you and Persephone. And that one,” he shifted his wand to the edge of the manor, towards the northern wing, “is where they planned the distraction for Artemis. They killed the house elves in the kitchens and poisoned the food for the guests with a hallucinogen. The elves responsible for ferrying the food and plates were imperiused one after another with a skill that speaks of experience. Artemis was unaware of anything being averse until the moment the food collectively became poisoned.”
“What were they hoping to do? Mass killing of the whole Magical nobility and Ministry?” he asked, flabbergasted and shocked at the ambitious fools…bu-”but how does that turn into kidnapping Persephone?”
“Because murder was never their goal for the night,” Arcturus smiled, “There was no way that the hallucinogen would have worked on anyone with even a modicum of protective wards and enchantments, let alone the skill to nullify it. Nay, their aim was to cause confusion in the Hall, enough to force Artemis to quell the chaos there first. Even now, as we speak, he is defending himself from allegations of conspiracy, murder and negligence.”
“Which enabled them to invert the corridor without his notice,” Harry muttered, looking at the said corridor as the projection zoomed in, showing the boundary where the perpetrators had laid the enchantment to snare Persephone, “But that still doesn’t explain why go to all that trouble just for us? Because our parents stood with the Dark Lord and betrayed Neville?”
“That would be what they would want everyone to think,” Arcturus spoke, meeting his eyes as he took a seat, “When the woman used that portkey, there was another intruder with them, waiting at the edge of the wards. He carved a message into the grounds, talking about taking revenge, but I do not buy that.”
“Then why target her? There is nothing that they can get from Persephone.”
“There are two possible reasons why they would target you or Persephone,” Arcturus hummed, placing both of his hands onthe top of his cane, and looking at his sister, “The first, and most plausible, is to get me to do something, or attack me. It is the most logical chain of thought.”
“Who—Why would anyone be stupid enough to attack you?!” Harry blinked, shocked and a little amused at the very thought of anyone thinking such thoughts. He had never seen Arcturus exert his power in full. Still, just the historical records of his fights, the aura he carried with him, it was enough for him to safely say that Arcturus was quite possibly the strongest wizard he knew of. Hell, he faintly remembered the sensation of his power pressing down on him when he had stepped out of that void into the corridor the last night, oppressive and heavy.
Hell, merely the memory of how he had earned his title as the Scourge of Britanny should be enough.
“Stupidity and ambition are two sides of the same coin Harry,” he shook his head, “What appears ot you as stupidity might be ambition coated with more danger than you or I realise. I have many who would wish me dead, and of them, there are many still who can splurge this kind of coin on mercenaries.”
“What happened to the woman? I saw you strike her with some spell,” he frowned, fingers itching for hsi wand as he remembered that witch. Even now, the feeling of being forced to his knees coursed through his brain, and Harry pushed down the shame that came with it.
Never again, he vowed.
“It was a curse,” Arcturus smiled grimly, catching his attention, “Her arm will rot away slowly, spreading the poison to her whole body. If she amputates the arm, it will explode at the joint. She will be dead or worse in a few weeks. But that does not mean the incident will not repeat.”
“Whoever it was, they will attempt again,” Harry said, before remembering something, “Where is Cassieopeia?”
“She is with the Lady Greengrass and her daughters,” he answered, nodding in the direction of the windows. “They are in the grounds outside. Artemis is currently supervising the reconstruction of the damages caused to the manor, as well as the wards that were broken through.”
“The guests?”
“The DMLE has called upon Artemis and me to present ourselves before the body and explain the events that occurred,” he tapped a finger, and the projection disappeared. “We were asked to come today, but I am not leaving until I see Persephone awake and behind Kastro Mavros’s walls. Now, ” he stood up, and patted his shoulder, “I need to have a word with Cassieopeia—I shall ask Ophelia to send some breakfast for you.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, nodding weakly and as Arcturus walked off, Harry looked at his sister, pale and bedridden. It was…unsettling, beyond the fact that she had been attacked. It had always been Persephone protecting and comforting him at the Dursleys, because somewhere, somehow, Vernon and Dudley both realised that she was a girl. Persephone had rarely faced beatings, unless Vernon or Marge were really drunk, and she mostly been hurt trying to save him.
Then they had come to the magical realm, and things had slowly changed. They had made friends in Tracey and Daphne, and they had gotten a family in Arcturus and Cassiopeia. Hell, they had begun to normally enjoy their days at Hogwarts.
But it was all a curtain on the ugliness of their reality—that here too, they needed to be on guard.
A thought he had forgotten over the months, lulled into the normalcy of their days.
A thought he would not forget again.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
‘Spectacle at the Greengrass Manor; Conspiracy or Collusion’
‘Persephone Potter attacked—Revenge for Neville Longbottom’
Daphne sighed and burned the newspaper to ashes, watching as Cassiopeia Black—the Valkyrie of Death herself—entertained Astoria with small, harmless transfigurations. A ribbon of light twisted into the shape of a bird, fluttered, then burst into a spray of glittering motes that made Astoria laugh despite herself. Cassiopeia’s smile was soft there, unguarded in a way Daphne had learned to recognise as rare.
The laughter did not reach Daphne.
The words from the paper lingered in her mind like a bad taste. Skeeter had wasted no time, penning the articles right in front of all their eyes the night before. By morning, the narrative had already been chosen, sharpened, and loosed upon the public: revenge, betrayal, old blood debts resurfacing. Spices and drama galore for the whole realm to gorge upon.
Daphne closed her eyes and let the night replay itself once again—not as gossip that Skeeter had served to everyone, but as it had unfolded.
It had all been going so well. She had been spending time with Harry and Persephone, and Astoria was also feeling well enough to jump around. She had danced with Harry, and for a moment, Daphne couldn’t stop the smile that broke out on her face at the memory, but it turned into a scowl as she remembered Malfoy and his attempted smooth-talking.
She had seen Harry dance with Astoria, and then he had vanished, walking out of the hall. Barely a minute or two had passed when the first crack in the evening came. Madam Bones herself had stiffened mid-bite, her expression shifting from polite neutrality to sharp alarm. Daphne remembered it clearly, for she had been close to the woman herself, watching how the Lady Bones shifted into the Head of DMLE
“The food is tampered with.”
The entire hall had fallen silent within moments as Bones set her fork down with deliberate care. She did not say anything for a couple of seconds after that, eyes narrowing as she flicked her wand over the plate, and her eyes met her father’s, the meaning clear.
Murmurs had started instantly.
Her father had noticed immediately, walking towards the DMLE head, and her mother had instantly sought out Astoria among the rising chaos. Word had spread like fire through dry grass—accusations, raised voices, the word poison whispered too loudly for comfort. Daphne had seen the way eyes had turned on him, suspicion blooming ugly and fast.
Checking the plate for himself once, her father had turned towards the guest, and without a delay called for the House-elves—his voice carrying the authority of the manor itself, yet none had come. That, more than the accusations, had chilled the room. For a fleeting moment, even her father had appeared flummoxed, before he forced the wards to compel their presence, and yet, only a handful had appeared—glassy-eyed, movements sluggish.
“Imperius,” Madam Bones had whispered, silencing everyone into stupor, for an Unforgivable being used so freely…it was a time many wished to forget. Daphne still remembered the way her father’s expression had gone utterly still at the sight.
And then—almost simultaneously—the enchantment had been detected, the full access of the wards allowing her father to feel the distortion wrought in his own home. A pocket along the eastern corridors, subtle enough to slip beneath notice in the press of a full estate, but unmistakably wrong once someone knew to look. Daphne had felt it too then, a faint pressure at the edge of her awareness, like a breath held too long, her own fledgling connection to the lands allowing her to sense something.
Before anything more could be said, accusations flew wild and high. Murder, takeover, line-theft. Every type of accusation that could be levied against her father and the name Greengrass had been spoken in shouts and demands for surrender. She had seen the anger in her father’s eyes, and the way he was forced to swallow it down.
For as the host and the Lord Greengrass, it was his fault. His lapse. But with a promise to attend to everyone, and trusting her mother to handle the crowd for the moment, both Lord Black and her father had vanished from their places without a word, disappearing into shadows and light alike.
That had been the moment fear truly took hold, because for Lord Black to disappear…it meant Harry and Persephone were involved in the debacle.
It had been much worse than she had realised. Three mercenaries had broken into the manor, likely the ones who had imperiused the elves and drugged the food…and they had attempted to kidnap Persephone Potter. Attempted; for the girl—not even fifteen yet—had fought back, with enough skill and power to resist instant loss against three older, much more experienced mages.
Daphne had gone to the corridor herself once the healers were done and the worst of the damage stabilised. The sight of it had stopped her cold. Marble scorched and split, mosaics shattered, the walls bearing the ugly scars of curses thrown without restraint. This was not the clean aftermath of a duel ended swiftly. This was desperation. Violence. Power applied under pressure.
She stood there longer than she meant to, tracing the destruction with her eyes, and for the first time allowed herself to imagine it properly.
Harry and Persephone—her age, younger, really—facing wizards old enough to know better. Not sparring. Not posturing. Fighting.
Brutally.
Efficiently.
Her father’s words echoed in her mind, quiet and measured when he had told her the truth: that the twins had brought down two grown mercenaries between them. Daphne felt a shiver run down her spine, and she thought of Tracey then. Of that first year, of the casual honesty with which Tracey had once explained why she had spoken to the Potters at all. Because power notices power. Because ignoring it was foolish, and power never stayed caged.
Daphne had just heard the words then, intellectually.
Even until now, she had not truly understood that.
Now she did.
The political fallout loomed heavy and unavoidable. Her father had been summoned to the DMLE before noon; the Wizengamot would not be far behind. Greengrass's neutrality would be questioned. Alliances probed. Old grudges were dusted off and examined for usefulness. The Blacks would be dragged into it whether they wished to be or not, and the Potters—children though they were—had already been placed at the centre of a narrative they had not chosen.
Once again.
The coming days would not be kind, Daphne sighed and looked up at the sun. Merlin, each of her friends was undergoing their own trial, their own test with fate or destiny or whatever gods that be…and Daphne loathed that she was just a viewer in this.
Behind her, Astoria laughed again as Cassiopeia conjured a tiny knight that bowed deeply before dissolving into smoke. Daphne watched them for a moment longer, committing the sight to memory. Light. Laughter. Safety.
All of it felt fragile now.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement chambers were built to impress and to intimidate, and they succeeded at both for the most.
Tiered stone benches curved in a semicircle around a central dais etched with runes older than the Ministry itself, their magic dormant but watchful. High above, enchanted windows admitted a cold, colourless light that made no allowance for comfort. This was not a courtroom, not quite—but it was close enough to make the distinction meaningless to those summoned within its walls.
Amelia Bones stood at the centre, hands folded atop a thick parchment folder, expression composed and unreadable. She wore her authority the way some wore armour: not loudly, but thoroughly.
To her right stood Kingsley Shacklebolt, broad-shouldered and still as a mountain, eyes sharp beneath his calm exterior. To her left, Head Auror Gawain Robards leaned slightly against the stone railing, arms crossed, face set into a permanent scowl of professional suspicion. And just behind them all, propped against his staff with deliberate slouch, was Alastor Moody.
The air smelled faintly of old magic and ozone.
Arcturus Black stood opposite them, cane planted firmly against the stone, posture relaxed in a way that suggested he found the room… quaint. Artemis Greengrass stood half a step behind and to his right, hands clasped behind his back, expression smooth and controlled, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed long hours without rest.
Amelia spoke first.
“Lord Black. Lord Greengrass. Thank you for attending on such short notice. Please have a seat.”
“You summoned,” Arcturus replied mildly, taking his place as everyone sat down, “I arrived.”
Artemis inclined his head. “As did I.”
Moody snorted. “Touchin’ sentiment.”
Amelia shot Moody a look that could have curdled milk, then turned back to them. “We will proceed efficiently. Lord Greengrass—confirm for the record. Last night, during your Solstice gathering, an attack occurred within the estate.”
“Yes,” Artemis said without hesitation. “A coordinated attempt involving internal sabotage, external ward manipulation, and the use of Unforgivable curses.”
Robards raised an eyebrow. “You’re certain about that last part?”
“I watched several of my house-elves appear under active Imperius,” Artemis replied flatly. “There is no ambiguity.”
Kingsley nodded once. “We’ve confirmed traces consistent with that.”
Amelia made a note, then looked up again. “Three perpetrators were identified?”
“Four,” Arcturus corrected calmly.
That earned him their full attention.
Moody straightened slightly. “Four.”
“One operative remained outside the primary ward perimeter,” Arcturus continued. “A contingency. He fled once the primary team failed.”
“And the others?” Amelia asked. “Two were reported incapacitated by… the victims.”
“Yes,” Artemis said quietly.
Amelia’s quill paused. “Lord Greengrass, earlier you stated that two attackers were taken into custody.”
Artemis glanced sideways at Arcturus, who just smiled and reached into his robe. “They are here,” he said.
Amelia stiffened instantly. “Lord Black—”
He produced a small, unassuming metal box, no larger than a snuff case, and placed it on the stone between them. With a flick of his fingers, it expanded—metal groaning softly as runes flared and resolved.
The box unfolded into a reinforced containment frame, wards snapping into place with a low hum, and inside lay two unconscious wizards.
One was missing a hand—what remained of his forearm blackened and ruined, wrapped in crude but competent bandaging. The other’s knee was shattered beyond recognition, the joint bound tightly, blood seeping through layers of gauze.
For a heartbeat, the chamber was silent.
Then Amelia rounded on Arcturus, anger sharp and immediate.
“You had no jurisdiction to detain suspects, Lord Black,” she snapped. “This is a gross overreach—”
“This is no overreaching, Director Bones,” Arcturus interrupted, voice still polite, still calm. “My grandchildren were assaulted within a protected estate. I exercised my right to secure the attackers.”
“You are not the DMLE,” she narrowed her gaze, but Arcturus was unfazed. Amelia had a long way to go before she even became remotely terrifying for him.
“No,” he agreed pleasantly. “I am worse.”
Moody barked out a laugh. “Still got it, you old bastard.”
“Alastor,” Amelia warned, before turning towards him, the demand for an explanation clear on her face.
Arcturus continued as if uninterrupted. “I did not harm them further. I did not use Veritaserum. I did not apply Legilimency. I questioned them verbally, under no compulsion, for precisely eleven minutes. After which I rendered them unconscious and stabilised them.”
Robards leaned forward now, eyes narrowing. “Stabilised?”
Kingsley was already moving, wand out, crouching beside the containment frame. “I’ll handle first aid.”
“Please do,” Arcturus said. “They’re in no danger of dying unless someone interferes incompetently.”
Kingsley shot him a look but said nothing, focusing on reinforcing the bindings and assessing vitals.
Amelia stepped closer, eyes scanning the injuries with a healer’s precision. “These wounds,” she said slowly, “were inflicted during the altercation.”
“Yes.”
“By children.”
Arcturus met her gaze, unblinking. “Yes.”
She straightened. “What exactly have you been teaching the Potter twins, Lord Black?”
For the first time since entering the chamber, Arcturus’s smile widened—just a fraction, a savage satisfaction appearing in his eyes.
“Reality,” he said simply.
Moody let out a low whistle as he hobbled forwards to take a look at the bodies, “Bloody hell. That’s some reality alright.”
Amelia’s jaw tightened, but she held her temper in check. “This inquiry is far from over.”
“Good,” Arcturus replied. “It shouldn’t be.”
Artemis finally spoke again, voice even. “Director Bones, House Greengrass will cooperate fully. But understand this—what happened last night was not an isolated crime. It was a probe.”
Amelia studied them both for a long moment, then nodded once. “That,” she said quietly, “is my concern as well. Now,” she turned back towards him, “Lord Black, what have you learned from your initial examination of the site of altercation, as well as these mercenaries you detained?”
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The chamber felt emptier after Arcturus Black departed.
Not quieter—magic still hummed in the stones, wards ticking along their invisible circuits—but the pressure had shifted. Like the absence of a silence that had lasted too long for sound to make sense. Amelia Bones remained standing at the central dais long after the doors sealed shut behind Lord Black and Lord Greengrass, her fingers resting against the parchment folder she had not opened since the box had been revealed.
Moody broke the silence first.
“Well,” he rasped, tapping his staff against the stone once. “That was cheerful.”
Robards snorted. “You say that like you expected anything else.”
Kingsley remained crouched near the containment frame, finishing the last stabilisation charm with methodical care. He straightened slowly, eyes lingering on the two unconscious mercenaries before turning back toward Amelia. “They’ll live,” he said. “Assuming St. Mungo’s can keep up with whatever curse residue is still eating at them.”
Amelia nodded once, distracted. “Thank you, Kingsley.”
Moody limped closer to the frame, magical eye whirring as it focused on the ruined arm of the first mercenary. The flesh was blackened in places, greyed in others, the damage spreading in branching patterns beneath the skin like rot through damp wood.
“Nasty,” he muttered. “Not Dark magic, not quite. But close enough to make my skin crawl.”
Amelia folded her arms. “You asked to inspect them.”
“Aye. And I am.” He leaned in closer, sniffed once, then grimaced. “That’s necrosis. No question.”
Robards’ brow furrowed. “From a curse?”
“From something,” Moody replied. “But not one I know. Not one I’ve ever countered. Flesh doesn’t usually… die like this. It’s not cursed decay. It’s an accelerated collapse. Like the magic just… told the cells to stop remembering how to be alive.”
Kingsley’s jaw tightened slightly. “Can you reverse it?”
Moody shook his head without hesitation. “No.”
She exhaled slowly. “Could it be a Black family working?”
Moody did not answer at once. He leaned closer to the containment frame, magical eye whirring softly as it traced the edges of the necrotic tissue, then straightened with a faint grunt.
“Maybe,” he said at last. “The Blacks’ve always had a talent for magic that doesn’t ask permission. Ugly work. Efficient work.” His mouth twisted. “But this?” He shook his head once. “Doesn’t feel old enough. Not refined. No lineage to it. It’s… raw. Like it was forced into being. It is like a guided accident…fucking bollocks if you ask me.”
Robards shifted his weight. “So you’re saying it wasn’t Arcturus.”
Moody’s good eye slid toward him. “If Arcturus Black had done this,” he replied flatly, “there wouldn’t be a patient left to argue about. You remember the academy lessons of the Grindelwald War, do you not?”
That settled it.
The silence that followed was heavier, thicker—less about shock, more about reassessment. Amelia turned away from the mercenaries and paced once, boots echoing softly against the stone, before she stopped near the benches.
“Let’s talk about the twins,” she said, looking down at the unconscious wizards for a moment.
Robards straightened, as if he had been waiting for permission. “Finally.”
“We should have had files on them years ago,” he continued, pushing off the railing. “Proper ones. Not just school reports and Dumbledore’s letters. Children of confirmed Death Eater operatives—assets, by most accounts. Sleeper agents or not, that alone should’ve warranted observation.”
“They were never convicted,” Kingsley said calmly, “and if we go down that route, half the population of Hogwarts and others would be under our lens.”
“As they should be,” Robards replied, frowning “and for the Potters, they were betrayers. For a Fidelius, that’s worse.”
Amelia raised a hand before the edge could sharpen further. “Enough. We’re not reopening the war or history that has been rehashed countless times” She paused, then added, quieter, “But Robards is right about one thing. Oversight was… insufficient. The Potters were absent from the magical world for nearly a decade. When they resurfaced, we treated them like an administrative inconvenience instead of what they were.”
Moody snorted. “Anomalies.”
Kingsley inclined his head slightly. “Children raised outside our systems. Outside our norms.”
“Children who killed a mountain troll at eleven,” Robards corrected, unable to keep the bite out of his voice.
Kingsley glanced at him. “Neutralised.”
“No,” Robards shook his head. “Killed. With intent.” He looked back at Amelia. “A transfigured spear shot through the chest. That’s not accidental magic. That’s decisiveness.”
“Yes, I saw the pictures, Gawain,” Amelia closed her eyes briefly. “And we accepted Dumbledore’s assurances.”
Moody gave a low, humourless huff. “Always do. And not like there was much to be done with Arcturus publicly blasting off Longbottom in the Great Hall.”
She ignored him. “No other activities since to add tags to their name, and honestly, I had thought that would be the end of it.”
“But it didn’t,” Kingsley said quietly.
“Because they were quiet,” Robards added. “No doubt Arcturus’ mentorship has only made them more dangerous since. You heard about the duel that happened in Hogwarts? THe girl absolutely decimated a third year with cutting curses.”
“It was bound to happen. She has the talent, the blood,“ Moody tapped his staff once against the stone. “Kids like that don’t come out of nowhere.”
Amelia turned to him. “What are you suggesting, Alastor?”
“I’m suggesting,” he said, fixing her with his good eye, “that Arcturus Black isn’t just sheltering them. He’s shaping them. Deliberately. As he once did Bellatrix and Sirius.”
Kingsley frowned. “To what end?”
Moody shrugged. “Ask him. He’s lived long enough to have reasons we don’t.”
Robards folded his arms. “We need proper profiles. Psychological. Magical aptitude. Combat response. Social alignment. Everything.”
Amelia nodded slowly. “Agreed.”
Kingsley hesitated. “Susan—”
“I know,” Amelia interrupted, her voice tightening despite herself. “I’ve thought about it.”
Robards tilted his head. “Does she ever talk about them?”
Amelia’s eyes sharpened, just a fraction. “Never.”
Moody watched her carefully. “Any conversations between them?”
“Yes, I think.” Amelia sighed. “When they first arrived, but she must have stopped after their names were revealed, probably at the sorting. She shook her head. “Susan learned caution early. Perhaps too early.”
Robards nodded. “Can’t blame her. Can’t be friendly with Death Eater children.”
Kingsley looked at him sharply. “They are children.”
“So were they,” Robards replied, gesturing vaguely toward the mercenaries. “Once.”
Amelia didn’t argue. She looked older in that moment, the lines around her eyes more pronounced.
Moody broke the silence. “So what are we calling them?”
Kingsley met his gaze. “Students.”
“Subjects,” Robards countered.
“Threats,” Moody finished, his eye looking at them all in turn before focusing on her.
Amelia looked at each of them in turn. “They are minors under the protection of Arcturus Black.”
Moody grinned thinly. “That didn’t stop us before.”
“No,” she said quietly. “But it should make us careful.”
Kingsley folded his arms. “Our course?”
“We observe and document,” Amelia said. “Track their associations, accounts, days however much we can, without provoking Arcturus.”
Robards grimaced. “And if they grow stronger?”
“They will,” Moody said without hesitation, “They are the blood of Charlus fucking Potter and Dorea Black. Under the wand of Arcturus demented Black. Their parents were amongst the best wizards and witches of their generation. If there is one thing you can expect, it is power and talent in droves.”
Amelia nodded, and looked at the mercenaries. “When did children start becoming subjects of interest?”
Moody gave a low chuckle. “Since they never were children.”