The Myrren Mateship

The world reassembled around them with the violent lurch of portkey travel, magic pulling at their bones, dragging them through space with the grace of a rampaging hippogriff. 

When their feet hit the ground, several of them stumbled, Ron cursing under his breath as he caught himself on Ginny’s shoulder.

Harry straightened slowly, fingers still curled tightly around the portkey coin, its heat now dimmed. The air here was different- heavy with old magic, the kind that settled on the skin like dust and memory. Basil hissed quietly from the sling across his chest, tongue flicking in and out with a nervous rhythm.

They stood in a circular stone room, though calling it a room didn’t feel quite right. It was ancient, open to the sky via glass ceilings and glass windows, and felt more like a glade built of stone than a chamber. Nature had claimed it long ago; towering trees grew in perfect arcs around the perimeter, their canopies filtering sunlight into shifting beams that danced across the moss-laden floor. Wildflowers had burst through cracks in the stone -blues, golds, deep reds- and ivy coiled up the walls like verdant veins, clinging to everything with patient determination. The air smelled of damp earth and old magic, thick and green and alive.

At the centre stood the wardstone, a monolith of dark granite, nearly twice Harry’s height. Its surface was etched with intricate runes, spiralling around it like a serpent of language long-forgotten. The stone pulsed faintly, steady as a heartbeat, and from it poured tendrils of magic; slow, silvery mist that weaved through the air like smoke under water. Even to the others, it was visibly powerful.

But through Harry’s eyes, it was breathtaking.

He blinked once, letting his inner sight shift, the world sharpening and then blooming in layers of colour and energy. The wardstone erupted into radiance, no longer just pulsing, it sang with light. Lines of gold and silver ran through the obelisk, forming delicate patterns of intertwined runes that moved … living glyphs, not static carvings, flowing like water across its surface.

Magic bled from the stone in coils of light… not just silver, but deep sapphire blues, emerald greens, and warm amber threads, each one glowing with intent. These weren’t just random colours. They were pieces of the manor’s ancient wards, tied to elements, protections, and family magicks. Harry could see threads extending from the wardstone into the trees, into the ground, and out into the distance connecting to the very bones of Potter land.

At the heart of the wardstone’s glow, a core of gold light throbbed. He squinted a tad before swallowing harshly. Potter blood magicks; bound to the land, old and powerful. And it was waiting. 

For him.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, his magic stirring in answer- recognizing the call, the welcome, the claim.

No one spoke.

Harry stepped forward, approaching the wardstone, and as he did, the runes flared- golden light erupting across the obelisk’s surface, the air crackling with energy.

Everyone audibly sucked in a breath.

“The magic’s reacting,” Hermione breaths, eyes wide. “It feels… ancient.”

“The magicks know Harry’s here,” Luna murmurs, head tilted toward the stone, eyes distant. “It’s singing.”

“Certainly feels strong,” Ron grumbles, but his voice was tight, and he inhales sharply, heart thudding erratically against his ribs as the magic seemed to close in on them- not hostile, but dense, pressing into his lungs with every breath. It was like standing in the eye of a storm that had just realized you were there. The air felt charged, humming with static, and his skin prickled beneath his robes, goosebumps rising despite the warmth. 

It wasn’t just magic, Ron realized, it was a presence, old and aware, brushing against the edges of his mind like fingers flipping through the pages of a book. Judging. Weighing. Deciding. He’d been through battlefields, had walked into cursed tombs with Harry, had faced death and come out the other side- but this made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in a different way.

It was ancient family magicks- not his, not exactly- but it recognized and acknowledged him because of his blood-forged bond with Harry. 

Harry halts a few feet from the wardstone, heart pounding. The magic coiled around him like tendrils, brushing his skin, tugging at his core. He lifted a hand, palm out- and the light surged forward, seizing his hand, wrapping his fingers in searing heat.

“Harry-” Neville steps forward, but Harry shakes his head once, not breaking contact.

“It’s okay,” He murmurs, “It’s recognizing me.”

The runes shifted, rearranging into a language older than English, older than Latin- ancestral magic, speaking in blood. The light climbed his arm, wrapping around him, and then-

The world tilted.

In a flash, Harry’s mind was elsewhere.

Visions flooded him, not memories, but echoes. His ancestors, generations back … stags running through moonlit forests, voices chanting ancient spells beneath stars, battles fought with steel and spell-fire. The manor standing tall through wars, plagues, peace, and celebration. A lineage carved into the bones of the land.

And then the runes flared once more- and snapped into him, flooding his core with a warmth that wasn’t fire, but belonging. 

Harry gasped, stumbling back as the magic withdrew, leaving a faint glow beneath his skin that faded slowly.

The room was silent, all eyes on him.

“It… accepted me,” Harry muses, his voice hoarse.

“Of course it did,” Luna chirps like she expected nothing less. 

Lines of gold lingered along his veins, fading gradually, but the bond was set. The house knew him now.

Suddenly, the front gates of the room swung open with a resonant clang, and the doors creaked, slowly unlocking.

The house was inviting them in…. at least Harry thinks so 

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathes. “That’s... ominous.”

“No,” Luna corrects softly. “This is Harry’s home.”

Harry stepped forward again, trying not to stumble in his eagerness. His friends followed behind silently letting him have this moment to himself. 

The air grew warmer with each step, the oppressive magic now settling into something more familiar- like a heartbeat. The manor’s power didn’t press down anymore. It surrounded them, watching, waiting, and protective.

Walking through the doors, the entrance hall yawned open  -massive, cavernous, and covered in dust. Chandeliers hung like frozen constellations overhead, and faded portraits lined the high stone walls, some cloaked in cobwebs, others stirring faintly as if sensing the shift in the air. The flickering torch sconces along the hallway gutters flare to life as Harry passes by them, igniting one by one in a soft cascade of golden flame- not fire from a wand, but summoned by the manor itself, in recognition of the master of the manor returning.

The floors beneath their feet were dark wood and polished stone, dulled by years of abandonment. A grand staircase curved along the far wall, its banisters carved with intricate sigils of the Potter line; stags leaping through moonlight, wandwork etched into the grain, and above it all, the crest of House Potter engraved in silver and gold.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

The weight of the house’s magic shifted the moment he’d stepped inside. It no longer tested him now, but it embraced him, tendrils of warmth wrapping around his magic like old friends… like family. His head throbbed faintly, not with pain but with a strange hum, like the wards were whispering to him, welcoming him.

Behind him, his friends lingered at the doorway, reluctant to intrude - until the torches closest to them flared brighter, casting light over the hall as if to say, you are welcome, too.

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathes, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, “It’s like a castle.”

“It feels like Hogwarts,” Hermione corrected softly, her eyes darting over every rune, every detail, drinking in the magic of the place like it was a book come to life. “More than that… this place feels alive.”

“It is,” Luna murmurs, gaze distant, “The house remembers. It always remembers.” She stepped forward, reaching out to trail her fingers over the bannister, eyes gleaming, “It’s happy to its child back.” Her words were softly spoken but Harry heard her, his heart clenching in his chest at her words.

Harry swallowed hard, throat tight, the echo of Luna’s words reverberating through him louder than the creak of ancient wood or the whisper of old magic in the air.

It’s happy to have its child back.

His hand drifted to the banister beside Luna’s, fingertips brushing the smooth, timeworn wood carved by ancestors long gone… his ancestors. Magic sparked at the contact, soft and warm, like a heartbeat pulsing through the timber itself. 

“Welcome home, Harry,” Neville say quietly from behind, voice steady, grounding. Neville’s eyes were soft and gentle, genuinely feeling so happy for his godbrother.

“Thanks Nev,” Harry murmurs, “It can be your home too if you want… a home for all of us,” He offers them a place here immediately and without even thinking it through. It makes all five of his friends soften, eyes crinkling with love and amusement. 

He was still standing at the threshold, Basil’s little head poking out of Harry’s satchel and hissing softly as if sensing the shift in atmosphere — the calm settling over the manor like dust after a storm.

Harry exhales slowly, turning to face them all. His family. They didn’t have to say anything- the understanding in their eyes was enough.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Ginny murmurs, stepping forward, her hand placing itself gently on his shoulder, “You never were.”

A sudden thrum of magic pulsed through the hall- a ripple from the floor to the chandeliers above, like the manor itself had heard her and agreed. The torches flared one last time, casting golden light over them all, and then settled into a steady glow.

Harry blinked rapidly, moisture blurring his vision, but he didn’t care if they saw. Not now.

“I think…” He says softly, voice rough but sure, “.. it’s time we see the rest of the house.”

They all nodded…. no hesitation, never when it came to their leader, friend and brother.

“Lead the way, Lord Potter,” Ron teases, giving a mock bow.

Harry rolls his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips was real, and this time… it stayed.

The dust of abandonment clung to everything- heavy layers on the ornate crown molding, the marble floors dulled by time, and cobwebs stretched like ghostly curtains in the corners- but nothing could hide the grandeur that pulsed beneath. Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher had popped in hours after their arrival to the manor and had been frothing at the mouth to start cleaning.

The main corridor was vast, flanked by tall arched windows that reached toward the ceiling, their stained-glass panes depicting scenes from Potter family history- duels, discoveries, alliances with magical creatures, and ancient rituals. The Potter history seemed to be much more extensive than he realized. Harry wondered if this was more Peverell history than Potter at this point. The light filtering through them painted the marble in jewel-toned hues -ruby reds, sapphire blues, emerald greens- shifting like living art.

On either side, great doors led into halls and chambers, each marked by a variation of the official Potter crest; a rearing stag crowned with a circlet of gems, antlers entwined with ancient runes, a stag chasing after what looked like stars… Harry even saw the insignia of the Deathly Hallows a couple of times. A fact that shook him and his companions up. They didn’t have the best experience with the Hallows after all, seeing as two of the three had tried to kill them all. 

The wood of doors was dark oak, intricately carved with scenes from nature; forests, stags, and protective wards woven into the very grain.

The Main Hall lay just beyond, its ceilings so high they vanished into shadow, held aloft by carved stone columns shaped like trees with branches twisting into the vaulted ceiling. Floating orbs of light hovered overhead, flickering to life as people stepped inside. Multiple tables decorated the room, carved from a single massive tree and polished to a glassy sheen, though it bore the dust of time. A fireplace large enough to walk into stood at the far end, cold now, but with the potential to warm the whole house.

One of Harry’s favourite spots was the library. It was visible through an archway beyond the hall, and was two stories tall. The bookshelves rose high with ladders enchanted to follow the reader. The scent of parchment, leather, and old ink still lingered, and magical wards glimmered faintly over some shelves- restricted sections… no doubt holding rare or dangerous knowledge that was tuned in to Potter blood only. The entire library itself was warded against entry without the Lord of house’s permission. 

Tapestries lined the halls, woven histories of the Potter line as well as portraits that slumbered, waiting for Harry’s command to stir.

Despite the dust and silence, the house didn’t feel abandoned. It felt like it had been waiting, holding its breath, and now that its master had returned it had finally been able to exhale.

It felt like home in a way that Grimmauld was never able to make him feel.

It’d been a couple days since Harry had decided to permanently move from Grimmauld to Potter manor. The house elves refused to let Harry help with any of the work and the move had been much easier than he expected. 

Since he’d been here, his friends had refused to leave as well and so with the Weasley family having visited the manor the day before, it wasn’t all that surprising that Hermione’s great-something- grandfather appeared after Hermione and Harry had been so busy with the manor. 

Sure his friends had their separate homes as well, but Harry had given them their own rooms here as well and the manor was slowly yet surely becoming more and more homey with every passing day. 

The six of them had claimed the grand living room as their temporary base of operations while they sorted through the manor’s vastness; it was a whole  mixture of exploration, cleanup, and minor magical repairs that seemed never-ending. 

The room itself was sprawling, with arched windows letting in slanted beams of golden afternoon light, and a massive hearth that still crackled with warm, enchanted fire despite the summer heat…. the manor, it seemed, liked to keep its halls cozy for its Lord.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor near the hearth, scrolls and parchment spread out around her like a scholar in her element, diligently cataloguing the manor’s existing wards, trying to match them with what Gringotts had on record. She was analyzing which wards needed an extra boost and cataloguing the ones she knew Harry liked to keep on all of their houses and belongings. He’d already added the ones quickest to implement and he and Hermione had been working through the rest. Her brow was furrowed, lips moving silently as she cross-referenced runes with rapid precision.

Ron and Ginny had claimed one of the overstuffed couches near the massive bay window, arguing again over who had won their most recent round of magical chess.  They’d been taking a break from cleaning. The board, still smouldering slightly from a particularly brutal move, lay between them like a battlefield. Ginny had her feet propped on Ron’s lap, wand in hand, lazily flicking sparks at him every time he declared she had cheated.

Neville was in the corner, crouched beside a half-broken cabinet, carefully dismantling one of the manor’s old enchanted traps; a protective ward keyed centuries ago, now malfunctioning and prone to launching very aggressive stinging hexes at anyone who walked too close. His brow was furrowed in concentration, wand tip glowing a steady blue as he delicately traced the runes etched into the wood, muttering counter-charms under his breath.

A small collection of salvaged magical artifacts and strange trinkets lay beside him; things he’d disarmed or rescued from the manor’s more temperamental rooms. Occasionally, he’d pause to jot down notes in a slim, rune-covered notebook, detailing the trap’s mechanics and his adjustments. 

“You’d think the family magicks would know we’re welcome at this point,” Neville mutters, ducking just in time as a spark of rogue magic fizzled overhead. “Or at least stop trying to curse my eyebrows off.”

Harry chuckles softly from across the room, “I think the house likes testing you,” He muses, snickering at Neville’s glare.

“Yeah, well, it’s going to lose a window if it tries it again.”

Neville gets a stinging hex to face as a result and ends up cursing up a storm much to the amusement of everyone there. 

Luna, naturally, had made herself comfortable atop of an ancient grand piano, which nobody dared question, humming an eerie tune to herself while dangling a glowing crystal from a string over her nose. She claimed it helped align the manor’s astral frequencies.

…. nobody understood what that meant, but considering how alive the manor felt since their arrival, and because well it was Luna…. no one was up for arguing with her.

The ancient wards of Potter Manor sang softly, responding to the presence approaching the outer gates. Harry felt it in his bones, in the way the air shifted-not in warning, but in recognition. He straightened from where he’d been sitting beside Hermione, planning the next wards he needed to implement in his home. 

“Hector’s here,” He murmurs and everyone turns to looks at Hermione who sighs. 

“I forgot to send a letter,” She grumbles, looking frazzled at the thought of the scolding her great-grandfather was going to give her.

Ron groans himself, “Merlin’s beard, tell him not to hex me this time, yeah?”

“Stop flirting with his grand-daughter in front of him then you loaf of bread,” Ginny snarks, trying to kick her brother in the face.

Ron yelps, narrowly dodging Ginny’s foot as it swung toward his head with the precision of someone who had done it before. “Oi! I wasn’t flirting, I was… conversing.”

Hermione arches an eyebrow, eyes gleaming with dry amusement despite her sigh. “You tried to compare my eyes to Amortentia last time he visited, Ronald. He nearly drowned you.”

“They do sparkle like blooming lilac under starlight-” Ron began, placing a hand over his heart in a grand, theatrical gesture and making Harry and Neville snort out barks of laughter.

“Oh, shut up,” Ginny groans, chucking a pillow at his head, which Ron caught with surprising grace, though he still managed to fall off the couch with a dramatic oof.

Harry sighs heavily, “Can we not annoy Hector off this time? I’d rather avoid another lecture about decorum, bloodlines, and the importance of graceful presentation.”

“I like Hector,” Luna pops up from her perch atop the piano, still swinging her legs idly. “He reminds me of a thundercloud. Stern and moody, but full of lightning if you get too close.” Hedwig was perched up on Luna’s head, seemingly interested in whatever it was that Luna was doing. 

“That’s comforting,” Neville mutters, wiping his hands clean with a cloth as he stood from where he’d finished disarming the warded cabinet. “Maybe if we don’t act like complete lunatics for five minutes, he won’t threaten to drown us all with controlled water magicks.”

Harry snorts, “That’s asking a lot.”

Basil coiled lazily around his shoulders, as he stood up to meet their guest.

A shimmer of light sparked at the Manor’s threshold, rippling through the wards like a stone cast into still water. Harry felt the subtle ping in his magic, and a moment later, Winky dressed in one of the typical Potter house elf uniforms, appears at his side.

“Master Harry sir, Mr. Lord Dagworth-Granger seeks entry. Shall Winky escort him inside?”

Harry exhales through his nose, the exhale coming off as more akin to a huff of laughter than anything else. The wards were nothing but air to someone of Hector’s calibre and strength. 

Back in his second year, Harry had unknowingly set the course of his life on an entirely new path. It had started with a visit to Gringotts; one meant for routine vault access and some light research, but it had ended with the goblins uncovering the tangled web of compulsions, monitoring spells, and subtle bindings that had been layered over him for years, courtesy of their beloved, bloody Headmaster. 

Dumbledore’s manipulations had been meticulous, designed to seem protective, even benevolent, but beneath the layers of intent lay control. Control over their magic, their thoughts, their choices. Harry had instantly shred them with help from Gringotts' curse-breakers, goblin healers, and his own sheer will, and in doing so, he’d discovered his friends under the same compulsions and had taken them in third year to reclaim their autonomy. He’d thought they’d been plotting against him at first, before he realized they had been just as helpless as he had been. It was painful, both physically and emotionally, but necessary. And the six of them had been inseparable since.

For Hermione, that reclamation had unearthed far more than stolen agency. It had uncovered her  bloodline. Her true heritage.

Through ancient goblin magicks, it had revealed the truth of her lineage. She was no Muggle-born, not in the slightest. She was the great- several times over-granddaughter of Hector Dagworth-Granger, one of the most feared and respected names in magical society- one also believed to be dead and gone.

The truth though, He hadn’t died. Wixen society only thought he had, written off in the annals of time, because no one suspected that Hector was no mere wizard- he was a creature, bound by blood and magic to a lineage of immortality that had shielded him from time’s decay. It was an honour to be gifted with a creature inheritance as it was seen as a gift from Lady Magic herself. 

Hectors enemies -and there were many apparently- had tried to sever him from his family. They’d convinced him that his daughter had died at their hands. In truth, she’d fled, hidden in the Muggle world, and eventually giving birth to a bloodline of children that eventually years later gave birth to Hermione herself. 

It’d been a secret. One Hector had mourned for centuries, believing his child had been lost forever.

When Harry brought Hermione to Gringotts and the truth had been unraveled, Hector’s world and Hermione’s had changed forever. 

And Hector? Once a figure of myth and shadow, he had re-emerged with all the fury and passion of a man who had lost everything… and was suddenly given a second chance. He had no hesitation in claiming Hermione, in raising a granddaughter he never thought he’d have, and in pledging his formidable power and resources to their cause.

Hector’s knowledge, along with goblin training and ancient tomes only he could access, had changed everything for them. Hector taught them things that most magicals had long forgotten; lost arts, battle-craft, magical theory far beyond anything Hogwarts’ had taught them. 

With that training, the six of them had become something wixen society and Dumbledore himself had never anticipated. They’d become powerful, united, and utterly uncontrollable. And them? They were single-handedly responsible for the demise of one Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

“Let him inside. Hector is always welcome here, Winky,” 

Because Hector Dagworth-Granger wasn’t just Hermione’s grandfather.

He was family.

To all of them.

Winky vanishes with a snap, and Harry steps toward the front of the Manor, already feeling the familiar aura of ancient power growing stronger as Hector Dagworth-Granger approached. He was a presence that was commanding as it was unsettling, wrapped in centuries of knowledge, power, and an unwavering sense of propriety.

The man was already standing inside the main hall when Harry hurried to greet him.

Up close, Hector was nearly ethereal, the sheer otherworldliness of him striking- something that couldn’t be attributed to mere age or breeding. His features were sharp and symmetrical, chiseled like ancient statuary, and not a single wrinkle marred his pale, moonlit skin. His eyes, the same deep, intelligent brown as Hermione’s shot through with flecks of opal, gleamed with ageless wisdom. They were eyes that had seen centuries unfold and hadn’t dulled in the slightest. If anything, they sparkled with mischief and danger, like still waters hiding unseen depths. 

And beneath the elegant fall of his emerald robes, movement shimmered. Harry knew it for what it was. The subtle glimmer of water-like scales that covered Hector’s arms, only visible when the light hit just right and when he wasn’t hiding them under a glamour. It was a result of of his - and Hermione’s soon enough-creature heritage.

As a water nymph, Hector had walked the world longer than most empires, and his magic was soaked in that ageless power; smooth, cold, and unyielding. His long, silver hair , tied at the nape with a thin cord of woven kelp and silver thread, gleamed like starlight, and there was an elegance in his posture, a liquid grace in the way he moved, as if the ground itself bent to accommodate him.

A fine silver circlet rested on his brow, thin and understated, but undeniably regal. And despite his impeccable attire, his boots still glistened faintly with water droplets that never seemed to dry, an effect of his magic, as though he never truly left the rivers and seas that had birthed his kind.

“Well, well….” Hector intones, voice low and laced with a dry humour that Harry had grown used to over the years. He let his sharp gaze rake slowly across the grand hall of Potter Manor, lingering on the active warding sigils flickering against the stone, the polished floors free of dust, the subtle pulse of ancient family magicks fully awake, “….you have been busy, my child.”

Harry gives the stunning older man a wry smile, already bracing himself for whatever unsolicited critique Hector was about to level at him. It was a ritual between them now; respect laced with exasperation.

“One has to guard their home you know,” Harry says and Hector’s smile grows even more amused.  

Just as Hector turned toward the inner hall, his attention still fixed on the runes etched along the vaulted ceiling, the sharp click of boots on stone drew both his and Harry’s attention.

“Grandfather,” Hermione called, her voice firm but carrying that soft lilt of affection she only ever used with him. She descended the grand staircase, every bit the picture of poise and power, her wand tucked neatly into a holster at her thigh, her robes charmed clean and crisply fitted, her curls tamed into a high, elegant braid.

Her eyes -Hector’s eyes technically- gleamed with the same sharp intelligence and precision, and for a brief moment, they softened as they took each other in. She reached the final step and walked directly to him, straight-backed and confident, but the small smile tugging at her lips gave her away.

“Did you hex anyone on your way in?” She asks dryly, arms crossing over her chest.

Hector’s mouth twitches. “Not yet, but your blood-sworn- brother-” He glances at Harry, then back at her, “-nearly gave me cause… making me stand at the threshold as though he expected me to request permission to to enter his home.” Hector snatched Harry to his side and ruffled his hair harshly in retaliation. 

“AH- Hector!!” Harry pouts, trying to escape and failing with a heavy pout that has Hector snorting in amusement. 

“Considering the last time you visited my friends, you nearly took out Ron’s kneecaps for breathing too loudly,” Hermione quips, snickering at Harry’s expense when he’s finally released by her grandfather, who plants a gentle kiss on the top of the green-eyed boy’s head. Harry genuinely looked like a fire hydrant every time someone gave him an ounce of affection. Honestly, she sighs in her head. His future spouse or spouses were going to have a migraine trying to get him to accept affection. It had taken them years. 

She and her grandfather share an amused look, probably thinking along the same lines and she proceeds to step into Hector’s open arms without hesitation.

Hector embraced her with a grace that didn’t quite match his usual rigidity; one arm wrapped lightly around her shoulders, the other hand lifting to cradle the back of her head in a gesture that was extremely protective. She was his blood related ward after all and all children were considered miracles to protect in the world of creatures and creature-inheritances. 

“My dear heart,” Hector murmurs against her hair, barely above a breath. “You’ve grown sharper since last we met.”

Hermione pulls back, smiling wryly. “You wouldn’t believe how much trouble we’ve been in since then.”

“I would,” Hector replies, eyes narrowing in amusement, “And I look forward to hearing every bloody detail. Preferably over tea.” He snatches Harry from where he was trying to sneak away back into his arms and the boy lets out a squeak that has Hermione snickering into her hands. 

“I brought over your favourite tea,” She laughs at Harry’s expression.

Hector raises an elegant brow. “Lavender and lemongrass?”

Hermione nods, eyes sparkling. “Lavender and lemongrass,”

“Excellent.” Hector runs a hand through Harry’s hair, similar to how he was doing with Hermione herself. “I’m assuming Heir Longbottom and my little moon are here as well,” He drawls, purposely not including Ron in his observations much to Harry and Hermione’s amusement. 

“Yes, they’re just in the one of the living rooms in the main quarters. Luna has probably already told Dobby to make us tea,” Harry muses, knowing his friends like the back of his hand. 

Hector hums, clearly pleased, and with the air of a king granting his favour, turns toward the heart of the Manor. “Then let’s not keep them waiting. I loathe over-steeped tea almost as much as I detest delays.”

Harry chuckles, falling into step beside him, Hermione on the other side, her arm loosely hooked through her grandfather’s. “You know she probably didn’t ask for your tea specifically … she probably just declared it was tea time and Dobby made it happen. He’ll know to serve your tea though,” Harry thinks, a bemused smile on his lips as he thinks of the scene in his head.

“As is only proper,” Hector sniffs, but his own eyes twinkled with faint amusement. “That elf has remarkable instincts. If only he could be convinced to spend more time at my estate.”

“You just want someone to terrorize that won’t file a formal complaint,” Hermione mutters under her breath.

“Precisely. House elves are entirely loyal. They shouldn’t been bound, exactly as Harry has done here by employing them,” Hector replied smoothly, then gives Harry a sideways glance. “Though I must say, the ones here are… unusuallydevoted. I suppose that’s what comes of being bonded to a Potter, I suppose.”

Harry shrugs, a little sheepishly, “I just treat them like normal people.”

“And you never say no to them,” Hermione teases, elbowing him lightly.

“Except perhaps when it comes to you getting a good night of sleep,” Hector mutters, eyeing Harry critically. “Which you’re still neglecting, I see. Circles under the eyes, tension in the shoulders; you’ve been pushing yourself again.” Hector scolds one of the six children he’d come to view as his own. 

“I’m fine,” Harry lies instinctively, earning twin looks from both Grangers- one sharp and maternal, the other ancient, terrifying and worried.

“You’re terrible at lying to us,” Hermione quipped, rolling her eyes. “You’d think you’d have learned by now.”

Hector makes a thoughtful noise, “It’s endearing. If entirely ineffective.”

As they rounded the corridor into the main livings quarters, the soft scent of tea and fresh scones drifted to meet them, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of Ron and Ginny bickering, Neville’s gentle voice attempting to mediate, and Luna’s musical laughter weaving through it all like a dream.

Harry smiled at the sounds, his chest tightening not with stress, but with warmth.

The world outside of Harry’s home seemed to be on fire. 

Had been on fire since he killed Voldemort at least.

Everywhere they went, it was the same.

Crowds. Cameras. The blinding glare of magical flashes and enchanted recording quills scribbling out every word, every expression, as if Harry Potter owed the world a narrative. As if surviving Voldemort  -killing him- made him a spectacle, a figure to be paraded, rather than a boy who just wanted peace.

Parties littered the countryside and cities alike. Invitations flooded Grimmauld Place, Potter Manor, even Gringotts, as wixen society clamored to celebrate the defeat of the Dark Lord- as if they had any part in it. Politicians who had sat comfortably in their ivory towers now sought to align themselves with Harry’s name. Strangers reached out, suddenly claiming distant ties to House Potter, asking for favors, alliances, endorsements.

All of them conveniently forgetting that during Voldemort’s short but brutal reign of return, they had done nothing. The average witch and wizard had not suffered under the Dark Lord’s second rise… not in the way Harry had, or his friends. The terror, the loss, the pain- that had been theirs to bear. Not the Ministry’s. Not the Order’s. Certainly not the public’s.

Harry, who had endured betrayal after betrayal, had no patience left for fair-weather loyalty.

The so-called Order of the Phoenix had been exposed for its shortcomings the moment Hermione dug into its history- every lie peeled back with brutal precision. The way they had used children as pawns, withheld critical information, and operated under a hierarchy that ignored ethics in favor of Dumbledore’s greatergood. 

Hermione had torn through the Order’s legacy like a blade, and Harry had stood behind her without hesitation. Regardless of his parents’ past involvement, he would never doubt Hermione Granger. She had stood beside him since they were eleven -had bled and nearly died with him- and her judgment was unmatched.

She’d more than proven herself. 

All of his friends had. 

There was no one he trusted more than his godbrother, Luna, Ginny and his siblings-in-arms.

The public didn’t understand that. Didn’t want to understand it.

After a year of public scorn, abuse, and ridicule -being branded a liar, mad, and dangerous- Harry had no time for the sudden adoration. No patience for the sheep who had followed public opinion until it was convenient to switch sides. He had been the-boy-who-lied, and now they called him The-Boy-Who-Conquered. As if that title somehow absolved them of their silence.

Hermione always said that anyone who simply followed the masses was just an idiot in sheep’s clothing and Harry wholeheartedly agreed.

Ginny, for her part, made sure everyone knew exactly where they stood with her. 

She’d hexed five reporters in Diagon Alley for getting too close to Harry, cursed a gossip columnist’s quill into vomiting ink all over their own robes, and threatened to shove another’s wand somewhere unpleasant when they insinuated Harry owed the public a statement.

Hermione backed her at every turn, with the full force of her intellect and the legal knowledge she’d weaponized in Harry’s name. Restraining orders had been filed. Wards had been placed. And those who thought to use Harry for social or political gain found themselves on the sharp end of her wit- or worse, her spellwork.

Even Luna -Luna, who had always been calm, otherworldly, and wrapped in the neutral balance of a noble Seer- had opinions. And she had no problem withshowing said opinions in th emost bloodthirsty manner imaginable. 

Harry didn’t need to speak.

His family did it for him.

They stood as a shield between him and the world’s greed, and Harry, for the first time, allowed himself to rest behind it.

The goblin lawyers they’d hired years ago -sharp-minded, brutally efficient, and bound by ironclad oaths- were finally putting every single piece of carefully collected evidence to work.

Led by Chief Solicitor Ragnok, a veteran of the Goblin Legal Courts and notorious for never losing a case, the legal team was relentless. For years, they had quietly compiled records, testimonies, and magical contracts- all while the world was too busy jeering Harry to notice the quiet storm building beneath their feet.

Now, with Lord Harry Potter-Black officially emancipated, seated as the head of two of the most powerful Ancient and Noble Houses publicallly at least, and wielding the full legal and financial might that came with it, there was nothing stopping them.

The lawsuits were not only valid- they were devastating.

The Ministry was first on the list. They were being sued for criminal negligence, endangerment of a minor, obstruction of justice, and the mishandling of Harry’s trust vaults. Financial audits revealed embezzlement, illegal siphoning of Potter funds, and the unauthorized sealing of key properties Harry should have had access to since he was eleven. Heads of departments, past and present, were already scrambling for legal counsel, their names illuminated in damning detail on Grakthorn’s parchment.

The Daily Prophet was next - a libel and slander case so massive that even Rita Skeeter couldn’t spin a headline fast enough to deflect it. Years of false stories, public endangerment, and character assassination were laid bare. Their assets were already being frozen, goblin-run banks refusing them access pending the outcome of the lawsuit. Harry’s legal team had copies of every article, every manipulated photo, every editorial that painted him as unstable or dangerous… and now they’d pay for every single word.

Then came Dumbledore.

The beloved Headmaster, posthumously revered by many, had been the hardest pill to swallow. But not for Harry. Not for Hermione, who had traced the web of compulsions and binding spells laced through their lives like barbed wire. Not for any of the six, who had been used under the guise of a greater good that had cost them their childhoods, their safety, and nearly their lives.

The charges were sweeping- unlawful manipulation of a minor, magical coercion, withholding of key information, magical abuse, and misappropriation of family resources. Gringotts had confirmed it: Dumbledore had accessed the Potter vaults without permission, had orchestrated contracts and decisions that weren’t his to make, and had deliberately ensured Harry remained in the Dursley’s custody for years longer than necessary.

Which brought them to the Dursleys.

Harry’s relatives were being sued for child abuse, neglect, and financial fraud - not just for how they treated Harry, but for the stipends they received from Dumbledore for their care, which they had pocketed for over a decade while Harry lived in a cupboard and wore rags. Witnesses from the Muggle world had been gathered. Teachers, neighbors, even childhood classmates- their testimonies, along with medical records and magical scans of past injuries, painted a damning picture.

And now, the legal hammer was coming down.

They had waited long enough.

Through years of pain, war, and betrayal, Harry had remained silent, always taking the higher road, always turning the other cheek. But this was different. This wasn’t petty revenge- this was justice. It was accountability. And it was Harry taking back control of his story, his legacy, and his life.

He and his family- Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny, and Luna- had suffered too much at the hands of people who should have protected them. And now, as Grakthorn filed the final set of motions and the magical world braced for the storm to come, Harry felt the first stirrings of peace in his chest.

It wouldn’t fix everything.

But it was a damn good start.

“When are we going to deal with the lawsuit against Hogwarts?” Ron asks, in between mouthfuls of the pasta he was gouging on.

Harry gives Ron a look seeing as Hermione was seconds from smacking him in the face at his lack of manners. 

“Possibly soon. After all the bullshite we had to deal with over the years, we deserve some closure. Hopefully the professors don’t try to guilt-trip us,” Harry sticks his tongue out at the thought.

“You won’t be alone,” Hermione instantly retorts, waving a hand. “Grandfather would be furious with you, if he doesn’t join in on the drama,” She drawls and Harry can’t help but snort at the thought of the old man who didn’t look like an old man.

Ron’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, a strand of linguine dangling precariously as he blinked at Hermione. “Wait, you think Hector’s gonna join the lawsuit drama? Bloody hell, remind me not to be on the receiving end of that man’s temper.”

Harry chuckled, twirling his fork idly in his bowl, though the weight of the topic wasn’t lost on him. The idea of suing Hogwarts- the place that had once been his only sanctuary, the only home he knew-left a sour taste in his mouth. But after everything? The neglect, the manipulation, the constant danger... it was time. Time to stop romanticizing the place that had nearly killed them more than it had saved them.

“Honestly, the professors can cry about it for all I care,” Harry mutters, voice sharper than usual. “They let Dumbledore treat me like a chess piece. Not one of them ever thought to ask if I was okay. Except maybe Flitwick. And Sprout.”

“And Hagrid,” Ron adds quickly, swallowing loudly and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, earning a glare of death from Hermione. “Oi, what? You know he was always on our side.”

Harry’s scowl softens slightly. “Yeah. Hagrid’s... different.”

Hermione, ignoring Ron’s atrocious table manners with all the grace of a queen, nods. “We won’t target the ones who tried. This is about accountability, not vengeance. The Board of Governors, the Headmaster’s office- those who stood by and let Dumbledore isolate us, endanger us, keep critical information from us… they’re the ones we’re coming for.”

Ron looks down at his plate, poking at a meatball with uncharacteristic focus. “Reckon the castle’s gonna hate us after this?”

“The castle?” Hermione scoffs, leaning back in her chair. “Ron, the castle loves Harry. Hogwarts treats him like her child. Harry could burn the Headmaster’s office to the ground and Hogwarts would probably help him light the match.”

Harry smirks, “Tempting.” He murmurs, his expression softening at the thought of the sentient magic that formed Hogwarts.

“You should light it on fire at this rate,” Ron mutters and internally Harry kind of agrees.

Harry picks gingerly at the salad on his plate, carefully avoiding the richer dishes on the table. The leafy greens, cherry tomatoes, and lightly dressed cucumbers were safe; bland, refreshing, and, most importantly, not likely to make him heave. Ever since the final battle, his stomach had revolted against anything heavier than vegetables or sugary snacks. The mere thought of grease sent nausea climbing up his throat like a curse, clinging and choking. The first time he’d tried to eat roast chicken, he’d barely made it to the loo before vomiting up everything.

Hermione, always observing, always theorizing, had her suspicions. She'd posited it might be lingering trauma from the near-complete possession by Voldemort, a residual effect of the dark magic that had invaded his body and mind. Still, she had several other hypotheses scrawled out in her intelligent mind like it was a never-ending notebook. Most of her hypotheses involved obscure magical disorders, trauma-induced stomach hexes, and phoenix-tear side effects she hadn’t ruled out yet. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell her it was probably just stress…. and the fact that his body had gone through so much that it probably wasn’t entirely sure how to function anymore.

Across from him, Ron reached out without looking and dumped a generous helping of his own salad onto Harry’s plate, his attention absorbed by the front page of The Quibbler. The motion was so casual, so familiar, that Harry blinked at the pile of greens now threatening to spill onto the tablecloth. The warmth in his chest spread, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature or fire magic, but everything to do with the comfort of having such a good friend who noticed things about him, and quietly acted without fanfare. Ever since they’d begun sueing The Daily Prophet, every newspaper had been detailing the entire affair, including The Quibbler, that had the most unbiased opinons in their opinons. 

“Should we just mention,” Ron begins lazily, flipping to another page with a newly cleaned finger and a wicked grin, “-that between Hector and Harry, you both will own over half of The Prophet’s assets soon?” He shot Harry a sideways glance, clearly amused, before spearing a chunk of tomato like it had personally offended him.

Hermione didn’t even look up from her notebook, but a snort escaped her anyway. “Technically once the lawsuit is over…. sixty-two percent,” She corrects, scribbling something furiously. “And rising. The Prophet’s stock value plummeted again after that last article misquoting Kingsley. Honestly, if they weren’t already being sued, I’d consider suing them for sheer incompetence.”

Harry lets out a low laugh, pushing his salad around with his fork, though he felt lighter -almost smug- at the idea. The Prophet had painted him as unstable, dangerous, even deranged, for years. It was poetic, in a way, to now be in a position where he could dismantle their empire piece by piece. He might not be able to eat normally yet, but at least he could enjoy the taste of justice… and it was delicious.

“We might as well buy the whole damn thing once we bankrupt them completely,” Hermione grumbles, plopping more food into her mouth. As Heir Dagworth-Granger, Hermione had access to a fortune that rivaled Harry’s. Harry didn’t think there was really any family who could compete against the Peverell wealth though, a wealth that had been in Gringotts since the dawn of the bank’s very creation- a wealth he was privy to. Harry had taken up the Lordship in secret. He didn’t want another media-circus after all. 

The three of them were seated at a small, round table in the corner of an upscale restaurant in Diagon Alley- the kind of place where the cutlery shined like goblin silver and the prices weren’t even listed on the menu because if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. The ambiance was charming enough, with floating candles casting warm glows over polished mahogany tables and enchanted instruments playing a soft, classical tune in the background. But none of that mattered to them. Not really. They’d chosen it for the ambiguity and privacy. 

Although they should’ve expected not to find said a sense of relaxation even here.

Because the moment they stepped inside, it became a war zone in their minds.

They didn’t relax. They didn’t smile at anyone. They observed.

Ron, for all his relaxed posture and loud chewing, was fully alert, his gaze flicking toward the cluster of reporters huddled like vultures near the restaurant’s entrance. They were trying -and failing- to be discreet, whispering furiously and scribbling on notepads enchanted to instantly draft potential headlines. One daring soul had even raised a camera, only to have Ron, without so much as glancing up from his plate, casually drop his fork. 

Then, with a flick of his hand, he summoned it back wandlessly, his magic sharp and deliberate. The silver flashed through the air like a warning shot, and the sound it made as it smacked into his palm echoed just loud enough to be heard across the room.

Ron’s eyes locked on the reporters, narrowed and dangerous, the very picture of not today, you absolute gits. They scattered immediately, tripping over themselves to disappear into the crowd- like frightened ducklings being hunted by a very irate lion.

Hermione, meanwhile, had taken it upon herself to monitor the restaurant staff and the owners. Her gaze was razor-sharp, dissecting every movement the servers made, her posture radiating do something foolish, I dare you. Every step a waiter took, every whisper between kitchen staff, was catalogued and assessed for intent. The owners, a pair of primly dressed witches at the far side of the dining hall, seemed to visibly pale when Hermione locked eyes with them for a moment too long. 

She made it clear without speaking that if anything, anything happened that so much as hinted at impropriety, their restaurant would cease to exist in any meaningful way. As in her solicitors would be here within the hour, lawsuits prepared and magical contracts ready to ruin reputations and credit scores alike. That didn’t include how she’d burn this place to the ground, regardless of if the owners managed to escape or not. 

Hermione didn’t bother with subtlety either. With a flourish of her wand, she cast valid detection charms over all three of their dishes. The soft glow of diagnostic magicks danced over the food, ensuring there was no tampering, no spells, and no poisons. The magic pulsed bright and clean- untouched. Several nearby patrons gasped in affront at the blatant display, scandalized by the perceived rudeness of such a public accusation.

Hermione didn’t even blink. She didn’t care. In fact, she cast an extra charm on her butterbeer just because she could.

Harry, of course, had eyes on everything else.

His anxiety had long since morphed into hyper-vigilance. He sat with his back to the wall, facing the room with a tactical awareness honed from years of war and trauma. His gaze swept the restaurant with precise, methodical detachment, watching every patron, every shadow, memorizing all the exits, identifying which windows could be broken for an emergency escape.

His wand was out, not openly, but in his lap, fingers curled loosely around it, hidden beneath the tablecloth. His magic buzzed beneath his skin, coiled and ready to strike. His eerie Avada-green eyes glinted under the soft light, unnervingly intense, and people who locked eyes with him for too long quickly looked away, shaken. That gaze had once brought down Voldemort. It didn’t matter that they were here for lunch… Harry was ready to bring down anyone else if needed.

Their formation wasn’t just habit. It was survival. Each of them had their role, and the unspoken coordination brought them comfort. They didn’t trust the public- they couldn’t afford to. So they watched, waited, and dared the world to try them.

It wasn’t as if the three of them weren’t prepared to utterly decimate anyone who attacked them, but it made them all feel better to have denoted tasks. They weren’t kids anymore. They were soldiers. Hardened, ruthless, and still standing.

And Merlin help anyone who forgot that.

“Eat more Harry,” Hermione muses, eyes intent on her friend’s plate. Harry would never have a good relationship with food. For he’d been starved and abused the entirety of his life. Now and only now after being emancipated, was he able to have three regular meals a day. He said regular but what he really meant was regular for Harry Potter. He could never keep most of the food down though and it made him miserable to waste food. But, Hermione always had a stack of nutrition potions on her at any time. If she felt Harry hadn’t been able to eat any of the food she’d hand him a potion.

It had been this way ever since she’d found out tidbits about the Dursleys.

The Grangers' treatment of her wasn’t as bad as how Harry was treated but they were neglectful. They hadn’t even noticed guardianship of their daughter had transferred to Hector until a year later. Hector hadn’t been happy at all when the couple had suddenly demanded their daughter be returned to them. Yes, the Grangers definitely had wished they never messed with the man after Hector was through with them. Hector had taken on a very paternal role in Hermione and Harry’s lives- as such after Hector had visited them in Potter manor…. both had been very much grounded when he’d found out the lengths of pain they’d been through in their fifth year.

“Are we heading to the bank later? Mum and dad are waiting there to give their testemonies to what happened in Ginny’s first year. Ginny is just frothing at the mouth to get back at Dumbledore for the basilisk,” 

All three of them cringe at the memories Ron’s words bring.

Ron’s face twisted in a mix of resentment and guilt, his fork forgotten mid-air. “Mum’s furious. She’s ready to rip into the school board about how no one believed Ginny… about how no one did anything. Dumbledore just let her suffer-” His voice breaks off into a growl, knuckles white around his utensils.

Harry rubs at his scar- phantom pain or not, it ached every time they spoke of that year. The memory of Ginny’s pale face, lying still on the cold stone floor of the Chamber, haunted him more than he liked to admit. “He knew about the diary,” Harry mutters, voice low and bitter. “He knew something was wrong. He always knew. He just didn’t care.”

Hermione’s fingers clenches around the stem of her glass, eyes narrowed in cold fury. “And the fact that he let it happen again, year after year... Merlin, sometimes I think we only survived because we were too damn stubborn to die.”

Her voice shakes slightly at the end, but she catches herself, exhaled, and set her glass down with a sharp clink. “But yes,” She continues more steadily, “-we’re heading to Gringotts after lunch. Your parents are giving their testimony on Ginny’s possession, and the goblins will let the public and the entire Wizengamot know just how much Dumbledore concealed. Ginny’s part of this lawsuit too- and she’s been preparing for weeks. She’s… more than ready.”

“Yeah,” Ron mutters, shaking his head with a grim smile. “She’s basically frothing at the mouth to take Dumbledore down for the basilisk. She’s been reading legal texts for fun. I caught her practicing spells for intimidation tactics. Merlin help anyone who crosses her.”

Harry chuckles weakly, the sound more exhausted than amused, but real. “Remind me never to piss off Ginny.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “We all already know not to piss off Ginny. She’s been one bad day away from hexing half the Ministry.”

Ron grins, more genuinely this time. “Yeah, and she’d win, too.”

Hermione snorts at that, her eyes flickering to the faint, silvery scars etched across the back of her hand- constant, ugly reminders of what that despicable toad had inflicted on her, Harry, and far too many others. A sentence lived in those scars. A memory etched in skin.

Because when Harry got himself into trouble -which was often- she and Ron had always been right there beside him, ready to throw themselves into the fire. Loyalty was never a question. If Harry stood up and started a shouting match, Hermione was on her feet in seconds, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. Ron followed close behind, wand already out, face full of righteous fury. Umbridge hadn’t known what hit her.

Well, she had. It was them- over and over again.

Better your blood.

I must not tell lies.

I deserve to be punished.

Their dominant hands had bore the price. Hermione didn’t mind much. The scars looked… cool, in her opinion, a sort of badge of honor. But she worried about Harry. He hated them. Hated how people looked at him when they noticed. Even she and Ron didn’t know all of Harry’s secrets - not the ones buried deep.

They’d had to do a whole blood cleansing ritual to rid themselves of the curse the quill had caused them, otherwise who knows what could’ve happened to the three of them. They proceeded to do the same to any child who had suffered under the effects of Umbridge’s illegal Black quills. 

Hermione then, in turn, did not find any issue with the women succumbing to her death under charges of Centaur law. Hermione hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over it. As Umbridge had harmed a centaur child in the herd. 

Well…. Hermione had orchestrated the whole thing. Quietly. Calculating every move.

After months of gathering intel on the centaur herds, she'd allowed Umbridge to head into the forest that day, following the professor’s idiotic orders to hunt Dumbledore’s so-called “secret weapon.” Honestly, sometimes Hermione wondered if anyone in the wizarding world used their brain.

She of course felt terrible for the centaur child, who'd ended up with a large gash on his arm, but Hermione had saved the kid's life and healed his arm, leaving naught a scratch. In the end she had a boon from the centaurs and a dead tormenter of children in the process- so overall an incredible end.  

A win-win.

Due to Hermione and Hector having Nereid genetics, Hermione took it upon herself to study almost everything and anything about creatures she could. Not only for herself but for her friends as well. 

Nereids or Nereides were basically sea nymphs, if she were to explain in layman terms. It was the most likely creature-inheiritance she would get once or if she inheirited.

Based on Harry's luck, she was almost a hundred percent sure Harry would likely end up with some sort of obscure inheritance. Especially after what had gone done in the Ministry. 

Ronald also had the chance of inheriting as the Wealseys usually inherited as fire elementals of some sort. They hadn’t really met William nor Charlie, but Ron had informed them that all his brothers were creatures of some sort and he was expecting himself to inherit as well soon enough. 

As a human with a Nymph creature inheritance, she’d basically become extremely in tune with nature, likely appearing similar to her grandfather, who sometimes looked so ethereal, she'd always thought he wasn’t part of the same world she was in (even before she figured out the truth). Her grandfather lived because of the water he so adored. His estate on Earth was practically a palace of baths, waterfalls, and fountains. She loved visiting more than she cared to admit. Hermione was excited for the inheritance she knew would come soon. 

Inheritances occurred at the discretion of Lady Magic, however. So she just had to pray her Lady thought she deserved her creature sooner than later. 

They ended up leaving the restaurant half an hour later, with Ron packing away their leftover food. He shoved a large container into Harry’s hands, muttering something akin to, “keep your strength up, mate.”

As they moved to leave, they all felt the exhaustion of having to deal with strangers that weren’t a part of the small family they had formed over the years. They despised dealing with the cloying attention that clung to them wherever they went. 

The servers were desperately trying to gain favor with the heroes of the wizarding world but one raging glance from Ron and the three were left alone long enough for them to hurry their way towards the bank.

Harry looked seconds from hexing the next person who asked for his autograph. He also looked like he wouldn’t mind hexing Hermione herself as she couldn’t help snickering at the horrified expression Harry had every time it happened. 

The sheer horror on Harry’s face every time someone shoved a quill and parchment at him never got old.

“Stop laughing,” Harry groans, smacking her shoulder and it makes her snickers turn into full blown-out laughs. 

“You can’t blame her for laughing mate, the expressions you make are hilarious,” Ron drawls, his lips twitching upwards. 

“I don't like it when they stare at us like that,” Harry grumbles, tugging the container of leftovers closer to his chest like a shield.

“You’re just too pretty,” Hermione teases, and without hesitation, pulls him into a hug, that has Harry melting into her embrace with multiple grumbles.

Yup. That was their Harry. A deadly but most loveable little gremlin.

In a richly appointed study tucked away in the heart of a grand estate- the kind with stained-glass windows, endless bookshelves, and roaring fireplaces- several men sat in tense silence, each with a copy of The Wizarding Herald or The Magical Times clutched tightly in hand. The morning light filtered through the intricate stained-glass panes, casting vibrant patterns across the parquet floor, but none of the men paid it any mind.

The room was thick with disbelief, the kind that buzzed under the skin and refused to settle. It was early in the morning and the group of mates were staring at the newspaper articles in bafflement with probably the rest of the wizarding world. The only sounds were the occasional rustle of parchment, the crackle of fire, and the clink of glass as someone poured a stiff drink. The air was saturated with the scent of aged paper, ink, and the sharp tang of freshly opened firewhiskey, its golden liquid catching the firelight like molten sun.

The Daily Prophet, for all its history and infamy, had been conspicuously absent from newsstands for days now. And as they stared down at the headlines before them, it didn’t take a genius to guess why.

"Bloody hell," Muttered one of the youngest men in the mateship, raking a hand through dark, wavy hair as he stared at the bold, black-lettered headline emblazoned across the front page of The Wizarding Herald.

His voice broke the silence like a dropped wand in a dueling chamber.

LORD POTTER-BLACK UNLEASHES LEGAL ONSLAUGHT — MINISTRY IN PANIC, PROPHET IN RUINS, DUMBLEDORE LEGACY IN FLAMES.

Across from him, an older man- regal in bearing, dressed in pristine robes of midnight blue with the faint shimmer of a noble's sigil pinned at his chest- set his paper down with deliberate care. His mocha coloured eyes were sharp, calculating. “Interesting,” He murmurs, his voice low and refined, yet carrying an undeniable edge. There was something in his tone- respect, perhaps, but it was laced with wariness. “I never expected the young Potter to turn the tides like this.” 

Another snorted from his seat by the window, where morning light caught the edge of his silver-rimmed glasses. “Of course he would. The Prophet’s been after his throat since he was a toddler. Good on the boy for finally sinking his teeth in.” 

“I never thought he’d have the nerve,” The youngest in the mateship admits, flipping through pages filled with damning headlines and detailed legal records. “The Ministry’s bleeding, half the departments are under investigation, and the Prophet’s stock is in the gutter- the goblins won’t even allow investors to withdraw funds.”

“It’s impressive,” The drawl was in a moderate volume, but the voice it belonged to had the ability to silent any room, especially a room with all his mates in it. “Although he is so young. He shouldn’t have had to deal with any of that in the first place,” 

The room fell silent again, each person digesting that truth.

It wasn’t just about revenge, the eldest in the room thought, though there was plenty of that. No, Lord Potter-Black was dismantling the very institutions that had stood for centuries, their corruption left to fester because no one dared to challenge them.

Until now.

Another article headline drew his eye, and the corner of his lips twitch upwards slightly. 

GOBLIN TRIALS TO BEGIN — PUBLIC ALLOWED TO WITNESS PROCEEDINGS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HISTORY.

Beneath it, a stark image of Harry Potter in formal Lordship robes, standing beside his most loyal companions -Granger, Longbottom, Lovegood, and the two youngest Weasleys- all of them composed, untouchable, and devastatingly powerful. The caption read:  

THE CONQUEROR AND HIS COUNCIL: THE SIX WHO KILLED YOU-KNOW-WHO

No words were spoken for several long moments.

They didn’t need to be.

Because the message was clear- Harry Potter wasn’t a pawn anymore.

He was a King on the board.

And he had just declared checkmate.