Unexpected Offer

May 30, 1993, 8:00 AM, Phoenix’ Roost, England

Nick Guffries

Nick Guffries stood in the training yard of Phoenix’s Roost, the morning Sun already beginning to bear down with an oppressive heat. Sweat beaded along his forehead and traced thin rivulets down his neck, soaking into the collar of his training shirt.

The heat was becoming relentless, but Nick paid it no mind. There were more important things to focus on.

His wand moved with the level of familiarity only an expert could.

Each spell was a calculated strike— a Reductor curse that shattered the dummy’s shoulder, followed immediately by a Piercing Hex that left a smoking hole where the chest would be. The practice dummy, enchanted to withstand multiple forms of magical assault, became a tattered mess of charred fabric and magical scorch marks.

Years of pent-up anger, of grief and revenge, translated into each of his strikes. Where once he might have been wild, unfocused, now every motion was deliberate. His failed attack on Lockhart at Christmas had taught him discipline; it had shown him that rage without control was worthless.

His muscles burned. Sweat ran down his spine, creating a slick trail between his shoulder blades.

A lesser man might have paused or sought shade or water, but he continued, his breath measured, his focus almost as absolute as the fury lurking beneath his skin.

“I think you killed him.” A voice lightly cut through his concentration.

Nick turned, his wand still gripped tightly, sweat glistening on his skin. Diallo stood a few paces away, a thin, sardonic smile playing across his dark features. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight, obsidian eyes taking in Nick’s perspiration-soaked form with an almost amused detachment.

“What are you doing here?” Nick frowned, his voice carrying an edge of suspicion.

Diallo’s shoulders lifted in a casual shrug.

“Just walking. Saw you practicing.” He nodded toward the decimated practice dummy. “Perhaps you’d prefer an actual partner? Might be more challenging than a defenseless target.”

A smirk tugged at Nick’s lips. The frustration of his morning’s practice, the lingering sense that he was still not quite good enough, found an outlet in Diallo’s challenge. He was feeling restless, and still very much angry— and a harsh training session might be exactly what he needed.

“Fine.” Nick said, sliding his wand into a more defensive grip. “Let’s see what you can do.”

The packed earth of the training yard felt hard and unyielding beneath their feet. Nick and Diallo moved to each end, creating a wide, clear space between them.

“Shall we…?”

In response, Nick’s wand flicked almost imperceptibly. A bolt of crimson energy erupted from its tip, streaking toward Diallo with viper-quick speed. Diallo’s response was instantaneous— a quick gesture, and the spell dissolved into a shower of sparkling red motes.

Dust kicked up around their feet as they circled each other, both eying each other like a predator would prospective prey.

Diallo launched a series of spells that seemed to materialize from the air itself— razor-sharp projectiles of pure magical force that twisted and curved mid-flight. Nick’s body was already moving, keeping his movements as economic as he could. A slight twist of his shoulder, a quarter-step to the left, and the spells whistled past him.

His counterattack was a rapid sequence— a Jutting Curse that erupted from the ground beneath Diallo’s feet, followed immediately by a Cutting Hex aimed at the other wizard’s casting arm. Diallo rolled, the ground where he’d stood moments before exploding into a crater of churned earth and stone.

Their duel continued, a furious exchange where the only sounds were the sharp displacement of air and the occasional crunch of disturbed ground. No incantations broke the silence, no shouted spells— just pure, focused magical intention.

Diallo paused after a few minutes of this, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his bald head.

“Impressive.” He said. “Where did you learn to fight like this?”

Nick’s response was clipped. “I’ve had plenty of motivation.”

Diallo’s dark eyes held understanding. The story of Nick’s father was now well-known among their ranks— a tragedy born of Gilderoy Lockhart’s casual cruelty.

Their magical exchange reached a fever pitch. Nick’s wand traced intricate patterns in the air, each movement generating spells that crackled with deadly energy. Diallo matched him strike for strike, their magical combat a symphony of near-misses and deflected attacks.

“Indeed you’ve been motivated, but…”

With an unexpected flourish, Diallo slashed his wand.

The ground beneath Nick’s feet trembled. A spell erupted from below— a concussive force that felt like it was rising directly from the earth’s core. Magical tendrils of force twisted and spiraled, targeting Nick’s legs with surgical precision. The ground itself became a weapon, a living extension of Diallo’s magical intent.

Nick felt the spell’s impact before he fully understood it. His legs were swept from beneath him with brutal efficiency, his body launching backward. Time seemed to slow. Dust billowed around him, catching the sunlight in sharp, crystalline motes. His back struck the packed earth with a jarring force that knocked the breath from his lungs.

Yet even in that moment of vulnerability, Nick refused to give in. His wand hand moved independently of his falling body, instinct and muscle memory working in perfect synchronization. A searing spell burst forth— a lance of pure magical energy that cut through the air with venomous intent, aimed directly at Diallo’s center mass.

Diallo’s response was swift, almost panicked. He shifted his weight to the left, forcing himself to keep his balance while pushing himself as far away as possible. The spell passed beside him, close enough that he felt it scorch his eyebrows.

In the same motion, without breaking his stance, Diallo leveled his wand. His dark eyes locked onto Nick, a hint of professional respect in his gaze. The Stunning Spell left his wand like a whispered promise.

Darkness claimed Nick instantly.

Consciousness returned in fragments. First, the dull ache spreading across Nick’s back where he’d hit the ground. Then, the heat— still oppressive, still pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Diallo’s silhouette blocked the Sun, creating a sharp contrast of light and shadow.

Sweat glistened on Diallo’s bald head, tiny droplets catching the sunlight. His dark eyes regarded Nick with a mixture of assessment and true respect.

He extended his hand.

Nick clasped it, letting Diallo pull him to his feet. The ground shifted slightly beneath him, and he worked to steady his breathing.

“That last spell.” Nick said, rotating his shoulder. “Unexpected from you— interesting technique.”

Diallo’s lips quirked. “Developed it from a trick I saw Clarke use. Useful when your opponent thinks they know where the next strike will come from.”

Nick brushed dirt from his training clothes, ignoring the name for now. “Effective. Nearly broke my spine— would have, if we weren’t practicing on soft terrain.”

“Yes, it would have.” Diallo agreed. He paused, something calculating entering his gaze. “I’m putting together a squad. Elite unit. Senior Officer Vanessa’s selecting the members.”

Nick’s eyebrow raised. “The Russian Rogue? What’s she got planned?”

Diallo’s laugh was sharp, unexpected. “Don’t let her hear you call her that. She doesn’t appreciate the nickname.”

“An elite squad.” Nick repeated, more a statement than a question, completely ignoring Diallo’s advice.

Diallo nodded. “She’s putting together something special. Picked operatives from different backgrounds. People with… motivation like yours. Your name popped up.”

Nick’s mind drifted to Adam, to the recent papers showing him allied with Lockhart. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“So? Interested?” Diallo asked, reading something in Nick’s momentary silence.

“What’s the mission?” Nick countered.

“Can’t discuss details yet. But we’re targeting key infrastructures. Destabilizing certain magical networks.” Diallo’s dark eyes held Nick’s gaze. “Well? I can tell you’re just chomping at the bit.”

Nick thought of his father. Of Lockhart. Of the years of pain compressed into a single, burning desire for revenge. “When do we start?”

A thin smile crossed Diallo’s face. “Tomorrow. Our new training begins at dawn.”

Nick took Diallo’s hand, sealing the agreement. Whatever Adam was doing, whatever path he had chosen— it didn’t matter. Nick’s purpose remained singular, unchanging.

Even if I have to kill that stupid child. Nick thought, the resolve settling into him like cold steel. I will not let anything stop me.

Family. Honor. Revenge. These were the things that mattered.

Nothing else.

oooo

May 30, 1993, 11:30 AM, Hogwarts Express (En Route)

Adam Clarke

The rolling hills of Scotland blurred into streaks of green and gold as I stared out the train window, completely lost in the view.

The Sun had risen high, casting small shadows across the rugged landscape, where sheep dotted the fields like scattered pearls. A narrow river snaked through a valley below, its surface glittering with the light of the Sun.

Here and there, clusters of trees leaned into the wind, their bare branches reaching toward the sky like jagged, ink-black veins against the blue horizon.

The rhythmic clatter of the train was a steady backdrop, but my thoughts were quiet for once. Everything— the battles, the chaos, even my victories— faded into the periphery as I soaked in the beauty outside. The air felt still, even though we were rushing forward. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been staring. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.

“Did you know?” Ron’s voice suddenly broke through the haze, pulling me back into the compartment. I blinked, adjusting to the warm, bustling hum of life around me. Ron was leaning forward, animated, explaining something to Hermione.

“The Improper Use of Magic office—” He said, waving his hands for emphasis. “The twins reckon it’s been completely wiped out!”

Hermione’s eyes went wide, her book dropping slightly in her lap.

“Destroyed? How?” She demanded, her voice tinged with a mix of horror and fascination.

“Grindelwald’s lot, I suppose.” Ron said with a shrug, as though it was obvious. “They were targeting everything. Maybe it was just part of the distraction?”

“Hard to say.” I said.

“You already knew?” Ron said in surprise before shaking his head. “Of course you knew; you know everything.”

I smiled. “Knowing everything’s no fun. No, Fred and George actually told me a bit ago. The place is destroyed— their equipment apparently was so old that no one knows how to re-apply the enchantments.”

I glanced at Hermione, watching the gears turn in her head as she processed the implications.

“So…” She began, a note of disbelief creeping into her voice. “If that’s the case, then that means… we could use magic over the summer?”

Her shock gave way to dawning realization, and her face flickered with something rare— unrestrained glee. But it was short-lived. She quickly composed herself, sitting up straighter. “That doesn’t mean you two can go running amok with your wands! You still have to be—”

“Oh, come off it, Hermione.” Ron interrupted with a knowing grin. “You’re way too excited to pretend to care about the rules right now.”

I chuckled, and Ron caught my eye, smirking. “Right, Adam? Look at her. She’s dying to give it a go.”

“Yeah, just give it up, Hermione.” I grinned. “You don’t fool us.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, and she stammered. “That’s— that’s not true! I just think it’s important to—”

But her flustered tone only made us laugh harder. She folded her arms and turned to the window, pretending to be irritated, though the slight upturn at the corner of her lips betrayed her.

The laughter in the compartment ebbed away, replaced by a somber quiet that none of us wanted to acknowledge. The weight of everything— the attacks, the destruction— hung in the air like an invisible fog. The Improper Use of Magic office wasn’t gone because of some bureaucratic mishap; it had been wiped out in Grindelwald’s assault on the Ministry.

The realization crept in slowly, but once it settled, it was impossible to ignore.

So much for a quiet ride.

“Are we even safe?” Hermione asked, her voice small, the usual confidence in her tone dimmed by uncertainty and fear for herself. She was twisting the edge of her sleeve in her fingers, a nervous habit that betrayed how deeply the question troubled her.

“‘Course we are.” Ron said, leaning back in his seat as if he could shrug off the tension with his posture alone. “They’ll have everything sorted by now. Besides, Hogwarts is still the safest place there is.”

I nodded, adding my agreement.

“Ron’s right. They’ll be on top of things. You know how the Ministry is— quick to rebuild and all.” The words felt hollow even as I said them. I didn’t believe them, not entirely.

I did, however, see Hermione’s soul thread— Hermione’s being a faint, iridescent shimmer that danced delicately in the air— settle into a more subdued rhythm. It was far less agitated than before, and for now, that was enough.

If it helped her feel better, then I could live with the pretense.

The tension eased as the conversation shifted to safer ground. A few lighthearted exchanges later, Hermione launched into an enthusiastic explanation of her newest book, waving it around as she described some obscure magical theory.

Her eyes sparkled as she talked, completely absorbed, while Ron slumped lower in his seat, wearing an expression that screamed he’d rather be anywhere else. His occasional nods and noncommittal “Mhm”s only made it funnier.

“I’m going to grab some snacks.” I said, cutting in before Hermione could launch into another tangent. “What do you guys want?”

“Anything with chocolate.” Ron replied instantly, perking up at the mention of food.

Hermione barely glanced up from her book. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” I said with a shrug, sliding open the door. The corridor outside was a welcome change of scenery. The rhythmic hum of the train felt different here— more alive, with the muted buzz of distant chatter and the occasional rumble of footsteps. I stretched as I walked, glad to be moving again. Sitting for so long had left me feeling restless, like my limbs didn’t quite know what to do with themselves.

The air smelled faintly of warm metal and aged wood, and the light filtering through the windows cast long, golden stripes across the floor.

I moved through the train car, weaving past groups of students chatting in clusters, but there was no sign of the trolley lady. The familiar jingling of her cart was missing, and when I asked a younger student, they pointed a few cars down. With a quick thanks, I made my way toward the next compartment, navigating the narrow aisles as the train swayed gently.

I found the trolley lady two cars down, her cart laden with a colorful assortment of sweets and snacks. The scent of sugar filled the air, mixing with the warm, metallic tang of the train. She looked up as I approached, her face lighting up with a welcoming smile.

“Afternoon, dear. What can I get for you?” She asked, her voice as kind as ever.

“Two packs of Chocolate Frogs, please.” I replied, glancing briefly at the rest of her cart before deciding against any extras.

“Good choice.” She said, reaching for the frogs and placing them on the counter. “Still popular, even after all these years. That’ll be six Sickles.”

“Don’t think good chocolate will ever lose popularity.” I fished the coins out of my pocket, dropping them into her outstretched hand.

“Of course, of course.” She said as she handed me the chocolate. “Run along now, young man!”

“Will do. Thank you.” I said, pocketing the frogs. “Have a nice day.”

“To you as well.” She added, already moving to help the next student in line.

I hummed, giving her one look over my shoulder as I headed back toward my compartment.

The walk back was uneventful at first. I passed a few familiar faces, exchanging nods and the occasional smile. But as I rounded a corner, I collided shoulder-first into someone. The student was older, and I felt myself shoved aside.

“Watch it!” A voice snapped.

I looked up and immediately recognized him. Blackthorn. His sharp features were twisted into a sneer, and his dark eyes glinted with disdain.

“Still haven’t learned how to walk properly, Clarke?” He said, his voice dripping with mockery.

“Still bitter about losing to a child, Blackthorn?” I shot back without missing a beat.

Blackthorn’s sneer deepened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “Enjoy it while you can. People like you don’t stay lucky forever.”

I held his glare, my tone calm but cutting. “Neither do people like you. Maybe you need another object lesson as to who’s the more powerful wizard? I’d be glad to teach you.”

For a moment, it seemed like he might say more, but the fear in his eyes which he attempted to hide was apparent. He simply scoffed, turning sharply on his heel and striding off down the corridor. His robes swished as erratically as his soul thread; the fool likely thought he was making a grand exit but his gait couldn’t manage it.

I watched him go, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease as he disappeared into the next car. With a sigh, I adjusted my grip on the chocolate frogs and kept walking. 

Blackthorn was just another problem to deal with eventually— but not today. Today, I had more important things to focus on.

Still, as I walked back toward the compartment, the memories surfaced unbidden. Blackthorn’s grudge against me wasn’t born from anything noble or meaningful. It all came down to a kiss— a kiss that hadn’t even meant anything substantial.

Ophelia had been grateful, and that was all. Hell, I’d barely even seen her over the past few months.

I’d pulled her out of danger when Quirrell’s schemes had nearly cost her her life the year before, and in her own dramatic way, she’d decided to thank me. The kiss had been her idea of a reward— a fleeting, impulsive gesture that caught me completely off guard. It hadn’t meant anything to me, and I was pretty sure it hadn’t meant much to her either.

But Blackthorn had heard about it, because it hadn’t taken long for the story to spread like wildfire through the school. Being the jealous, prideful fool that he was, Blackthorn had blown the entire thing out of proportion. To him, it was more than a kiss. It was some kind of affront, an insult to his imagined claim on Ophelia.

I could still remember the way he’d confronted me that time in the forest, attacking me for thinking I was better than the other students, and accusing me of stealing what he perceived to be his.

That hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. Blackthorn’s mistakes had cost him dearly, and it was clear he hadn’t forgotten.

The entire situation was laughable in hindsight. Blackthorn’s obsession, his vendetta, his need to turn a meaningless kiss into some grand tragedy— all of it was so painfully ridiculous. He wasn’t important. He never had been.

Still, I had to remember to send Greengrass a gift of sorts. I never did bother to thank her properly, instead training her as well as I could, at the time. Though, that was also paltry, in hindsight.

I needed to do better.

I shook my head, forcing the thoughts aside as I reached the door to my compartment. Blackthorn and other base considerations weren’t worth my time, not now. There were bigger things to worry about— things that actually mattered.

I slid the compartment door open, stepping back into the familiar warmth of my friends’ chatter. Ron perked up immediately at the sight of the Chocolate Frogs in my hand.

“About time!” He said, grinning as I tossed half the frogs onto the seat next to him.

“Patience, Weasley.” I said with a smirk, settling into my spot across from him. “Good things take time.”

Ron was already tearing into a package, the crinkling of cardboard and foil loud enough to make Hermione glance up from her book.

“Honestly, Ron.” She said, frowning as he wolfed down the chocolate. “You could at least try to enjoy it instead of inhaling it.”

Ron shrugged, grinning through a mouthful of chocolate. “Tastes the same either way.”

I chuckled, letting the familiar rhythm of their bickering distract me from the lingering irritation Blackthorn had left behind. Hermione, still clutching her book, leaned forward, her expression shifting to something more academic.

“Adam.” She began. “I’ve been reading about the Reductor Curse. It’s fascinating, really—  it focuses magic into a concentrated blast capable of breaking solid objects. But—” She hesitated, her cheeks pinking slightly. “I think I need some help with it. It’s a bit more advanced than I thought.”

I nodded, recognizing the spell immediately. “It’s useful, but tricky. You don’t want to miscast it. Trust me.”

She tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “Why? What happens if you miscast it?”

“Well.” I said, leaning back against the seat. “You could end up with a lot more destruction than you planned. Say you’re practicing at home, and instead of just blasting the target, you take out half a wall. Even with Reparo, your neighbors might notice.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Exactly.” I said, smirking. “So if you’re going to practice it, make sure you’re somewhere remote. No neighbors, no walls, no accidental redecorating.”

Ron, still chewing on his second frog, chimed in. “Sounds like it’d be fun to test on Malfoy.”

Hermione shot him a disapproving look. “It’s a Curse, Ron. You can’t just go around using it on people.”

Ron shrugged, grinning. “Not people. Malfoy.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Focus on learning it first, Hermione. Leave Malfoy to Ron’s daydreams.”

Not that I think Ron could take Malfoy. I thought. With what that kid’s facing, I don’t doubt that he’s training hard every day of the week.

The conversation flowed easily from there, the weight of earlier tensions gradually fading as we talked. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep my mind off everything else— at least for a little while.

The conversation carried on, but I couldn’t shake an odd sensation— like a faint pressure against my side. At first, I thought it was just the way I was sitting, but as the minutes ticked by, the feeling didn’t go away. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me.

I reached into my robe pocket, my fingers brushing against something unfamiliar. It felt like parchment.

Frowning, I pulled it out and glanced at it. My stomach flipped when I saw the crest stamped on the envelope— a wreath of dark thorns encircling a rose. The Blackthorn family seal.

What was this about?

I stared at the letter, my mind racing. Why would Blackthorn— or, more likely, his family— send me something? I hadn’t seen him slip it into my pocket, which meant he must have done it exactly as he’d shoved me earlier. 

But… the seal made no sense. Blackthorn himself wouldn’t use his family’s symbol; he’d just scribble a note and toss it at me. This… this was deliberate. Formal.

Negotiation, maybe? A warning? No, that couldn’t be it.

Blackthorn Junior wouldn’t piss on me to save my life.

My fingers twitched around the parchment as I debated whether to open it right then and there. But no, that would be foolish. Ron and Hermione hadn’t noticed it yet, and I intended to keep it that way. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something to deal with in a crowded train car.

Sliding the letter back into my pocket, I forced myself to focus on the conversation again, though my thoughts lingered on the mystery. Whatever this was, I’d deal with it later— at Grimmauld Place, where I could go through it safely, away from prying eyes.

This was truly going to be an odd summer, wasn’t it?

I leaned back in my seat, forcing a casual calm I didn’t quite feel. Outside the window, the landscape continued to roll by in shades of green and gold, the train carrying us steadily closer to London. My fingers brushed my pocket absently, where the weight of the letter seemed heavier than it should.

Between Grindelwald’s schemes, the aftermath of the League of Nine, and now this strange missive from the Blackthorn family, I had a sinking feeling that “odd” might end up being an understatement.