Chapter Twenty Four - Murder and deals
Chapter Twenty Four - Murder and deals
“This one can really run.” A voice said, darkly, yet with a hint of amusement following the words punctuation.
“Looks like it has a wand.” Another voice said boringly.
“A mudblood?” The first one uttered, a dark glee now colouring their voice.
“Aren’t they all?” The other responded with disgust.
Red flashes of light cut through the air, piercing through the falling swirling snow, parting for the light like the red sea. The light hit an invisible wall in the air just in front of the two hooded figures.
"Perfect. I prefer when they struggle." the first voice said cheerfully.
“Stay away!” A shaky voice broke through the air, her hand held her wand, which was raised against the pair, her eyes focused, yet the slight tremble of her wrist betrayed the fear that lay beneath.
Like Dementors sensing weakness, the pair struck, painting the white air in a symphony of colourful light, spells broke through the air, colliding, dancing, splitting, sharp sounds hitting walls, leaving dark burn marks, debris flying from the old stone, hitting shields made up from nothing.
Short, rapid breath filled the air between the words of latin, the girls wand lowered slightly, a sign of exhaustion. The shorter hooded figure lunged forward, slashing their wand of light wood through the air, the curse hit the girls conjured up shield charm with an visceral force, making the air swirl around them, the shield gave way in a shattering blast of light. Even before the last yellow shards of the protective shield charm had faded completely, the second, taller attacker followed through, weaving seamlessly into the opening.
A streak of red tore through the swirling snow, striking the shoulder of the girls wand arm. A sharp cry escaped her, her fingers convulsing, making her wand slip from her grasp. With a quick swing of their wand the shorter hooded figure made the girl’s wand flew through the air, landing in their other palm.
The girl fell to her knees as her hand held the now bleeding wound on her shoulder, her breath rasp as red flooded down her thick brown coat, painting the snow beneath her. Her eyes darted around, like prey desperately scanning for an escape, and with an last desperate attempt, she scrambled to her feet and started to run.
“How boring.” The taller hooded figure said disappointingly as the girl ran, with a slash of their wand, a shriek tore through the air, as the girl stumped forward hitting the soft snow beneath her. Tears poured down her pink flushed cheeks as her eyes trailed towards the source of the newfound excruciating pain. A strangled sob was forced out of her, as bile arose from deep within the pit of the girl's stomach.
Her leg, was bent, sickeningly contorted and mangled in unnatural angles, making it appear in a grotesque zigzag pattern, her dark stocking was torn, showing glimpse of deep purple flesh beneath, bile splashed over the now red spotted snow, her cries tore through her throat, raw and torn, as her body trembled.
“Such pretty cries” the taller figure mused as they pierced over the girl's trembling form, eyes transfixed on the grotesque twisting of her leg, like an artist studying their handiwork.
The smaller figure only bent their neck, their hand covered in a black skin glove playing with the girl's wand like an unimportant twig picked up from the earth.
“Let’s end it now, we have taken too long.” The shorter one only said with the same bored tone, lacking any sense of emotion, unfitting of the sheer yet delicate light voice.
“It's pretty, don't you think?” The taller one uttered now hunkered down close to the girl, their voice as dark as their gloves, as the girls ripped stocking, the figure's hand trailed delighted over the girl's skin, the leather as harsh as the biting cold as it trailed from the grotesque wound towards the hemline of her skirt.
“We don’t have time for you to engage in your fantasies.” The shorter hooded figure replied. Ignoring the tremblingly desperate strained pleas from the girl, face now ruined with tears and snot, her makeup undone, making her tear stains coloured black.
“I wish I had another partner, you are so boring.” the taller one replied as their hand was now grasping the warmth of the girl's upper thigh, making small circles with their thumb on her warm skin, each movement earning a sob, a plea and a cry.
“I’m not your partner but your overseer.” the smaller responded more curtly.
The tall figure rose with an exaggerated dramatic sigh as their hands went up in the air, a cheeky smile could be seen from beneath the hood.
An annoyed click of the smaller hood figures the mouth split the air. “You played too much, it looks like it’s going into shock.” They said, voice showing strains of irritation as their gaze bore into the mangled mess that littered the alley floor, with a pool of red beneath leaping from the it’s shoulder, now shaking uncontrollably.
The taller figure turned, their grin faltering as their eyes flickered over the trembling mangled mess. Her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps, each one weaker than the last, a desperate, choking sound tore the air, her lips parting, forming words that sound had forgotten, hot tears ran down her cheek, Her spine arched in one final convulsion, breath catching in her throat. A last, shuddering exhale left her lips in a pale mist, before fading into nothing. Her form still yet the red liquid continued to swell and pour out of her wounded shoulder like a leaky faucet.
The taller figure crouched, eyes narrowing. They reached out, fingers curling into the girl’s thigh, grasp hard enough to leave a bruises, their lips turned into a thin line.
“I wasn’t even done playing.” The figure said as they stood once more, then began to kick the broken form.
The smaller figure exhaled sharply. “It’s dead,” they said, stepping closer, their tone as flat as before, unaffected by the taller one's growing agitation.
The taller figure watched for another moment, eyes locked on the girl's face—those wide, frozen eyes, the gaping mouth still shaped around a silent plea. With a sneer, they stopped, brushing imaginary dust off their cloak as irritation curled their lips.
“How delicate.” The words were spat like a curse, like an insult. “I barely even started.” Their gaze flickered once more to the mess of torn stockings, toward the hem of the short skirt now showing more of the girl then what would be deemed proper, they scoffed, as if dismissing a ruined toy.
“It wasn't supposed to die.” The shorter hooded person said curtly as they breathed out. With a swift motion, they snapped the girl’s wand, the crack of splintering wood swallowed by the howling wind. The pieces were tossed onto the corpse, landing carelessly among the blood-stained snow before they turned on their heel, walking away without another glance.
The taller one lingered a second longer, jaw tight. Then, with a muttered curse, they followed, their boots crunching through the frost, leaving nothing but the sound of the howling wind and snow in their wake.
++++
Laugher could be heard as the two individuals loomed closer to the boy laying on the alley ground, mud and slash meddled together tainting his dark robes—One of their gaze followed the small figure running out of the alley, only catching a small site of him beneath the pulled hood, a flicker of green eyes. The taller figure hunkered down to the boy laying on the ground immobilized by a totalus petrificus curse. He laughed condescendly, “Now, now, what do we have here? if it isn't Roiser Junior—” his smile bore his teeth in an amused way.
The other smaller figure let out a sigh as they leaned to the wall, crossing their arms boringly. “He eavesdropped.” the voice said, without any real heat, only stating the fact.
The other laughed again. “Didn't your brother and Daddy teach you not to eavesdrop Rosier?” The taller one taunted with glee before continuing. “Oh wait, right! Your Daddy is in Azkaban—such shame–” he said as he looked down at the boy. The smaller hooded figure rolled their eyes and threw the counter curse at the boy.
Rosier breathed quickly irritation across his face–”That little–” He said, before huffing and turning his gaze.
“Don't you dare talk about my father Avery.” He spit, clearly not intimidated by the other
The tall figure laughed, before ignoring the taunt, his smile grew broader as he removed his hood, eyes filled with relish, “Now what were you doing with a kid Rosier?” Avery continued with the same taunting glee. “Is this a new habit of yours? Is it something your dear brother is aware of?” Avery continued to taunt, As Rosier ignored him, gaze stuck instead on the shorter hooded figure who held their arms crossed, looking on boredly.
“Where are you trying to channel some of your brother's brutality?” Avery continued condescending while snickering. “Is that what you were doing?” Avery said as he leaned his head to the side, observing the shifting expression on Rosier. “With that little thing? Trying to act like your brother?” His voice turned more and more tauntful, Rosier gaze was once more on Avery, his jaw tight as his expression darkened, hands slightly tightening around his wand.
The other figure leaned lazily against the wall flickered with their wand “Accio.” they said with a bored gasp and Rosier was quickly disarmed. Rosier clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed.
Avaery snickered as he watched the exchange, still leaning over Rosier half sitting form on the ground. “Did you do the tricks he taught you; the ones he did on you?” Avery continued his voice clearly enjoying making the other angry—
Rosier raised his face closer to the other sneering, “You think you are so better now Avery, don’t you? Just because they finally accepted your sorry arse” He spit. Then his eyes wandered to the other figure as he let out a cruel laugh “Clearly, you're still on a leash. Otherwise, you wouldn't have an overseer, would you?” His smile turned into a wide grin “And what was that littleconfrontation?Did you mess up your mission? Did you get lost in the high again?” Rosier said with glee, “Ah, I see. So that's why you were arguing? Because you failed the mi–”
A flash of light cut him off, and Rosier started to scream when the curse hit his form, making his body fall down on the ground once more, his strained screams blending together with Avery’s mad laughter.
“You really should be more careful, maybe it’s the lack of a father figure–” Avery said as he let go of the curse, the iris of his eyes big as a black hole, his cheeks flushed, with a gleeful smile that hinted at madness on his lips. Rosier laid panting and trembling as the aftereffect of the curse took their toll.
“We will bring him with us. He needs some punishment for eavesdropping.” The shorter person leaning against the wall uttered, as Avery looked down with a sadistic grin at Rosier, his eyes gleamed before continuing to speak “Yes, we should let his brother give out the punishment.” He said with cruel enjoyment.
The other figures' gaze went toward where Albus had run off.
“What about the little bird, who is he?” The voice asked toward the panting mess on the ground. Avery gave Roiser a kick when he didn't answer–Yet it didn't help, the Rosier kept his mouth shut. Avery raised his wand once more as a sick unnerving grin entered his features.
"Don't. We will let his brother deal with him." the lighter voice said before a pop could be heard and they disappeared. Rosier managed a slight whimper as Avery irritatingly clicked his mouth before grabbing Rosier by his arm and appariting.
++++
After the chaos of holiday shopping in Diagon Alley had finally quieted down, and with full stomachs, evening descended quietly upon the Potter home. Harry and Ginny sat together in the drawing room, the warmth of the space cocooning them. The soft flicker of the fireplace cast a gentle glow, filling the room with a peaceful ambiance. In one corner stood a grand Christmas tree, its majestic branches dripping with Gryffindor reds and golds, the lights glowing so brightly they seemed to cast long, looming shadows against the walls. The decorations, vibrant and full of life, evoked the spirit of the Gryffindor common room—something that had inspired the renovation of their home. Old furniture, lovingly uncovered from the Potter vaults, added a layer of nostalgia to the room. Harry couldn’t help but smile, thinking of Sirius. He would have adored the changes to what had once been the Black family home, a place now filled with warmth and love.
Albus was slouched in an armchair, his dark hair falling untidily into his eyes, a sharp contrast to the soft, inviting atmosphere of the room. He seemed entirely out of place, the warmth of the space only accentuating his distance. His body language screamed defiance—the casual slouch, the deliberate avoidance of their gazes, the calculated indifference etched into his expression. His dark blue wool sweater, high-end and impeccably chosen, clung to his form, the turtleneck pulled up just enough to hide his neck and part of his face, as if intentionally shielding himself.
Harry’s heart ached at the sight. Even at home, Albus seemed so guarded, so distant. His polished attire was a strikingly formal choice compared to him and Ginny, who lounged in cozy, mismatched festive wear. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in his clothes, an air of deliberation in how he presented himself, of perfection. It reminded Harry uncomfortably of the way old pureblood families carried themselves, even in the privacy of their homes—reserved, poised, impenetrable, it was like he didn’t quite belong in their world of homemade hand-knitted jumpers and warm, unguarded smiles. Harry’s chest tightened at the thought.
“Why isn’t Lily here?” Albus asked, his tone deceptively mild. But Harry could hear it—the faint edge beneath the words, a carefully veiled irritation cloaked in curiosity.
“This is about you, Albus, not Lily,” Ginny replied, her voice warm yet steady.
Albus’s gaze shifted, skimming over them without ever settling anywhere. “I was under the impression that both of us were in trouble?” he said, his words careful, almost too measured, as if testing the waters before diving deeper.
Harry studied him closely, his son’s deliberate avoidance stirring something uneasy within him. Albus had mastered that blank expression far too well for a boy his age.
A flicker of irritation sparked in Harry. That evasiveness, that calculated tone—it struck too close to home, too close to someone else whose name he rarely allowed himself to dwell on anymore. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the boy in front of him.
“Lily already explained her side,” Harry said, his words sharper than he intended.
“So, you’ve already decided that I’m the one to blame?” Albus asked, his voice steady, devoid of outright defiance, but carrying an undercurrent of bitterness that made Harry’s stomach twist. It was subtle, sly—so easily missed by anyone who wasn’t listening closely. But Harry was listening. He had spent too many years reading between the lines, trained to pick apart voices and understand the words left unsaid.
Harry leaned forward, his elbows pressing into his knees as he released a tired sigh. “You’re older, Al. We’ve told you both, over and over again, not to wander off. Yet you decided to ignore that and leave your sister behind. What were you thinking? She’s only eleven!”
Albus didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget the way most kids his age might when confronted. Instead, he sat utterly still, exuding an unsettling calm. His face remained blank, detached in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist. He’d seen that look before—calculating, dispassionate. It wasn’t the look of a child being scolded; it was the look of someone assessing the situation, weighing his options, biding their time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Albus finally replied, his tone light, almost bored, as though the entire discussion was beneath him.
Harry’s irritation deepened, but before he could respond, Ginny’s voice cut through the tension.
“Albus, please,” Ginny pleaded, her voice soft but strained. Beneath her calm tone, Harry could hear the emotions she was trying so hard to suppress—the fear for Lily’s safety, the deep disappointment in Albus’s carelessness. “Lily told us everything—how you disappeared for ages and left her alone. She was scared, Albus.”
There it was—a flicker in Albus’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. Harry couldn’t quite identify it, but it left a sour unease curling in his chest.
“She’s overreacting,” Albus said, his tone clipped, cold in a way that made Harry sit up straighter.
“Overreacting?” Harry echoed, his voice sharpening with disbelief.
Albus shrugged, the motion so casual it bordered on insolence. “I only went outside the shop to talk to a schoolmate.”
That lie. Harry could feel it hanging in the air, it was too smooth, too rehearsed. His frustration finally cracked through his restraint, his voice rising despite his effort to remain calm.
“You left her alone in Diagon Alley during a time when we’ve repeatedly warned you about the dangers out there! What if something had happened to her?”
Beside him, Ginny placed a steadying hand on his arm, a silent plea for patience. He exhaled slowly, trying to temper the anger bubbling just beneath his skin.
Albus’s expression didn’t waver, though Harry thought he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—a flash of suppressed annoyance.
"Please, she didn't leave my sight. I was just outside, having a conversation." Albus replied, his voice carefully measured, as if explaining something obvious to someone being unreasonable. ”And you know how she is—She loses track of time, and is so featherhead—”
“Don’t speak like that of your sister, Albus!” Ginny cut him off sharply, her voice firm yet tremulous with emotion. Harry could hear the pain in her words, the rising frustration. “She might not have been in immediate danger this time—”
Ginny’s voice faltered slightly, and Harry’s hand sought hers, squeezing gently in silent support. He could see the strain etched across her face, the weight of her concern pressing down on both of them. He had to keep himself steady—for her, for Albus, for their family.
“It’s about what could have happened,” Harry said, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “You’re her big brother, Albus. It’s your job to protect her. Not leave her to fend for herself because you felt like wandering off.”
Albus’s gaze finally settled on him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Harry thought he might argue further, might push back with that infuriating indifference he seemed to wear like armor.
Albus’s face remained unreadable as there was a moment of silence, heavy and uncomfortable, before Albus finally sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone tinged with guilt.
“You’re right,” Albus continued, his voice softening. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have made her worry or left her alone.”
His son’s words were earnest, his expression remorseful. But Harry, who had spent years honing his ability to read people, couldn’t ignore the nagging sense that it was all a performance. Albus was too calm, too composed, his apology just a bit too perfect–It lacked the rawness, the guilt, the regret.
Ginny spoke then, her voice softer but still full of that familiar concern. "Albus," she said, "We know you’re trying to find your own way, that you're growing. But tensions are rising, and as a family, we need to protect and take care of each other.”
Harry nodded in agreement, trying to soften his voice. "We’re not trying to punish you. We just want you to understand the risks. We’ve seen too much in our lives, too many things can go wrong in an instant." He wasn’t sure if Albus was even listening anymore. His words were strained, the weight of fear clinging to them. Fear not just for Albus, but for what had become of their relationship. Had they already lost him?
Albus clenched his jaw and nodded, the gesture barely perceptible, but Harry saw it, the stiffening in his son’s posture. “I understand, it was wrong. I won’t do it again,” Albus said, and Harry could almost see the lie in the way his son said it.
There was something too rehearsed in the delivery. Albus was good at this—too good. And part of Harry felt himself falling for it, wanting to believe it. It would be easier to dismiss the nagging doubts, to lessen his worry and ignore the truth his magic whispered to him. It would be easier to let go of the constant ache in his chest that told him there was something more lurking behind that practiced expression.
He exchanged a glance with Ginny, and for a brief moment, her gaze calmed him. There was hope in her eyes, a trust that Harry desperately wanted to believe. She still had faith in Albus, a fire that burned bright despite the shadows of uncertainty. She believed in him, and that made Harry's worries slip, if only for a fleeting second. Maybe, just maybe, he was being paranoid. Maybe Albus was truly sorry. He was just twelve, after all, still a child, a boy.
The guilt hit him then, sharp and suffocating. What kind of father second-guessed his own child like this? What kind of man looked at a twelve-year-old and wondered if his remorse was real or just another performance? The dread that had haunted him for years now turned inward, curling around his thoughts like a dementor’s chill.
The dread settled into his bones, cold and familiar, like a dark cloud hanging over him. How cruel he was to think like this about his own son. Albus wasn't a mastermind; he was a child, still figuring out who he was in a world that had been peaceful for the better part of his life. Harry clenched his fists, fighting the guilt that swelled with the shame. His son was just trying to find his place. His display must just be from awkwardness with showing emotion.
Harry clenched his fists at his sides, trying to fight back the tidal wave of shame. He had spent so many years learning to read people, to sense danger in subtle shifts, to trust his instincts when his life and others’ depended on it. That instinct had saved him, had saved his family, and had won the war. But now, it made him question everything, even the sincerity of his own son’s words.
Albus didn't understand the danger of leaving his eleven-year-old sister alone in Diagon Alley. He didn't know what could have happened, how quickly the world could turn upside down. It was a reality Harry knew too well, a reality he lived with every day as he read reports of violence, of people being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and of children slipping from their parents' grasp without warning. He could still feel the sting of loss, the faces of those he couldn't save, and the voices of those who would never speak again, he remembered them all.
Harry couldn’t let go of the fear. The peace they’d fought for was fragile, and it took only a moment of carelessness for everything to shatter. He knew it too well—the sharp, unrelenting reality of lives snuffed out too soon. He had lived with the aftermath: the missing, the mangled, the hollowed-out families left behind. He had seen the faces of children whose innocence had been stolen, the bodies too small to be so cold, lifeless, mangled and bruised, bones bent unnaturally, eyes that screamed of the horrors that had been their last moments.
And now, Albus had left Lily alone in Diagon Alley, an act so reckless that Harry’s mind had immediately filled with the worst possibilities. He had felt the terror rise, unbidden and unrelenting, as his imagination conjured horrors that had never come to pass.
But none of that justified this—this lens of suspicion through which he now viewed his own son.
It wasn’t Albus’s fault that Harry couldn’t let go of the past. It wasn’t Albus’s fault that Harry’s instinct to protect had twisted into something sharper, something colder. Albus didn’t deserve to be scrutinized like this, didn’t deserve to feel the weight of Harry’s unresolved fears.
He didn't know what it was like—what it had been like for Harry. Their children had grown up in a world without the constant threat of death, without the terror of never knowing who might be lurking in the shadows. They had been born into peace, a peace that Harry had fought for, bled for, and feared would never last.
Albus didn’t know that world, and Harry hoped he never would. He didn’t carry the scars of a childhood spent fighting for survival, of nights spent on the run, of friends taken too soon.
This—this peace Albus lived in—was what they had fought for. What Harry, Ron, and Hermione had bled for, what so many had died for. It was the reason they endured loss and pushed for change. They had envisioned a future where their children wouldn’t know war, where they could grow up without fear.
Wasn’t Albus’s naivety a sign that they had succeeded? That the peace they had clawed their way to was holding, however imperfectly? Harry had wanted this for him, for Lily and James—for all the children who came after him.
But peace didn’t erase the underbelly of the world, the dark corners Harry knew too well. He worked tirelessly to keep those shadows at bay, to make the streets safe for every child regardless of blood status. Yet, the world was far from perfect. And Harry’s fear—that one slip, one moment of carelessness, could shatter the fragile safety they’d built—was rooted in the harsh realities he couldn’t forget.
Albus didn’t understand that. How could he? He hadn’t seen the monsters that lurked in plain sight, hadn’t stood in the aftermath of tragedy. And wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that why Harry and the others had fought so hard—to spare their children from ever having to know that world?
Albus had left Lily alone in Diagon Alley. It was careless, yes, but wasn’t this proof of the very world they wanted? A world where such an act could be seen as thoughtless rather than dangerous and deadly.
Harry exhaled slowly, the guilt settling like lead in his chest. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the tension that hung between them. But what could he say? That he was sorry for doubting him? That he was sorry for letting his own ghosts bleed into their relationship?
Something stopped him, a force much bigger, heavier, so instead, he did what he always did. He swallowed it down, buried it under layers of resolve. It didn't matter. Even if Albus resented him for acting this way. The most important thing was their safety, and for that Harry would do anything—And maybe, just maybe, love would be enough to bridge the chasm that would grow between them.
++++
He traced his fingers over the embossed cover of Obscure and Undetected Curses: An Encyclopedia. His heart raced, steady and deliberate, as he crept silently to his bed. The moonlight filtering through the window painted faint silver streaks across the room, soft and cold against the shadows. He reached for his wand, murmuring, “Lumos,” and the warm yellow light illuminated the pages. The book was enchanted as it held more pages than the thickness would indicate. True to its name, it was an encyclopedia, yet something far greater. The entries didn’t merely describe curses; they provided intricate instructions for casting, delving into the precise nature and effects of each spell.
It was exactly what Albus needed, he smiled.
If Rosier had somehow clawed his way out of that filthy alley, still alive, Albus knew he would return more vicious than ever. That thought gnawed at him, sparking a restless need to prepare. His magic had guided him: the more obscure and undetectable the curses, the better. And he didn’t disagree, he was in desperate need for a better repertoire of spells, and a plan.
Even if Rosier’s pathetic life had ended there, on the grimy cobblestones of Knockturn Alley, Burke remained. Rosier had always been just a pawn, though a particularly cruel one, reveling in torment as if it were a sport. Albus shuddered, bile rising in his throat as memories clawed at him—Rosier’s hands, his breath, the putrid aura of his magic.
A dark part of him hoped the other had somehow managed to survive. It would be an opportunity, another chance to inflict pain—But even as the thought teased him, he recognized its futility and its reckless nature. It was better this way, better if Rosier had met his end in that alley, surrounded by the muck and grime and death that suited him so well.
Still, Albus couldn’t suppress the fleeting, wicked fantasies. He hoped Rosier’s death had been slow, agonizing—perhaps a Crucio prolonged to the brink of madness, or a drowning spell to choke the life out of him with cruel irony. Albus’s mind wandered, his lips curling into a giggle as he pictured it, the vivid details painting themselves before his eyes.
Rosier’s screams. His agony. The poetic justice of it all, of his body broken, bent coloured in different hues of reds, purples and black, a masterpiece of bruises of suffering.
The image brought a strange satisfaction, though a flicker of unease whispered at the edges of his consciousness. He brushed it aside with practiced ease, turning another page as his focus narrowed on the spells before him.
There was still so much to learn.
Flipping through the enchanted pages, Albus's eyes scanned eagerly, searching for something—something that could make his imaginings a reality. His brow arched in intrigue as he stifled a quiet laugh at some of the entries. The curses that brought pain in subtle, clever ways captivated him the most. They were fascinating concepts, after all—spells that didn’t announce themselves with a flash of light or an obvious wound but unraveled their effects slowly, insidiously.
Some mimicked natural illnesses, like a curse that aligned its symptoms with dragon pox, ensuring the victim’s death appeared to be from a mundane disease. Others were so obscure, so ingeniously designed, that no one could trace them back to their caster. A few were bewildering in their complexity, their very existence a curious enigma.
He smirked at the thought, his fingers brushing over the curling script as he jotted notes into his journal, listing the spells and their corresponding pages. Time slipped away unnoticed, the hours devoured by his fascination as he imagined the possibilities. His mind wandered, crafting scenarios where these curses might be wielded with precision—where they might serve as justice. Or vengeance.
When he finally eyed the clock on his bedside table, he was made aware that the time was far later than he’d anticipated. Exhaustion settled into his limbs, but a reluctant regret tugged at him as he carefully closed the book and his journal, stashing them beneath his mattress.
He crept back into bed, drawing the covers over himself as his mind swirled with possibilities. His thoughts lingered on Rosier, dark fantasies weaving themselves into the fabric of his dreams.
If Rosier were still alive, Albus thought, then he would find a way to make him suffer.
++++
“Good morning Teddy.” Albus said as he sat down around the breakfast table.
Teddy, who had been in some heated but lighthearted debate with James, quirked up at the arrival of Albus.
“Mate! it's good to see ya, how's the term been?” He chipped cheerfully.
Teddy had been there since they got home, but had been busy with work and whatever he and James and their father did for him to ask about Albus' time at Hogwarts. Albus had always known Teddy liked James more, yet facing the reality of it stung.
Albus gave a glance towards his brother before reaching for the pitcher with apple juice and pouring it into a cup. “Ohwell, I'm not as awful with spells anymore–”
James let out a bark-like laugh, which made Albus give him a pointed look before continuing. “What about you teddy, how's the Auros treating you?”
Teddy grinned, “Treating me like a dog,that's for sure.” Teddy spoke as he gave a glance toward James who snickered with food in his mouth.
Albus lifted his eyebrow slightly. “Though you would get the vip treatment, because of father–” Albus trailed off purposefully.
Teddy’ brow raised the formal title Albus used for Harry before he replied. “Merlin no, it's like ya dad going extra hard on me, trying to show i’m not getting special treatment.”
Albus gave Teddy a probing look. “So, you’ve had a lot going on these past few months then?” he asked lightly, reaching for some food on the table.
“Yeah, you could saythat,” Teddy replied, eyes wandering towards James who gave him a knowing look. Teddy’s voice carried a hint of exhaustion mixed with excitement, like the heavy workload was starting to weigh on him—but worth it.
“Did you work last night?” Albus asked, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
It would be great if he could get any details if something happened.
Something swifted with Teddy’s expression, a dark somber look before it disappeared. “I had the day shift, though it was desk work, in the evening a lot of us were called in, so had to work double.” the said in his usual casual voice, yet there was a strained undertone, as if Teddys mind was elsewhere.
“Really? This close to Christmas?” Albus raised a brow skeptically, like he disapproved of being called in during holidays.
Teddy grinned as he made eye contact with Albus ”I know–They really treat us like house elfs,” he took a short pause, as he leaned closer over the table,his previous expression returned, his voice now gone of the casualty it was known for, replaced with a much more serious tone. “There was an attack down near Knockturn–” His face contorted with anger as he continued with a more strained voice “We got there too late—We didn't get any calls before the eve–”
“Teddy, please don’t talk about Auror stuff around the table,” Ginny interrupted with a small light strained smile, failing to hide her disapproval to anyone acute enough to notice.
Albus piped down as his mother made it to the table. If anyone noticed it. they didn't speak of it. Albus turned back to his food. Deep in thought, he tried not to think of the slight exhaustion shown on his mother, her little sad smile following his silence. Instead he forced himself to go through the new information Teddy had given him. He had to hide a smile from his lips. It had to be about Rosier, he glanced at the newspaper on the table, searching for any mention of the event. The headline, however, was mundane:
“Magical Creatures at Risk: How Muggle Pollution Threatens Our World.”
Whatever had happened, it hadn’t reached the press yet. Albus suppressed a smirk, hoping that whatever had gone down was horrid enough that the press could not fully describe the horror. His eyes lingered on the article’s headline, and he pulled the paper closer to read it more thoroughly.
Teddy noticed. “Al, don’t believe any of that,” he said, his tone disapproving, like Albus was reading some gossip mag like witches weekly.
Albus slightly raised his eyebrow. “Why? Isn’t muggle pollution getting worse? It’s even destroying the habitat of magical creatures.”
Teddy let out a sigh, shaking his head. “It’s a dog whistle, Al. Those articles are designed to stir up anti-muggle sentiment.”
Albus gave him a glance, “But it’s true isn't it? Even Muggles are worried about pollution, and the destruction of animal habitats.”
Teddy made a disapproving face and was just about to answer when Lily came down the stairs like a tornado, looking like she had just woken up. She took a seat, and the conversation shifted elsewhere. He continued to read the article, despite the glances from Teddy and James. He entirely missed the look they both seemed to share as he continued to read. He didn't agree with Teddy’s viewpoint. Yet he knew better than to voice that opinion.
His eyes glanced towards the missing silhouette in the room as he ate his breakfast. Their father wasn't here, which meant he was called in. Whatever had happened was enough to keep his father presumably through the night at the Auror office, if Teddys words are to be believed. His eyes carefully observed the scene of his family before him, his mother seemed to have been awake for quite some time, yet it was only nine. Something had clearly happened, and judging by the looks that James kept giving Teddy, James knew about it, and they were hiding whatever happened from him and Lily. Hopefully Rosier had died then, hopefully gruesomely.
+++
Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 24 December, 2018
Harry sat at his desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the clutter of paperwork surrounding him a stark contrast to the chaos brewing in his mind. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the desk, though his attention was elsewhere. There was always too much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him like a storm cloud, but it wasn’t the pile of paperwork that had his mind scattered. No, it was the most recent case, a lynching of a muggle born school girl, which body had been found only late last night, her form had been covered by the heavy snowfall, and a drunk on their way home from a pub had stumbled over her, the attack had happened only a few streets from the busting heart of Diaogn alley, her pronced time of death was calculated to be around mid day, while hecting shopping for the holidays was happening not far away. It was brutal, not far from her body her shopping bags could be found, the carefully wrapped gifts spilling out beneath the snow.
The door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts and the viewed images of her body found, brutalized and broken. Harry's eyes snapped up. Draco Malfoy stepped inside, his presence unmistakable. He exuded an effortless charm that always seemed to catch Harry off guard. Draco’s tailored robes clung to his tall, lean frame, and every movement seemed calculated to highlight the grace in his posture. His silver-blond hair fell just so, and those stormy grey eyes—sharp and focused—were enough to make Harry momentarily lose his train of thought. For a brief second, it felt like nothing had changed, but Harry knew better than to let appearances deceive him. Beneath Draco’s polished exterior lay years of history, tension, and words left unsaid.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, his voice smooth and deliberate, laced with an unmistakable hint of superiority.
“Malfoy,” Harry replied, shaking himself from his reverie. He gestured to the chair opposite him, his own tone colder, more measured than he intended. “Please say you didn’t just walk through my secretary.”
Draco snorted, unfazed, as he took a seat with an air of relaxed confidence. His leg effortlessly crossed over the other, and he leaned back in the chair, a perfect image of nonchalance. Harry tried not to focus on how Draco’s slim legs, framed by his perfectly tailored robes, made the whole scene seem almost... elegant. The premium leather shoes Draco wore shined brighter than any snitch, almost taunting Harry with their perfection.
Harry could feel his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “This isn’t a joke, Draco. You can’t just waltz in like this—I’m a busy man.” He dragged a hand through his messy hair, the motion one of irritation, which earned him an all-too-pleased smirk from Draco.
Harry let out a dramatic sigh, his shoulders sagging as he leaned back. “So, what do you want?”
Draco’s lips curled into a knowing grin, his words measured and cutting. “Oh, Potter, you must know what I want.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot release Mr. Zabini.”
At this, Draco rolled his eyes dramatically, leaning further back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. The playful smirk that had previously adorned his lips disappeared, replaced by a look of measured annoyance, as if Harry’s refusal was both tiresome and predictably beneath him. “It’s Blaise we’re speaking of,” Draco said, his voice laced with derision, as though the very suggestion that Zabini could be involved with the new traditionalist movement was laughable. “You cannot seriously believe he has any connection to that insipid new traditional movement.”
The words were sharp, dripping with mockery, daring Harry to entertain such a ridiculous idea. Harry could feel his jaw tightening, the tension in the room becoming palpable.
“That’s not for you to decide,” Harry said, his voice colder than he’d intended.
Draco didn’t flinch. Instead, he gave a soft sigh and flicked his wrist, effortlessly performing a tempus charm to check the time. “Look, Potter, I don’t have all day. You’ve a bill you wish to see passed at the next Wizengamot meeting, yes?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion building.
Draco allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to cross his face. His voice, smooth and carefully calculated, carried the weight of an unspoken promise. “You shall have my vote,” he said, his tone deliberate, with just the right amount of gravitas.
Harry’s suspicion flared. “You haven’t used your Malfoy vote in years. Why now?”
Draco’s smile grew, though it did not reach his eyes. “Let us say it is a favour to an old acquaintance,” he replied, his voice rich with formality as he tilted his head slightly. “And, frankly, I’ve been rather eager to re-enter the political sphere. With Scorpius now safely ensconced at Hogwarts, I find I have a great deal more time on my hands.”
Harry’s gaze hardened. Trusting Draco completely was never an option, but the situation was dire—they needed this bill to pass. “We need another vote to have a majority,” he said, his voice quiet but insistent.
Draco’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with that same sharp calculation. “I can certainly help you acquire another vote—Once Blaise is released, I’m certain Pansy will be more than willing to lay the Parkinson vote in your favour.”
Harry’s eye twitched involuntarily. “How soon?” he asked, his tone bordering on urgent.
Draco looked at him “Release him this evening, or I can’t promise Pansy will support your bill.”
“You’re sure of that?” Harry pressed, his gaze unwavering.
Draco rolled his eyes in a manner that was almost theatrical, then stood gracefully, adjusting his robes as if the entire room required his attention. Harry’s gaze followed the movement involuntarily, his eyes tracing the luxurious fabric of Draco’s suit, grimacing at the sheer opulence. Draco fixed his posture with ease, the elegance of his every gesture drawing attention.
“Of course,” Draco said smoothly, as though the matter were already settled. He walked towards Harry’s desk, standing before it with a knowing look. “A deal?” he asked, his voice now warm with the certainty of an agreement already in place.
Harry took a long, deliberate moment, weighing the decision in his mind. Reluctantly, he nodded, the words leaving him almost against his will. “We have a deal.”