Lady Zabini watched as her operative secured the unconscious reporter with practiced efficiency. Marco worked quickly, binding Weasley’s hands and feet with conjured ropes before levitating her body toward the prepared portkey.
“Any complications?” the Widow asked, her voice perfectly calm.
“None, my lady. The girl never saw my face and the potion will keep her unconscious for several hours. By the time she wakes, we’ll have her secure in the safe house.”
“Excellent.” Lady Zabini moved to the window, staring out at the darkened Scottish countryside. The Magpies played out of Montrose, which had made this operation significantly easier than if Weasley had been in London. “Make sure she’s comfortable when she wakes. I want her confused, not terrified. Fear makes people unpredictable and I need her cooperative.”
“Understood.” Marco placed a hand on the portkey and Weasley’s body. They vanished with barely a sound, leaving Lady Zabini alone in the hotel room.
She took her time examining the space, making sure nothing was left behind that could be traced back to her organization. The room told an interesting story. Weasley’s clothes were expensive but not extravagant, suggesting someone who wanted to look professional without overspending. Her notes were thorough and well organized. The woman took her work seriously.
But the bed was disheveled, the sheets tangled. A glass of wine sat half empty on the nightstand. And unless Lady Zabini was very much mistaken, the scent of arousal hung faintly in the air. The girl had been enjoying herself before the interruption.
How unfortunate for her.
Lady Zabini smiled coldly and activated her own portkey, disappearing from the room as silently as she’d arrived. By morning, the hotel staff would find the room empty, the bill paid in full, and absolutely no evidence that anything untoward had occurred. Ginny Weasley would simply have vanished in the night.
And when Harry Potter came looking for her, as he inevitably would, Lady Zabini would be ready with her demands. Three operatives for one ex-girlfriend seemed like a fair trade. Potter could posture and threaten all he wanted, but she’d learned long ago that everyone had their price.
Everyone had someone they couldn’t afford to lose.
For Potter, she suspected that person might just be the red haired witch currently bound and unconscious in her safehouse. Even if he claimed to be over her, even if their relationship had ended badly, there was history there. Connection. The kind that didn’t simply disappear no matter how much time passed.
Lady Zabini would exploit that connection ruthlessly. She’d get her operatives back. She’d make Potter pay for his arrogance in capturing them in the first place. And if things went particularly well, she might even extract additional concessions for her trouble.
The night was young and full of possibilities. She hummed softly to herself as she appeared in her villa, already planning her next moves. This was going to be far more interesting than she’d initially anticipated.
Potter had made a powerful enemy. It was time he learned exactly what that meant.
-Break-
The whiskey burned going down but Thornfield welcomed it. Anything to stop thinking about the name Crenshaw had spoken three nights ago. Anything to stop remembering.
But the alcohol never helped. Not really. It just made the memories sharper, brought them into focus like someone adjusting a telescope until every detail became unbearably clear.
April 1998. He’d been twenty-four years old and convinced he was clever.
The safe house was a converted warehouse in what used to be a decent part of magical London, before the Snatchers started their patrols and the decent people fled. Thornfield and his crew had claimed it, turned it into their base of operations. Eight men total. All competent. All ruthless enough to capitalize on the chaos the war created.
“Another good haul tonight, boys.” Roderick had dumped a bag of coins onto the table with a satisfying clink. “Old witch on Turnpike Lane practically threw money at us. Didn’t even need to threaten her much.”
Thornfield had been counting their weekly take, separating the protection money from the smuggling profits, when the wards triggered. Not the perimeter alerts. The inner sanctum wards. Impossible unless someone had already gotten past the first three layers of detection spells.
“We’ve got company.” He’d pulled his wand, gesturing for the others to spread out. “Positions. Could be Snatchers. Could be Order remnants. Either way, we handle it quiet.”
The door hadn’t opened. It had simply ceased to exist. One moment solid oak reinforced with protective charms, the next a rectangular absence where wood used to be. No explosion. No splintering. Just gone, like someone had edited it out of reality.
A figure stepped through. Young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Dark messy hair, round glasses, completely unremarkable except for the eyes. Green eyes that swept across the room and catalogued every person, every wand position, and every potential threat in less than a second.
“Evening.” His voice was quiet. Almost polite. “I need information about Death Eater movements in this district. Specifically about Antonin Dolohov. I know he’s been operating somewhere nearby.”
Thornfield had exchanged glances with his men. This kid had walked into their headquarters alone, through military grade wards, and was making demands like he had any right to.
“I think you’ve got the wrong place, pal.” Thornfield had kept his voice level. “We don’t involve ourselves in war business. Neutrality keeps us breathing.”
“That’s not what I asked.” The boy had stepped further into the room. No hesitation. No fear. “Dolohov. Where is he?”
“Listen here, you little shit.” Roderick had moved forward, his wand raised. “You don’t walk into our place making demands. We’re not your bloody informants.”
The boy’s wand had moved so fast it was just a blur. Roderick’s curse had dissolved mid-flight and Roderick himself had been flung backward into the wall hard enough to crack the bricks. He’d slumped down, conscious but clearly stunned.
“Anyone else want to be difficult?” The boy’s tone hadn’t changed. Still quiet. Still polite. That made it worse somehow.
Three of Thornfield’s men had attacked simultaneously. They’d done this dozens of times, practiced the coordination until it was seamless. Overwhelming force from multiple angles. It had never failed before.
The boy had twisted between the curses like smoke. A cutting hex passed through empty space where his shoulder had been a fraction of a second earlier. A bone breaker sailed past his ear. A stunner hit the wall behind him. He hadn’t cast a single shield. Just moved, reading their spells before they were fully formed.
His counter attack was brutal and efficient. Three flicks of his wand, three different spells, and all three men were down. Not dead. Thornfield could see them breathing. But completely incapacitated, their wands skittering across the floor.
“I’ll ask one more time.” The boy’s eyes found Thornfield’s and held them. “Dolohov. Where?”
Thornfield’s survival instincts were screaming. Every battle-honed sense he possessed told him this person was death walking. Not someone pretending to be dangerous. Actually dangerous, the way a tiger was dangerous. Apex predator wearing human skin.
“Who are you?” The question came out before he could stop it.
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah. It does. Because if you’re who I think you are, then this conversation goes very differently.”
The boy had tilted his head slightly. “And who do you think I am?”
“Harry Potter.”
The name had hung in the air like a curse. Two of his remaining men had gone pale. The other two had tightened their grips on their wands, which was stupid. Wands wouldn’t help against this.
“Smart.” Potter had actually smiled. No warmth in it. Just acknowledgment of basic pattern recognition. “So you understand that I don’t make empty threats. I need to find Dolohov before he completes whatever he’s planning. People will die if I don’t stop him. Possibly a lot of people.”
“We don’t track Death Eaters.” Thornfield had chosen his words carefully. “Not our business. We keep our heads down and survive.”
“That’s disappointing.” Potter had walked further into the room, past the incapacitated men. “See, I’ve been watching your operation for three days. I know exactly what you do. Protection rackets. Targeting people who can’t fight back. Taking money from families who are barely surviving. You’re parasites feeding on fear.”
“Business is business.” Thornfield had felt anger mixing with his fear. “The war created opportunities. We’re just adapting to market conditions.”
“Market conditions.” Potter had repeated the words like they tasted foul. “Is that what you call terrorizing shopkeepers and threatening families?”
“Nobody gets hurt if they pay on time.”
“Nobody gets hurt.” Potter’s voice had dropped even quieter. “Tell that to the Caldwell family. The ones your man Roderick put in St. Mungo’s last week because they were two days late with payment.”
Thornfield had actually felt his stomach drop. How did Potter know about that? They’d been careful. Kept things quiet.
“Old man Caldwell lost three fingers.” Potter had continued in that same eerily calm voice. “His granddaughter had her collarbone shattered. His grandson, nine years old, watched the whole thing and hasn’t spoken since. But I suppose that’s just business, right?”
“They were late.” Thornfield had heard how weak it sounded even as he said it. “We have to maintain credibility.”
“Credibility.” Potter had laughed then. Not amused. Something darker. “You maintain credibility by torturing families. war refugees. People who are already running from Death Eaters. Do you know what that makes you?”
“Survivors.” Thornfield had spat the word. “We’re survivors in a world that’s gone to hell. The Death Eaters are winning. The Order is fractured. The Ministry is compromised. People like us, we adapt or we die.”
“People like you.” Potter had stopped a few feet away. Close enough that Thornfield could see the exhaustion in those green eyes. Deep, bone-tired weariness. But underneath it, something else. Something that made Thornfield’s blood run cold. “You’re right that the world’s gone to hell. And you’re right that hard choices have to be made. But you’re not making hard choices. You’re preying on the weak because it’s easy and profitable.”
“They borrowed money from us.” Thornfield had tried to inject authority into his voice. “We provided capital when nobody else would. They knew the terms.”
“Oh? And you consider yourself to be… what? A benefactor?”
“At least we’re not pretending to be heroes.” The words had tumbled out, driven by fear and pride and stupidity. “At least we’re honest about what we are. You, though. You’re hunting Death Eaters, killing them in the dark. How many have you killed, Potter? Ten? Twenty? How are you any different from them?”
The temperature in the room had dropped. Not metaphorically. Actual physical cold that made Thornfield’s breath mist.
“You want to know the difference?” Potter’s voice had been barely above a whisper. “I’ll show you.”
He’d raised his wand and Thornfield had braced for pain. For torture. For death.
Potter had pointed at the wall behind Thornfield’s head. “Horatio Caldwell. Nine years old. Hasn’t spoken in a week. Nightmares every night. Wets the bed now because he’s too scared to walk to the bathroom in the dark.”
An image had appeared. Projected somehow. A small boy with brown hair and huge traumatized eyes, sitting in a hospital bed and staring at nothing.
“Sarah Caldwell. Fourteen. Collarbone in three pieces. Will need six months of magical therapy to regain full movement. Can’t lift her wand arm above her shoulder anymore. Her Hogwarts letter for the year arrived yesterday. She burned it.”
Another image. A teenage girl with her arm in a complex magical brace, tears streaming down her face.
“Thomas Caldwell. Sixty-seven. Lost three fingers to a dark curse. Also lost his shop because he couldn’t work anymore. Family’s moving to Wales to live with relatives. Everything they built over three generations, gone.”
The old man. Lined face, missing fingers wrapped in bandages, staring at the ruins of his shop with the expression of someone whose entire world had collapsed.
“These are the people you hurt for credibility.” Potter’s wand had shifted slightly and the images had changed. “Mary Wexton. Single mother. Three children. You took so much money from her that she couldn’t afford food last week. Her youngest is six. He’s malnourished now.”
More images. More faces. Each one a person whose life had been damaged or destroyed by Thornfield’s operation. Men, women, children. All of them victims. All of them real. All of them victimized again.
“Richard Harrows. War veteran. Lost a leg fighting Death Eaters. You beat him unconscious when he couldn’t pay because he spent his money on medicinal potions. He died two days later. Brain hemorrhage from where Roderick kicked his skull.”
That one had made Thornfield flinch. He’d known about Harrows. Had known it went too far. But the man was dead anyway and drawing attention would have been bad for business.
“Shall I continue?” Potter had lowered his wand and the images had vanished. “I have forty-seven more names. War refugees. Displaced families. People who’ve lost everything to this war. People you’ve hurt. People you’ve traumatized. People whose lives you’ve destroyed because you decided survival meant becoming predators.”
“That’s war.” Thornfield had tried to sound defiant. “People get hurt in wars.”
“No.” The word had been absolute. “That’s not war. War is Death Eaters torturing Muggleborns. War is them burning villages. What you’re doing is taking advantage of war victims for profit. That’s you choosing to be a monster because the real monsters gave you cover.”
Potter had stepped even closer and Thornfield had felt his hand trembling on his wand. Every instinct screamed to attack, to defend himself, but his body wouldn’t obey. Some primal part of his brain understood that attacking would be suicide.
“Here’s the difference between us.” Potter’s eyes had bored into his. “I kill Death Eaters. People who chose evil, who torture and murder for sport. I hunt them down and I end them because nobody else can. Because if I don’t, more people die. That’s the hard choice.”
He’d gestured at the images that were no longer there. “You hurt children. You terrorize families. You torture people for being poor. That’s not a hard choice. That’s just evil with better excuses.”
“I don’t care what you do with your life.” Potter’s eyes had bored into his. “Run loans, gamble, smuggle contraband, whatever. Do business with criminals, with people who know what they’re getting into. I don’t care about that. But targeting war refugees, people who are already victims, people who have nowhere else to turn? That’s where I draw the line. These people are suffering because of Voldemort. You’re making it worse. You’re profiting from their trauma. That stops. Tonight.”
“So what are you going to do?” Thornfield had forced himself to meet those green eyes. “Kill us? Add more bodies to your count?”
Potter had been silent for a long moment. Long enough that Thornfield had started to wonder if death would be quick or if Potter would make them suffer first.
“No.” Potter had lowered his wand. “I’m going to give you a choice. Same choice I give everyone who isn’t completely beyond redemption.”
“What choice?”
“Stop targeting war victims. Stop preying on refugees and displaced families. There’s plenty of other people to do business with. People who aren’t already running from Death Eaters. People who have options and choose to borrow from criminals anyway.”
Thornfield had stared at him. “That’s it? Just change our client base?”
“That’s it.” Potter had nodded. “You want to run a loan operation after the war ends, go ahead. You want to shake down gamblers and criminals and people who know exactly what they’re getting into, fine. But the war refugees, the displaced families, the people who are already victims? They’re off limits.”
“And if we refuse?”
Potter’s expression hadn’t changed but something in his eyes had. Something that made Thornfield’s mouth go dry.
“If you refuse, I’ll kill you. Not quickly. I’ll make it hurt. I’ll make it last. And then I’ll find everyone you care about and I’ll make sure they know exactly what you were. What you did. I’ll ruin your names so thoroughly that your families will change theirs to escape the shame.”
He’d paused. Let the threat sink in. “And then I’ll find every single person you’ve hurt during this war, and I’ll give them your money. Every Galleon you’ve stolen from refugees, I’ll return to its rightful owners. Your entire operation, everything you’ve built, will have meant nothing. You’ll die knowing you accomplished exactly nothing except pain.”
Thornfield had believed every word. Not because Potter was angry. He wasn’t. He was just stating facts, explaining cause and effect with the same tone someone might use to describe tomorrow’s weather.
“But here’s what makes me different from Voldemort.” Potter had used the name casually, like it was nothing. “Voldemort would torture you just for entertainment. He’d kill you because he enjoys killing. He’s a sadist wearing a revolutionary’s costume.”
Several of Thornfield’s men had flinched just hearing the Dark Lord’s name. But there was a distinct lack of fear, that no Death Eater would be arriving to exact retribution for triggering the taboo. And the reason behind that reluctance was standing right in front of him.
Potter had gestured around the room. “I don’t enjoy this. I don’t want to kill you. I’m giving you the chance to walk away from targeting war victims because I understand that war makes people desperate. Even people running criminal operations need to eat. That’s fine. But there’s a line between survival and sadism.”
“So we just stop taking on refugee clients.” Thornfield had tried to process it. “That’s the line.”
“That’s the line.” Potter had agreed. “During the war, at least. After Voldemort falls, assuming I’m still alive, you can run whatever operation you want as long as it doesn’t involve torturing families or killing people for being poor. Loans, gambling, smuggling, I don’t care. But targeting people who are already victims of this war? That ends tonight.”
“And you’ll just let us go? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Potter had nodded. “I’ll even give you information that’ll help you survive. There’s a Death Eater sweep planned for this district in two days. You’ll want to be gone before then.”
It had been too good to be true. Had to be a trap. “Why? Why offer us anything?”
“Because killing you would be easy.” Potter had said it without arrogance. Just fact. “And easy answers are usually wrong. You’re not Death Eaters. You’re not fanatics who worship violence or who torture for ideology. You're just criminals who got greedy during wartime. That's different. Not good, but different. So I'm giving you the chance to be smart, adjust your business model, and survive.”
He’d raised his wand again and Thornfield had tensed. But Potter had simply conjured a bag, heavy with coin. “Three thousand Galleons. Split it however you want.”
The bag had landed at Thornfield’s feet with a heavy thump.
“If I ever hear about any of you preying on war refugees again, I’ll be back. And next time there won’t be a conversation. There won’t be warnings or choices. I’ll just end you.”
Potter had turned to leave, heading for where the door used to be.
“Wait.” Thornfield had found his voice. “The information you wanted. About Dolohov.”
Potter had paused, looking back over his shoulder.
“There’s a warehouse three streets over. Abandoned potion factory on Marchmont Road. He’s been using it as a staging area. Usually there between midnight and two in the morning. Keeps at least four guards, sometimes more. They rotate shifts, so the south entrance is usually weakest around one AM.”
“Thank you.” Potter had actually sounded genuine. “That’ll save lives.”
“Potter.” Thornfield had hesitated, then forced himself to ask. “How many have you killed? Death Eaters, I mean.”
“Seventeen.” The answer had been immediate. “Eighteen if I find Dolohov tonight. More after that, probably. There's a lot of them and only one of me.”
“Does it bother you?”
Potter had looked at him with those tired, ancient eyes. “Every single one. I remember all their names. All their faces. And I’ll carry them for the rest of my life.”
He’d smiled then. Sad and bitter. “That’s another difference between me and Voldemort. He doesn’t remember his victims. They’re just obstacles he removed. Mine haunt me. But I do it anyway, because the alternative is letting them kill more people. Sometimes the right choice is still terrible.”
Then he’d walked out into the night, leaving behind him and his men, a bag of gold, and the terrifying understanding that they’d just been given mercy by someone who had no obligation to show any.
Thornfield had found out later that Potter had killed Dolohov that night. The Death Eater and three of his guards had died in the warehouse raid. The fourth guard, barely seventeen and conscripted by force, had surrendered and survived. Potter had reportedly stunned him, left him tied up for the authorities, and moved on to his next target.
Thornfield and his crew had changed their operation immediately. No more targeting war refugees. No more preying on displaced families. They'd shifted focus to gamblers, to other criminals, to people who had options and chose to deal with loan sharks anyway. The profit margins were actually better. People who gambled didn't need protection, didn't require threats. They came back on their own, driven by addiction rather than desperation.
After the war ended and things stabilized, Thornfield had built his operation carefully. Loans to gamblers and criminals. People who knew the risks. People who had choices. Never targeting the truly desperate. Never crossing the line Potter had drawn that night.
But he'd never forgotten that night. Never forgotten the understanding that Harry Potter could have killed them all and nobody would have blamed him. Never forgotten that Potter had shown mercy when mercy wasn't deserved, had given them a chance to adjust rather than simply ending them.
Some debts could never be repaid. Thornfield owed Potter his life, his fortune, everything he’d built afterward. That debt wasn’t abstract. It was real and binding in ways that had nothing to do with magic or contracts. Potter had given him boundaries and the freedom to operate within them, and the price was eternal gratitude and absolute obedience when Potter decided to collect.
That’s why hearing Potter’s name in connection with threats made his blood freeze. Because Potter knew exactly who Thornfield was, what he’d been, and had chosen to let him live. He had set rules and let him prosper as long as those rules were followed. Threatening Potter's interests, planning to hurt people under his protection, that wasn't just bad business.
It was betrayal. Betrayal of mercy he'd never earned and boundaries that kept him alive.
And Potter didn't forgive betrayal.
The lamplight in Thornfield’s private office flickered as something changed in the air.
He’d been so lost in his memories that he was now nursing his third whiskey of the evening, trying to steady his nerves when the temperature dropped. Not gradually. All at once, like someone had opened a window to the Arctic.
His hand froze halfway to his glass.
The shadows in the corner of the room began to move wrong. They didn’t stretch or shift the way shadows should. They gathered together, pulling inward like liquid draining toward a single point. Thornfield’s breath caught in his throat as the darkness condensed into something almost solid, and then it wasn’t darkness anymore.
Harry Potter stood there.
Not really stood. The figure was translucent, shimmering slightly at the edges like heat rising from summer pavement. But the eyes were solid. Green and bright and looking directly at Thornfield with an intensity that made his bladder clench.
“Merlin’s balls,” Thornfield whispered. His hand shook so badly that whiskey sloshed over the rim of his glass.
The apparition didn’t speak immediately. It simply watched him with those terrible green eyes, and Thornfield found himself unable to look away. His throat had gone completely dry despite the alcohol.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Whatever you think I’ve done, whatever you heard, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I swear on my magic it won’t happen again.”
Potter’s expression didn’t change. He looked almost curious, like he was examining some mildly interesting specimen under a magnifying glass. That made it worse somehow. Anger would have been better. Rage was something Thornfield understood. This calm assessment terrified him on a level he couldn’t articulate.
“You know why I’m here.”
It wasn’t a question. Potter’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere, soft but impossible to ignore.
Thornfield nodded frantically. His hands were shaking so badly now that he had to set down his glass before he dropped it.
“Weasley. Ron Weasley. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him. I know he’s your friend and I should have just turned him away.”
“Tell me what happened.”
It was still soft, that voice. Almost gentle. But there was something underneath it that made Thornfield’s survival instincts scream. This was a predator. Not the kind that roared and charged. The kind that waited silently in tall grass until its prey walked close enough.
“He came to me three days ago.” Thornfield’s words came out in a rush. “Needed five hundred Galleons. Said it was for a business opportunity but we both knew it was for gambling. The Cannons match this weekend. He already owed us eight hundred from previous loans.”
Potter’s expression shifted slightly. Not quite disappointment, but something in that territory. “You gave it to him.”
“Yes. I gave him the money. Forty percent interest compounded weekly. Standard terms for high risk clients.” Thornfield was talking faster now, desperate to get it all out. “He signed the contract without reading it. Didn’t ask questions about the terms or the collateral clauses.”
“Collateral clauses.”
The way Potter repeated those words made Thornfield’s stomach drop through the floor. He swallowed hard and tasted bile.
“Standard legal protections for the lender in case of default. Property seizure rights, service agreements, that sort of thing. All perfectly legal under wizarding law, I checked with three different solicitors before I started using that contract.”
Potter moved closer without seeming to walk. One moment he was by the shadows, the next he was standing directly in front of Thornfield’s desk. The temperature seemed to have dropped another ten degrees.
“What kind of service agreements?”
Thornfield tried to speak and found he couldn’t. His mouth opened and closed uselessly. Potter just waited, patient as a statue, those green eyes never blinking.
“The contract stipulates that in case of default, the debtor or their listed financial guarantor can provide services in lieu of monetary payment.” The words came out strangled. “Services to be determined by the lender based on the skills and capabilities of the individual in question.”
“Hermione is listed as his financial guarantor.”
It wasn’t a question, but Thornfield nodded anyway. “Joint bank accounts. Marital assets. She’s legally liable for his debts whether she knows about them or not.”
Potter’s head tilted slightly. “And what services did you have in mind for her?”
This was it. This was the moment where he either told the truth and faced whatever came next, or lied and probably ended up as a smear on the wall. Thornfield had spent twenty years learning to read dangerous people, and every instinct he had screamed that lying to Harry Potter would be the last mistake he ever made.
“My men wanted to use her.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “When Weasley defaults, which he will, they wanted to collect on the debt through her. Humiliate her. Break her spirit. Make her understand what happens when debts aren’t paid.”
He forced himself to meet Potter’s eyes. “They talked about specifics. Graphic specifics. The kind of things we do to people who think they’re above us.”
Potter was silent for a long moment. Long enough that Thornfield started to wonder if the apparition had frozen somehow. Then Potter spoke again, and his voice hadn’t changed at all. Still soft. Still calm.
“I see.”
That was all. Just those two words. But they carried a weight that made Thornfield want to curl up on the floor and beg forgiveness.
“I need you to understand something.” Potter’s translucent form seemed to solidify slightly, becoming more real. “Hermione Weasley is beyond limits. Completely and permanently off the table. You will get that into your mind, and you will make sure every single person in your organization understands it too. Am I being clear?”
“Crystal clear.” Thornfield nodded so hard his neck hurt. “Absolutely crystal clear. I’ll have a meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Everyone will know she’s untouchable.”
A flicker of something crossed Potter’s face. Not quite approval, but maybe acknowledgment. “You seem upset about this.”
Thornfield froze. Was this a test? Some kind of trap? He chose his words carefully. “It’s a significant asset we’d be giving up. The leverage alone would have been worth thousands of Galleons. But I understand. I do. Some lines shouldn’t be crossed.”
“That’s very pragmatic of you.” There was something almost amused in Potter’s tone now. “I’m not unreasonable, Thornfield. I take care of my associates. You’ll be fairly compensated for this inconvenience.”
Associates. The word hung in the air like a death sentence. Thornfield felt his stomach clench again. Being Harry Potter’s associate wasn’t a business arrangement. It was a leash.
“I appreciate that,” he managed to say. “Very generous.”
Potter’s expression shifted into something that might have been a smile. “Don’t look so terrified. This ban on Hermione isn’t indefinite.”
That made Thornfield’s head snap up. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” Potter’s voice carried a note of something cryptic, almost playful. “Circumstances change. People change. What’s off limits today might not be tomorrow. But that’s not your concern right now.”
Thornfield had no idea what to make of that. He nodded slowly, filing the information away for later analysis when his brain wasn’t flooded with terror.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Potter’s voice became businesslike, which was somehow more unsettling than the cryptic remarks. “You’re going to initiate a debt transfer. Both magically and legally binding. Transfer Ronald Weasley’s entire debt from your organization to BetVault. Make it clean. Make it official. The compensation will be arranged shortly through channels you’ll recognize.”
“BetVault.” Thornfield’s mind raced through the implications. “They’re legitimate. They’ll have rules about collection methods. Legal restrictions.”
“Yes. They will.” Potter watched him with those unnervingly steady eyes. “Problem?”
“No. No problem at all. I’ll start the process immediately.” Thornfield was already mentally composing the necessary documents. “It’ll take a few days to finalize everything properly. Maybe a week if the Ministry paperwork gets backed up.”
“That’s acceptable. Just make sure it’s done correctly. I’d hate for any complications to arise.”
The threat was implicit but unmistakable. Thornfield nodded again, his neck starting to ache from all the bobbing. “No complications. You have my word.”
Potter studied him for another long moment. Then the apparition started to fade at the edges, losing definition like smoke dispersing in a breeze.
“One more thing, Thornfield.”
The loan shark jerked to attention. “Yes?”
“Ronald Weasley is not to be touched, not to be harmed. If something happens to him, if he gets hurt or ends up dead in an alley somewhere, I’m going to be very disappointed. And when I’m disappointed, I tend to take it personally.”
Thornfield felt sweat trickle down his spine despite the frigid temperature. “Understood, sir. He’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Good.” The apparition was barely visible now, just a vague outline in the shadows. “I’m glad we could have this conversation. It’s always refreshing to work with professionals who understand the value of clear communication.”
And then he was gone. The temperature snapped back to normal so quickly that Thornfield gasped. The shadows returned to their proper places, moving naturally again. The only evidence that anything had happened was the condensation on his whiskey glass and the cold sweat soaking through his expensive robes.
He sat frozen for a full minute, listening to his own heartbeat thunder in his ears. Then his hands started shaking so badly he had to press them flat against the desk to keep them still.
“Merlin’s fucking balls,” he whispered to the empty room.
His legs felt like jelly when he finally stood up. He made it to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another three fingers of whiskey with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. He downed it in one swallow and immediately poured another.
The second drink helped marginally. At least enough that he could walk to his desk without his knees giving out. He pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill, then paused.
His hand was still shaking too much to write legibly. He took another long drink, then activated the communication mirror on his desk.
“Maltby. Get in here. Now.”
The mirror shimmered and Maltby’s confused face appeared. “Boss? It’s nearly midnight. What’s going on?”
“Just get here. Use the Floo network, don’t waste time apparating.” Thornfield cut the connection before Maltby could ask more questions.
He sat down heavily in his chair and tried to collect his thoughts. The whiskey was helping, warming him from the inside out, but his hands still trembled when he reached for the glass again.
What had Potter meant about the ban not being indefinite? That made no sense. Unless he was planning something. Potter was always planning something, everyone knew that. The man had taken down Voldemort through careful planning and ruthless execution. He didn’t make idle comments.
The Floo network roared to life and Maltby stumbled out, brushing ash from his robes. “Alright, I’m here. What’s so bloody urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning?”
Thornfield looked up at him and Maltby’s expression changed immediately. Whatever he saw in his boss’s face made him go pale.
“What happened?”
“We’re transferring Ron Weasley’s debt.” Thornfield’s voice was steadier now, though his hands still shook. “Complete transfer to BetVault. Full magical and legal binding. I want it done within the week.”
Maltby stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Transfer it? Are you mad? That’s our biggest potential score this quarter. Once Weasley defaults we’ll have leverage over his wife worth fucking Merlin knows how many times what he owes us.”
“Did I stutter?” Thornfield’s voice cracked like a whip. “I said transfer the debt. Every knut of it. And you’re going to help me draft the documentation tonight.”
“But the wife, she’s—“
“Off limits.” Thornfield cut him off sharply. “Permanently off limits. Hermione Weasley née Granger is not to be touched. Not to be threatened. Not to be approached. Not to be mentioned in any collection efforts. Ever.”
Maltby’s mouth opened and closed. “Boss, I don’t understand. What’s changed?”
“What’s changed is that I’ve received new information that makes collecting from her an extremely bad idea.” Thornfield pulled out a stack of parchment and slapped it on the desk. “Now sit down and help me work out the transfer documentation before I lose my patience.”
Maltby sat slowly, his eyes never leaving Thornfield’s face. “This have anything to do with why you nearly killed Crenshaw the other night?”
“Very astute.” Thornfield unstopped an inkwell with more force than necessary. “And if you value your continued health, you’ll drop that line of questioning immediately.”
They worked in tense silence for nearly two hours. Thornfield dictated while Maltby wrote, drafting a comprehensive debt transfer agreement that would satisfy both magical and mundane legal requirements. The document had to be airtight. Perfect. No room for error or misinterpretation.
“What about the compensation?” Maltby asked as they finalized the seventh clause. “We’re giving up thousands of Galleons in potential earnings. Who’s covering that?”
“It’s been arranged.” Thornfield didn’t look up from the parchment he was reviewing. “The compensation will arrive through appropriate channels right after the debt transfer is complete.”
“Arranged by who?”
Thornfield’s quill froze mid-scratch. He looked up at Maltby with eyes that had gone flat and dangerous. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question?”
Maltby swallowed hard and shook his head. “No. No, I suppose I don’t.”
“Smart man.” Thornfield went back to his writing. “This stays between us for now. Tomorrow morning I’ll call a full meeting and explain the situation to everyone. But until then, not a word. Understood?”
“Understood.”
They finished the documentation just before three in the morning. Thornfield dismissed Maltby with instructions to be back at nine sharp for the meeting. Then he sat alone in his office, staring at the stack of transfer documents they’d prepared.
His hands had finally stopped shaking but his mind was racing. He kept replaying the conversation with Potter, analyzing every word and inflection. The man had been terrifyingly calm throughout. No threats. No displays of magical power. Just quiet certainty that his will would be done.
That was what made him so dangerous. Other powerful wizards postured and threatened. They wanted you to see their strength, to fear their capabilities. Potter didn’t need any of that. He simply existed in a space beyond normal rules, and everyone who encountered him understood it on an instinctive level.
Thornfield pulled out another piece of parchment and began composing a memo to all his operatives. Brief and direct. Hermione Weasley was off limits effective immediately. Anyone who violated this directive would answer to him personally. And after what happened to Crenshaw, everyone knew what that meant.
He sealed the memo with his personal magical signature and sent copies to every member of his organization through their secure communication network. By morning, everyone would know. And if they were smart, they’d obey without question.
The eastern sky was starting to lighten when Thornfield finally allowed himself to relax slightly. He’d done everything Potter asked. The debt transfer would proceed cleanly. Weasley would be safe from his organization. And Hermione Granger would remain untouched.
He poured himself one final drink and walked to the window. Knockturn Alley was quiet at this hour, the usual nighttime chaos giving way to an uneasy stillness. Somewhere out there, Ronald Weasley was probably sleeping soundly, completely unaware that his oldest friend had just saved him from a fate worse than Azkaban.
Lucky bastard, Thornfield thought bitterly. Didn’t deserve friends like that. Didn’t appreciate what he had.
But that wasn’t his problem anymore. His problem was managing his organization through this transition without anyone asking too many questions. And making absolutely certain that no one ever made the mistake of crossing Harry Potter again.
He drained his glass and set it down with a decisive clink. Time to get a few hours of sleep before the morning meeting. He’d need to be sharp for that conversation. His men would have questions, and he’d need answers that satisfied them without revealing too much.
The sun was fully above the horizon when Thornfield finally collapsed into bed. His last thought before sleep claimed him was of those green eyes, watching him with patient certainty. Like a predator who knew his prey had nowhere left to run.
Some fears ran deeper than business. And some debts could never be repaid.
TBC.