Contradictions
James Potter was a man of contradictions.
People liked to paint him as a golden boy, and maybe that had been true once a long time ago, before life had sunk its claws into him and taken away his only star, Regulus Black. He was charming, sure. Still quick with a grin, still the kind of person who could walk into a room and make it feel less heavy just by being there. But there was something in his eyes now, something older, something tired. He carried the weight of ghosts, the burden of all the things that should have been but never were.
He had been reckless once, loud, always surrounded by people. Now, he preferred the quiet. He found solace in small things: the smell of coffee in the morning, the familiar creak of his house settling in the night, the steady rhythm of an old record player spinning in the corner.
There were still rough nights, chewed raw lips, sheets ruffled up, sobbing violently, about what he could have had. Sometimes he finds himself doing things Regulus would have done. “Regulus would have tried this,” If he was buying groceries or “Regulus would have chosen green.” If he was picking something out that had multiple colors to choose from. He promises himself he will never shed who he is because that would mean losing the last living artifact of Regulus Black.
Life after loving Regulus Black becomes a haze.
His house in Brazil with, half-red and half-green shutters, stood as a monument to a past life. A promise frozen in time. And everyday, in the quiet hours of the night, James still finds himself sitting by the window, looking up at the stars. He’d talk to them, to him. To the boy who had painted those shutters green and red, who would have loved the way the sky stretched endlessly above them.
The hollow feeling always came creeping back when he thought about Regulus for too long how things had gone so wrong, how the house was supposed to be theirs. Not just his. If he did think about Regulus for too long, it would feel too much like admitting Regulus really was gone. He may never have fallen in love again, but he found happiness again, for Regulus, because that is what he would have wanted for him.
—--
Barty had his feet up on the coffee table, absentmindedly flipping a coin between his fingers, while Evan sat next to him, scrolling through documents on his laptop. The glow from the screen reflected in his sharp eyes, scanning lines of text as they worked through their latest lead.
Then Barty’s phone rang.
He glanced at the caller ID, brows raising. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, smirking as he picked up. “If it isn’t our favorite trigger-happy cop. Pandora, I was just thinking about you.”
“I highly doubt that,” Pandora’s voice was clipped, unimpressed. “Care to explain why you and Rosier decided to break into the Longbottoms’ house for specific files on people that have nothing to do with you?”
Evan froze. His eyes flicked to Barty, his expression sharpening.
Barty let out a short laugh. “Okay, what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Pandora said, voice taut with frustration. “You were seen.”
Evan sat up straighter. “We were here all night,” he muttered, voice low, directed at Barty.
Barty waved him off, shaking his head. “Pandora, babe, I get it. You want us to be your problem, but I hate to disappoint you—we weren’t there.”
“Oh, really?” Pandora’s voice dripped with disbelief. “Then why the hell do I have Alice and Frank calling me saying two boys broke in? And why did they say one of them had blonde hair? Evan??”
Evan’s face barely shifted, but Barty caught the subtle tightening around his mouth.
“Sorry, Pandora, We don’t remember breaking into a house for files that don’t have anything to do with us.” Barty said, rolling his shoulders back. “So either your
witnesses need their eyes checked, or you’ve got a different set of criminals to worry about.”
Pandora was silent for a beat.
“Do you know anything about ‘The Society’?”
Barty raised his brows at Evan. Evan exhaled slowly through his nose, tapping his fingers against the laptop.
“Well,” Barty mused, a slow, wicked grin spreading over his face. “Now that’s a good question, we know absolutely nothing so far except that Tom Riddle had a fucking child whos following in his footsteps.”
Pandora let out a frustrated sigh, the rustling of papers sounding through the line. “Alright, fine. Let’s say, for a second, I share with you what we know and it wasn’t you. That means someone else was digging where they shouldn’t be.”
Barty glanced at Evan, who was still studying the laptop screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to start searching the moment they had a lead. “Yeah, well, that’s what we’ve been saying. So, are you done falsely accusing us—”
“You’re missing the bigger picture,” Pandora cut in. There was a pause before she said, almost offhandedly, “I didn’t know James had a son in The Program.”
Barty blinked. His smirk faltered for the briefest moment before he exchanged a look with Evan, who frowned slightly, finally looking up from his screen.
“What?” Evan asked, tone sharp.
Pandora clicked her tongue. “You heard me. The Longbottoms mentioned it when I was questioning them about the break-in. They seemed real sure of it.”
Barty let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Oh, come on.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “James Potter doesn’t have a kid. Trust me, I’d know.”
“That’s what I thought,” Pandora said, her voice unreadable. “But the Longbottoms said otherwise.”
Evan’s expression darkened. “They gave you a name?”
Pandora hesitated. “No. Just said he exists.”
Barty leaned back, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “And you’re sure they weren’t just talking out of their asses?”
Pandora exhaled sharply. “I don’t know, Barty. But they seemed certain.”
Evan shut his laptop with a quiet click, his gaze locked on Barty’s. “We need to look into this.”
Barty tilted his head at Evan, lips pressing into a thin line before he refocused on the call. “Pandora, babe, if you’re trying to mess with us—”
“I’m not,” Pandora cut in. “But if James Potter does have a son, he's been keeping one hell of a secret.”
——
Evan turned the phone on speaker, setting it down between them as the dial tone rang out. He leaned back, arms crossed, while Barty tapped impatient fingers against the table.
One ring.
Two.
A muffled clatter came through the receiver, followed by the faint sound of music—Taylor Swift. Then—
“Hello?” James’s voice was casual, distracted.
Barty rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “Potter, we’re coming over.”
A pause. Then, a short laugh. “What?”
“We’re coming to Brazil,” Barty said, kicking his feet up onto the table. “Tonight.”
James sighed heavily. “You can’t just—”
“We can,” Evan cut in, turning up the volume so James could hear them clearly over his ridiculous pancake operation. “And we are. We need to talk.”
There was a long silence. Then, a rustle, like James, was shifting the phone to his other hand. “I don’t like the way you’re saying that.”
“Then you’re really not gonna like what we have to say in person,” Barty said cheerfully.
James groaned. “Barty, I swear to God, if this is one of your stupid—”
“It’s not,” Evan interrupted. His voice was smooth, controlled, a stark contrast to Barty’s amusement. “It’s important, James.”
The sound of a spatula hitting the counter echoed through the receiver. James was silent for a moment. Then—
“You two are unbelievable,” he muttered. “You can’t just show up!—”
“Why not?” Barty asked innocently. “Afraid we’ll ruin your little breakfast club moment?”
“It’s not breakfast, it’s dinner,” James grumbled. “And I live here, you lunatics. This isn’t some weekend getaway.”
Evan smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”
James exhaled sharply, and they could almost see him rubbing a hand down his face. Then, finally—
“Fine. But this better be good.”
Barty grinned, leaning in toward the phone. “Oh, don’t worry, pretty boy. It’s better than good.”
And with that, he hung up.
——-
The house was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and something faintly sweet—. The walls were lined with old photographs, some framed, some just tacked up haphazardly, a mixture of memories frozen in time. The red and green shutters cast soft-colored shadows across the floor as the sun poured through them, highlighting the edges of the room in streaks of crimson and emerald. It was strangely homey, lived-in, undeniably James. But there was tension in the air, something brittle beneath the comfort.
James sat on the couch, one leg bouncing restlessly, fingers tangled in his already-messy hair. He still looked like he was processing, eyes flicking between Barty and Evan like they were speaking in riddles. His whole world had just shifted, and he was scrambling to find something steady to hold onto.
“Alright,” James finally said, exhaling sharply. “Let’s back the fuck up.” He pointed between them. “You two walk into my house, in Brazil, might I add, drop the words ‘James, you have a son,’ and now I’m supposed to just—what? Accept that?” His voice pitched slightly, somewhere between incredulous and overwhelmed.
Barty, sprawled lazily across an armchair, propped his chin on his hand. “I mean, yeah. Pretty much.”
James groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Are you hearing yourselves?”
Evan, ever the composed one, leaned forward. “Think about it, James. Pandora wasn’t fucking with us—she thought we were the ones who broke into the Longbottoms’ house because your son was there. She described a kid who looks like you, except younger, smaller—”
James shook his head, pacing now. “That doesn’t mean—”
“—and Russian.”
That stopped James in his tracks. His jaw clenched, shoulders tensing. “Russian?”
Barty tilted his head, watching James like he was solving a puzzle. “There’s only one name that comes to mind, isn’t there, pretty boy?”
James didn’t answer. His mind was already turning, dragging him back years into the past, to a night he hadn’t thought about in a long time. A woman—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, her accent thick, her name lingering just on the edge of his tongue.
Kathrine.
She’d been there and then gone, like smoke slipping through his fingers. They had shared a night—just one—but then she disappeared. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, had chalked it up to life being life. But now…
Now there was a boy.
A boy who looked like him. A boy who had been raised in a similar nightmare as Barty and Evan, fuck even Regulus. A boy James had never known existed.
“Fuck.”
James sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. His mind was spinning, the weight of this revelation crashing into him all at once. He had a son. An actual, living, breathing son—one who had grown up without him, who had been thrown into something James didn’t even fully understand yet.
Barty exhaled, stretching his arms over his head. “Yeah. That’s about the reaction I expected.”
James snapped his head up, eyes dark. “Don’t. Don’t do that. This isn’t a joke, Barty.”
Barty held his hands up in mock surrender, but his expression was unreadable, something thoughtful behind his usual flippancy. “I know it’s not a joke,” he said, voice unusually even. “But you panicking isn’t gonna fix it.”
James scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I supposed to not panic when I just found out I have a kid?”
Evan’s voice cut through, sharp and firm. “You don’t have time to panic. This isn’t just about you.”
James stilled.
Evan met his gaze, eyes unwavering. “Your son isn’t safe, James. He’s part of the Society. A trained spy. He’s not just some lost kid—he’s in this, deep. And if he’s tangled up in whatever’s happening with the Longbottoms, it means we’re already running behind.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
James took a slow breath, forcing himself to steady. His chest still felt too tight, his thoughts a mess, but Evan was right. This wasn’t just about him. It was about the boy—the son—he didn’t even know. And if there was even a chance that Harry was in danger…
James wasn’t going to sit around and do nothing.
He looked up, jaw set. “Then we find him.”
Barty grinned. “Now you’re talking.”
Evan leaned back on James’ couch, arms crossed, the dim light casting sharp shadows on his face. “Silas Riddle is running the Society,” he said, voice calm, detached—like he wasn’t dropping a bomb in the middle of James’ already crumbling reality.
Barty, sprawled across the armrest, let out a low whistle. “Yeah, and that bastard has been doing it for years. Like, whole evil empire shit. Think less ‘some guy in charge’ and more ‘full-blown puppet master.’” He wiggled his fingers for dramatic effect. “It’s kind of impressive. Y’know, if he wasn’t a complete fucking psychopath.”
James, who had been pacing nonstop, stopped dead in his tracks. “And my son who I didn't know I had is caught up in all of this.” His voice was rough, and he raked a hand through his already messy hair. His head was spinning. “I mean… what if he hates me? What if he thinks I just abandoned him?”
Evan finally looked at him, gaze sharp, dissecting. “He doesn’t know you exist, Potter. No one told him there was a father out there who might’ve wanted him. His entire life has been missions and training. He doesn’t have the luxury of wondering about a family he never met.”
Barty let out a dramatic sigh, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but the real fun begins when he finds out. What’s worse—never knowing your father, or finding out he was out here, making pancakes in fucking Brazil while you were learning fifty ways to kill a man before breakfast?” He grinned, like the situation wasn’t bleak as hell.
James’ stomach twisted. The house—Regulus’ house—felt too small, too suffocating. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”
Evan exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping against his knee. “Well, you don’t have much time to figure it out.”
Barty grinned, sharp and almost amused. “Yeah, ‘cause first? We’re taking down Silas Riddle.”
———
The sun was warm, casting everything in golden light, the sky a perfect shade of blue and the flowers danced freely as the wind blew. The world smelled like spring—like something untouched, something safe. And in the middle of it all stood Harry.
Draco wasn’t sure how they’d gotten here. He wasn’t sure where “here” even was. But none of it mattered, not when Harry was smiling at him like that.
That smile—Draco had seen it before, but never like this. Never so soft, so easy, like it was meant just for him. His green eyes were bright, glowing almost, framed by thick lashes that cast delicate shadows on his pale skin. He looked… beautiful. Ethereal. Draco had never seen anyone like him before.
And then—Harry reached for him.
Draco barely had time to think before warm fingers brushed against his wrist, before Harry was pulling him in, before their lips met.
It was soft. Warm. Natural. Like they’d done this before, like they were meant to do this. A part of Draco melted, a slow and unfamiliar ache spreading in his chest. He didn’t know what to do with it—didn’t even think, just pressed closer, hands gripping at Harry’s shirt.
This was real. This was—
His body jolted.
The sun vanished.
“Draco.”
The warmth disappeared.
“Draco, wake up.”
He gasped, eyes snapping open. The golden light was gone. The sky was gone. Harry was gone.
Instead, there was Pansy, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. “Finally,” she said. “You sleep like the dead.”
Draco blinked, disoriented, heart still pounding in his chest. He could still feel it—Harry’s warmth, the press of his lips. It was like the dream had imprinted itself on his skin.
And for a moment, just a moment, he sat there, gripping the sheets, trying to make sense of it.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.
But why did it feel like it was?
After Pansy left, Draco walked into the training room
Draco moved through the hallways with heavy steps, still trying to shake off the remnants of his dream. His fingers twitched at his sides, his mind stubbornly replaying the warmth of Harry’s lips, the way he had smiled at him like—
No.
Draco clenched his jaw, pushing the thought down, deeper and deeper, until it was buried under layers of steel. It didn’t mean anything. It was a dream. Just a dream.
The training room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and sweat. The sound of hushed murmurs and shifting equipment filled the space, but Draco barely registered any of it. His eyes, as if drawn by some invisible force, flicked across the room—
And landed on him.
Harry.
He was sitting on a stool, his posture relaxed. You can see the outline of his gun underneath his sweater, one leg crossed while the other was pulled up, his head resting lightly against his knee. He was wearing an oversized sweater, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the fabric hanging loose around his frame. The dim lighting softened his features, casting gentle shadows over his sharp cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the shape of his lips. There was something effortless about the way he sat there, something almost… pretty. There he was lazily twirling a lock of dark, messy hair around his finger. His sharp green eyes, always watchful, they had a heavy-lidded, catlike quality to them, in a way that felt almost unfair. His skin was pale but never sickly, his lips naturally flushed. There was something quiet about him, but it wasn’t softness. It was the kind of quiet that made people lean in, desperate to know what he was thinking.
Draco’s breath hitched, his fingers pausing mid-motion over the gun he had just picked up. His stomach twisted with something unfamiliar—something warm, something foreign, something that sent a prickle of unease down his spine.
He was admiring him.
What the hell am I doing?
Draco tore his gaze away, gripping the gun tighter, as if the cold weight of it in his palm could ground him. He focused on the task in front of him, loading bullets with methodical precision, pretending he hadn’t just spent the last few seconds staring at Harry like some idiot.
But then—movement.
Draco’s eyes betrayed him, flicking up once more, only to meet a pair of knowing green ones.
Harry was looking right at him.
And he was smiling.
It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t smug. Just… soft. Subtle. Almost like he had caught Draco staring and was amused by it.
Draco swallowed, forcing himself to school his expression into something neutral, something unreadable. He gave the smallest nod in return before swiftly turning on his heel, making his way toward the next room without another glance back.
But even as he left, even as he moved onto the next task, Draco could still see that smile in the back of his mind.
Maybe it's just a normal thing that happens between friends? It's normal to admire friends.. right?
Draco moved through the hallways with heavy steps, still trying to shake off the remnants of his dream. His fingers twitched at his sides, his mind stubbornly replaying the warmth of Harry’s lips, the way he had smiled at him like—
No.
Draco clenched his jaw, pushing the thought down, deeper and deeper, until it was buried under layers of steel. It didn’t mean anything. It was a dream. Just a dream.
———-
Pansy had always been small. Not just in height, but in the way she existed—tucked into corners, taking up as little space as possible. She learned quickly that in the program, being noticed could mean punishment, and punishment meant pain.
She was six when she first learned what starvation felt like.
It had been a simple mistake—too slow at disassembling and reassembling a rifle, her fingers trembling from exhaustion. The guard had ripped the weapon from her hands, throwing it to the ground with a sneer.
“Not fast enough,” he had said. “Try again tomorrow. If you’re still standing.”
That night, and the two nights after, there was no food on her tray. The others pretended not to see. Some stole glances, but no one dared offer her anything. Everyone had been starved at some point. Everyone knew the rules.
By the third day, she could barely lift her arms. Her head spun every time she stood, her body eating itself in desperation. But she didn’t beg. That was the one thing they couldn’t take from her.
She finished the rifle exercise in record time after that.
Now, Pansy carried herself with a quiet, simmering sharpness. She still wasn’t the strongest, but she was fast, ruthless, and had perfected the art of making herself untouchable. Her dark hair was always neatly pulled back, her sharp features set in a permanent expression of cool disinterest. Her green eyes, still bright with childhood curiosity, now also carry the weight of years spent fighting to survive.
She had no illusions about the world. There was no fairness, no mercy.
Only survival.
And yet, as she sat across from Draco in the dimly lit training room, watching him stare at Harry like he had just discovered something dangerous inside himself, she felt something close to pity.
“You’re staring,” she said dryly, taking a sip from her water bottle.
Draco snapped his gaze away from Harry, scowling. “No, I’m not.”
Pansy smirked. “Right. Just admiring his oversized sweater, then?”
Draco muttered some curse words or something under his breath, loading bullets into his gun with unnecessary force. Pansy didn’t press further, but she took note. She noticed everything.
——-
The air in the room was still, thick with quiet, as Harry and Draco lay side by side on the floor, staring up at the ceiling eating macarons. The dim light above cast long shadows, stretching over them like the weight of something unspoken. They’d been talking for a while, but now, there was only silence—comfortable, warm. Like the kind that only comes when you know someone better than you know yourself.
Draco turned his head slightly. “What do you want to do when you're older?” he asked, voice lazy but genuinely curious.
Harry thought for a moment, fingers tracing random shapes on his stomach. “You mean, if we make it out of all this?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, obviously.”
Harry let out a slow breath. “I don’t know… I think I just want to be free.”
Draco frowned at that. “That’s not a real answer.”
Harry turned his head toward him, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Fine. I want to live in a house in France, or Germany, where we can own lots of cats and spend time laying on the grass looking at the stars.”
The words hung between them, stretching out in the silence.
Draco blinked, caught completely off guard. He hadn’t expected that—not in the way Harry said it, not with that absolute certainty. His stomach flipped, something hot curling in his chest.
Harry’s expression shifted, like he was suddenly realizing what he just said. Panic flickered across his face. “I mean—” he rushed to correct himself, sitting up slightly. “Not like— I didn’t mean—”
Draco’s lips twitched, amused by how flustered he was. “Harry.”
Harry shut up immediately, still looking like he wanted to die.
Draco hummed, like he was seriously considering it. “Yeah, I think I like that.”
Harry blinked. “Wait—what?”
Draco turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “I like the idea. Us. Together. I never wanted anything else.”
Harry stared at him, completely caught off guard. He looked so stupidly relieved that Draco almost laughed.
“You—” Harry narrowed his eyes, searching his face for any sign of a joke. “You mean it?”
Draco scoffed. “Obviously. You think I’d be here, dealing with your heist shenanigans, if I didn’t?”
Harry let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. He flopped back onto the floor, grinning at the ceiling like a complete idiot. “Shit.”
Draco smirked. “That’s your response?”
“I just— I thought I screwed that up,” Harry admitted.
Draco reached over and smacked him lightly on the arm. “Idiot.”
Harry chuckled, shaking his head before falling quiet again. Then, after a moment, he shifted. “Let’s promise.”
Draco raised a brow. “Promise what?”
“That no matter what happens, we stick together,” Harry said. “Even if everything goes to shit. Even if we get lost or separated or the world tries to pull us apart. No matter what—we don’t ever leave each other's side.”
Draco’s chest tightened.
He’d never been the type to believe in things like fate or destiny. But this? This felt bigger than words. A real promise. One that couldn’t be undone.
Slowly, Draco held out his pinky. “You sure?”
Harry didn’t hesitate. He hooked his pinky around Draco’s, gripping tight. “I swear it.”
Draco squeezed back. “Then it’s set in stone.”
Their eyes met—serious, unwavering. This wasn’t just something said in passing. This was it. A bond stronger than anything else in their world.
Then, after a long beat of silence, Draco smirked. “And obviously, we’re gonna fuck with Pansy for the rest of her life.”
Harry snorted, breaking the intensity of the moment. “Oh, obviously.”
“She’s never gonna get a single peaceful day,” Draco continued, grinning now.
“Absolutely not,” Harry agreed, grinning back. “We will find a way to piss her off, even if that means going to whatever state she goes too”
Draco huffed a laugh. “She’s gonna hate us so much.”
Harry's smile softened, his eyes still bright with something warmer, something real. “Yeah. But we’ll be together.”
Draco met his gaze, and something in him settled.
“It's you and me Potter, no getting out of this shit” he said.
They didn’t let go of the pinky promise for a long time.
———-
Pandora picked up on the first ring.
“You’re calling me sooner than I expected,” she said smoothly.
“Yeah, well,” Evan drawled. “We’re impatient like that. Right, Barty?”
“Absolutely,” Barty chimed in. “I hate waiting. Makes me twitchy.”
James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Pandora, talk.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “There’s a tape.”
Silence.
Evan leaned forward, suddenly interested. Barty actually stopped spinning his gun. James went stiff.
“A what now?” Evan asked.
“A tape,” Pandora repeated. “Someone recorded everything—training, punishments, the kids locked up like animals. The whole damn thing.”
James swore under his breath.
Barty let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s a fucking game-changer.”
James’s voice was tight. “Who has it?”
“That’s the problem,” Pandora said. “There’s more than one possibility.”
“Of course there is,” Barty muttered as he looked over to Evan.
Pandora continued, “The Society’s been crumbling for a while. Some of the old guards took their insurance policies and ran. Others… well, let’s just say they’re still useful to Silas. But I’ve got a list of names. If the tape is anywhere, it’s with one of these people.”
Evan sat back with a grin. “Oh, I love a good scavenger hunt.”
“I hate a good scavenger hunt,” James muttered.
“First up,” Pandora went on, ignoring them, “Mikhail Levin. Former Society cleaner, worked directly under Silas. Went dark five years ago, but I found an address.”
“Great,” Barty said. “Who else?”
“Sergei Antonov. Arms dealer. Smuggled weapons for the Society before branching out. Still has connections.”
“Of course he does,” Evan muttered.
“Then there’s Vadim Sokolov,” Pandora continued. “Used to run money laundering. Got out after a… disagreement with Silas.”
“That’s a polite way to put it,” Barty snorted.
“And finally,” Pandora finished, “Oleg Morozov. Ex-interrogator. If anyone would keep leverage, it’s him.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Barty clapped his hands together.
“Well, Ev,” he said cheerfully, “looks like we’ve got a busy night ahead of us.”
—---
The apartment smelled like old vodka and desperation.
Evan wrinkled his nose as he stepped over an ashtray knocked onto the floor, its contents spilled across the carpet like someone had tried to smother a bad decision.
Barty, ever the picture of grace, kicked at a pile of dirty clothes. “What a fucking dump.”
“You expected five-star accommodations?” Evan deadpanned, digging through a half-open drawer. “The guy was a bottom-feeder.”
Barty hummed. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen rats with better living conditions.”
Then—a noise.
A shuffle from behind them.
Evan’s gun was out before he even turned. Barty, of course, didn’t seem alarmed in the slightest.
And standing there, looking like he’d seen a ghost—or two very dangerous men—was Mikhail Levin.
He had a gun. Shaking hands. A real bad combination.
“Oh?” Barty perked up, grinning like this was a game. “You gonna shoot me?”
Mikhail’s grip tightened. His voice shook. “Get the fuck out.”
Evan clicked his tongue. “You know, if you’re gonna point a gun at someone, you should probably stop looking like you’re about to piss yourself.”
Mikhail swallowed hard.
“You shoot, He shoots,” Barty said conversationally. He pulled his own gun, not even aiming properly, just lazy, confident, cocky.”
A beat.
Mikhail’s knuckles turned white on the gun.
Evan sighed, stepping forward like he was bored out of his mind. “Listen, man, we’re not even mad at you. Yet.”
“We just want to talk,” Barty added. “And if you don’t give us what we want, well—” He flicked his eyes toward the white curtains in the corner. “You ever tried getting bloodstains out of fabric? Pain in the ass.”
Mikhail’s breath hitched. His gun wavered.
Barty grinned. Like a shark smelling blood.
“You ever seen what a bullet does to a skull, Mikhail?” Barty continued, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Splits it right open. Like a watermelon. You’ll be a fucking abstract painting all over your nice little apartment.”
Mikhail flinched. Sweat dripped down his temple.
Evan, ever the good cop to Barty’s unhinged cop, clapped a friendly hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. “So, let’s just skip the whole murder scene thing and have a chat, yeah?”
Mikhail was breathing too fast. He was going to break. Evan could see it.
And then—there it was. The moment of hesitation.
Barty didn’t give him time to rethink. He moved fast, snatching Mikhail’s wrist, twisting it hard. The gun clattered to the floor.
Evan kicked it away.
Now, Mikhail was trapped.
Barty leaned in, all teeth and danger. “There’s a tape.”
Mikhail’s pupils blew wide.
Evan let out a slow, knowing breath. “Ah. So you do know what we’re talking about.”
Mikhail’s mouth opened, closed. Like a fish gasping for air. Too slow.
Barty punched him—fast, hard, no warning. Mikhail crashed against the counter with a strangled noise, hands gripping at his stomach.
“You’re wasting our time,” Evan drawled.
Mikhail coughed, shaking, panicked. “I—I don’t have it, I swear! Some guy filmed everything—the kids, the training, the punishments. It was robbed of me!”
Evan and Barty exchanged a look.
Barty sighed. “Fucking useless.”
Mikhail must’ve realized exactly what that meant, because—he ran.
Didn’t even make it five steps.
Barty shot him in the leg.
He hit the floor hard, screaming.
Evan crouched down beside him, almost sympathetic. “Wrong move.”
Mikhail clawed at the ground, panting. “Please—please, I don’t know anything else—”
Barty tapped his own temple with the barrel of his gun. “No loose ends, right, Evan?”
Evan nodded, a slow, wicked smile creeping across his face.
“Say hi to hell for us,” Barty grinned—
—and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang loud. Blood sprayed across the floor.
Barty wiped off his gun on Mikhail’s shirt like he was cleaning a smudge of dirt.
“Well,” Evan said, straightening. “That was productive.”
Barty craned his neck “Oh, absolutely.”
They stepped over the body, unfazed.
Onto the next.
——-
The break room was dimly lit, the single overhead bulb flickering just enough to be annoying. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of blood, a
reminder that their last mission had been messier than expected. Their coats were still damp from the rain, clinging to them, stained with someone else’s life.
Harry was slouched in the middle of the leather couch, his oversized sweater now replaced with a long dark blue coat, the sleeves pulled down over his hands as he let his head rest against the back. He was exhausted, but exhaustion wasn’t an excuse to stop. He could still feel the weight of the gun in his hands, the way the last target had gasped before slumping lifelessly against the alley wall.
Pansy sat above him resting on the headboard of the couch, legs crossed, cigarette dangling between her fingers. She looked ethereal at this hour. Her other hand was in his hair, long nails scraping lightly against his scalp, twirling strands around her fingers like she had nothing better to do.
Draco was sprawled on the armrest, one boot propped against the table, his own cigarette burning between his fingers. He took a slow drag, exhaling the smoke lazily before flicking the ash onto the floor without a care in the world.
“That was pathetic,” he muttered, his voice low and unimpressed.
Harry snorted. “What, you wanted them to fight back?”
Draco smirked, rolling his shoulders. “Would’ve made it more fun.”
Pansy hummed, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray before blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. “I like when they cry.”
Harry raised a brow.
Pansy grinned. “Oh, like you’re any better?”
Draco chuckled darkly. “She has a point, Potter.”
Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, he knew they were right, he wasn’t any better. The three of them could love each other unconditionally even the worst parts.
Pansy was still absentmindedly playing with his hair, and he was too tired to stop her. Her fingers moved through the strands with practiced ease, gentle in a way that
felt almost foreign after the night they’d had. He let his eyes slip half-shut, just letting himself breathe for a moment.
Then—click.
Harry’s eyes snapped open. A bright pink butterfly clip barely caught his eyes.
Draco let out a low whistle, grinning like he’d just won a bet. “Oh, this is fucking fantastic, real intimidating Harry.”
“Fuck off” Harry muttered, immediately reaching up, fingers brushing against his hair.
Pansy smacked his hand away, her grip firm. “Не трогай Гарри.”
“Что, черт возьми, ты наделал?” Harry growled.
Draco leaned in, smirking. “Oh, this is even better than I thought.”
Pansy pulled back just enough to admire her work, looking smug as hell. “It’s art.”
Harry’s fingers twitched, his patience hanging by a fucking thread. “Pansy.”
Pansy gave him an innocent smile, then leaned down so they were practically nose-to-nose but she was upside down. “You take them out, Potter, and I swear to god, I will shave your fucking head in your sleep.”
Draco actually laughed, flicking ash onto the floor. “She’s not bluffing, you know.”
Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch. “I hate both of you.”
Pansy patted his cheek, smirking. “Love you too.”
Draco grinned. “So, are we keeping them in?”
Harry shot him a glare so sharp it could kill. “Draco, I swear to fucking god—”
Pansy grabbed his jaw, holding him still. “We are keeping them in, and you are going to sit there and take it like a fucking man.”
"I'm not a man yet" Harry narrowed his eyes but didn’t move to take them out.
Draco took another slow drag of his cigarette. “So, since we’re in agreement… what do you think our next mission is gonna be?”
Pansy sat back, stretching. “Hopefully something that doesn’t require me to be in a fucking alleyway again. My boots are still soaked.”
Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He was too fucking tired for this. Too tired for the bullshit, for the blood, for the pink fucking star clips sitting pretty in his hair like a goddamn joke.
But he didn’t take them out.
Cedric strolled into the dimly lit room, dropping a thick folder onto the table with a dull thud. He was smiling—too much, in Harry’s opinion. Like whatever he was about to say would be equally amusing and terrible.
Harry, sprawled in his chair with one leg draped over the armrest, barely glanced up. “You’ve got that ‘I have a brilliant idea that’s probably going to make our lives a pain in the ass’ look on your face.”
Draco, seated properly like he had a fucking royal title, only sighed. “Whatever it is, just say it. Get it over with.”
“We need people,” Cedric announced, leaning against the table.
Harry raised a brow. “People?”
Cedric’s grin widened as he pushed the folder closer to them. “Money launderers. Smugglers. People who can make bodies vanish without a trace. That kind of people.”
Harry glanced at the folder but didn’t pick it up. He already knew what kind of shit was inside. Names, skills, addresses—things he didn’t want to care about but had to.
Draco, ever the perfectionist, grabbed the folder and flipped through the pages like he was reviewing candidates for a corporate job rather than criminal associates. “And where exactly are we supposed to find these people? I doubt they have a hiring agency.”
Cedric shrugged, completely at ease. “We’re putting up flyers.”
Harry blinked at him. “For what, a fucking bake sale?”
Cedric ignored him. “They’re coded. The right people will understand. The rest will just keep walking.”
Pansy, sitting cross-legged on the couch, scoffed. “So, what’s the wording? ‘Are you morally bankrupt and in need of cash? Call now.’”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Or something equally suspicious, like ‘Looking for work? No questions asked. Call this number.’”
Cedric hummed. “Something like that.”
Harry’s fingers tapped against the chair’s armrest, his mind already racing through the possibilities. “And who exactly is handling these calls?”
Cedric’s eyes glinted with amusement. “You three.”
Draco shut the folder with a sharp thud. “Figures.”
Pansy grinned, tilting her head. “I’m guessing this isn’t going to be a ‘thank you for your interest, we’ll be in touch’ kind of interview?”
Cedric laughed. “Not exactly.” He stretched, cracking his neck before continuing, far too cheerful for the words coming out of his mouth. “If they pass, they’ll get a meeting in person.” His voice was smooth, almost pleasant. “And if they decline the job…”
He clapped his hands together once, like a teacher ending a lesson.
“They get shot.”
Harry exhaled slowly through his nose. He shouldn’t be surprised. He wasn’t. But still.
Draco, unfazed, smirked. “We get to shoot them?”
Cedric nodded. “You get to shoot them.”
Harry dragged a hand down his face. “Right. Because that’s exactly what we need. More bodies.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Cedric teased. “They made the choice.”
Pansy leaned back, arms stretched behind her head. “So, when do we start terrifying people?”
Cedric checked his watch. “The flyers go up soon. When the calls start, you three are handling it.”
Harry exchanged a look with Draco and Pansy.
“Guess we should start making a list of ways to fuck with them,” Pansy mused.
Harry smirked. “You mean interview them?”
Pansy’s grin widened. “Same thing.”