Discord

August 3, 1993, 4:00 PM, Phoenix’ Roost

Gellert Grindelwald

Beyond his solar’s arched windows, winds howled, their distant wail a restless chorus against the silence of his solar. He supposed that it was to be expected.

He hadn’t personally taken to the frontlines since the attack on the Ministry to seize the artifacts. He truly hated leadership; being forced to sit in the safety of his headquarters while his men and women bled for the cause… It was unconscionable.

That wasn’t even mentioning how agitated he was starting to get. He needed to shake the rust off of his skills, and engage foes in battle! An old, childish part of him still wished he could defect to Dumbledore’s side, just so they could have duels as they did when they had been young men, ready to take on the world.

Oh, to be young and foolish once more…

His fingers grazed the stack of reports, its cold tingling, but his eyes were fixed on the oaken door, unblinking, waiting. Rafiq was late, and Grindelwald’s patience, honed by decades of war and betrayal, was not infinite.

He’d been expected hours ago, but the potential of conflict had been high, and so Gellert was patient. The man would come through for them, as he had with the Eye of Ra.

Still, it didn’t make him feel any less anxious, though he never let anyone else see it. The recent sabotage to his plan had cost him time, allies, and trust. Mulciber’s broken mind had confirmed Voldemort’s hand in this treachery, but the serpent nipping at his ankle was not his only foe. Dumbledore’s shadow loomed, as it always did, and now whispers of a renewed Alliance stirred once more.

Speeches of solidarity, of love of country, people and the world were given, and the people were roused.

Foolishness. They know not what nonsense they speak, led by their emotions and whims like sheep being led to the slaughter. Grindelwald thought. It was a shame— he did not want to spill more wizard blood than necessary, but they’d forced his hand.

No treachery, no foe, no one would stop him from his goal.

The door groaned open, a grating screech that echoed, pulling Grindelwald from his musings.

Rafiq staggered through, his dark robes shredded, blood seeping from a deep gash across his chest, staining the fabric blacker. His scarred face was ashen, sweat beading on his brow, but his dark eyes burned with a soldier’s resolve, unyielding despite the pain. Behind him, two of his enforcers dragged a bound figure; a hostage, cloaked in tattered grey, head bowed, hands chained, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

Another dropped two objects onto the table with a heavy thud: anchors, blackened and jagged, their surfaces shimmering with veins of charged silver, pulsing faintly in sync with the orb. Grindelwald’s lips twitched, a flicker of approval, but Rafiq’s wounds and the hostage’s presence sharpened his gaze.

“Report.” Grindelwald said, his voice low, resonant, slicing through the room’s hum like a blade.

Rafiq straightened, wincing as he pressed a hand to his gash, blood slicking his fingers.

“The Carpathian cache was secured, sir.” He said, his voice gravelly but steady, each word a labor. “Two anchors, as you see.”

“Oh, yes. I do.” Gellert nodded, smiling slightly. “Intact and quite potent, no less. And yet I see that all was not peaceful. Longling did not wish to part with their hoard?”

“Oh, no.” Rafiq said, shaking his head. “They were more than happy to, but the Alliance hit us hard— we’d not been expecting them, and they hit us hard. We lost Marek to their opening attack.”

“And you’re sure this isn’t a third party?”

“Reasonably so.” Rafiq said. “I would recognize the Carpathians’ hand in an attack like this. And it’s not any other group I’ve heard of— though newer and newer ones are now cropping up.”

He then nodded toward the hostage, who flinched under the enforcers’ grip. “This one we took alive. He seems an Alliance member, through and through.”

Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed, cold and piercing, shifting from Rafiq to the anchors. The Alliance— Dumbledore’s sanctimonious coalition, not the serpent’s or any other’s pawns. His mind churned, threading possibilities as it had since his youth with Albus, when trust was a lesson learned in blood. The Alliance being in the Carpathians was no accident.

How much did they know of his plans? Or was this Voldemort’s game, leading the Alliance by the nose to weaken him over time? The man, of course, could claim ignorance, and there would be nothing Grindelwald could do to gainsay him.

Gellert stepped closer to the anchors and placed his hand against one. It was warm to the touch. Its power was raw but incomplete; he’d hoped for three, which would have been enough to stabilize the ritual.

Still, two was better than none. Besides, Rafiq’s wounds told of a brutal fight, so he should be happy the man was able to get this much.

“Who led them?” Grindelwald asked, his tone deceptively calm, circling the table.

Rafiq shook his head, a grimace twisting his scars.

“No clear leader, sir. But they had local intelligence. Hit us at the cache’s edge, knew the terrain. We barely held them off.” He coughed, blood flecking his lips, and steadied himself against the table, the anchors’ glow reflecting in his eyes. “The hostage was casting shields, protecting their flank. Might know who gave the orders.”

Grindelwald’s gaze snapped to the hostage, a thin man with matted hair, his cloaked form trembling, eyes darting like a trapped animal’s. The man’s fear was palpable, and Grindelwald’s lips curved, a predator’s smile, cold and fleeting.

“I will get answers out of this wretch.” Grindelwald said before turning towards Rafiq. He studied the man, noting his resilience despite the gash, the blood loss. Loyalty was rare, and Rafiq’s was iron, forged in battles far older than this war.

“You’ve done well.” Grindelwald said, his voice softer, a rare concession. “The anchors will serve. Get yourself and the men to the healers— now. We will make arrangements for Marek.”

His tone brooked no argument, and Rafiq nodded, bowing stiffly, his bloodied hand leaving a smear on the table as he turned. “Then I take my leave.”

Grindelwald waved a hand, and two guards entered, taking the place of Rafiq’s enforcers, who followed their leader out for some well deserved healing and rest. The guards tightened their grip on the chains, making their captive whimper.

“Take him to the cells.” He ordered, his voice hardening. “I’ll join you there, shortly.”

The guards dragged the man out, his boots scraping the stone, and Grindelwald turned back to the anchors, their glow tantalizing in its power. The ritual would hold.

Two would be enough; it had to be. He moved towards the window and stared out at the grounds. He saw his people drilling incessantly, as they had been instructed to weeks before. They were preparing for the endgame— his endgame. Their efforts would not be in vain.

Best not waste time then. There’s a prisoner to interrogate.

It didn’t take long to reach the cells, their slick stone walls glistening with damp, the air heavy with mildew and the sour tang of fear. A single torch sputtered in its sconce, lending to the atmosphere of despair emblematic of places such as this. Here, despair and fear were Grindelwald’s ally, more so than pain.

Fear would hopefully make this fool talk, and if not…

Entering the cell, Gellert stood before the Alliance hostage. His mismatched eyes bored into the prisoner, a thin man kneeling in chains, his matted hair plastered to a sweat-slick brow, his grey cloak tattered from the Carpathian ambush. The man’s breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale a plea he dared not voice.

Grindelwald’s lips curved, a smile cold as the winds howling beyond their walls. His superiors knew something, and he intended to find it. The hostage was a thread, fragile but vital, and Grindelwald would unravel it. His fingers tightened on his wand, its power humming.

“I will give you a chance to speak and be rewarded for it.” Grindelwald said, his voice smooth, laced with menace, cutting through the chamber’s damp silence. “Who sent you to the Carpathians, and why?”

He tilted his head, studying the man’s trembling form. The hostage’s lips quivered, his voice a hoarse rasp, barely audible over the chains’ clink.

“I… don’t know. Orders came from above— patrol the area, stop raiders. No reasons, just… urgency.” His eyes darted, wide with panic, sweat beading on his pale face, and he shrank back, the chains rattling as he tugged uselessly. “We weren’t told why, I swear!”

Grindelwald’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowing to slits.

This much, he already knew by the state of things.

Lies, or useless ignorance— neither served him. He stepped closer, the air growing colder, the torch’s flame flickering as if cowed.

“You expect me to believe your masters sent you there, blind?” He murmured, his tone deceptively soft. “No orders on any targets? Just an innocent patrol through a sparsely populated area? Surely there was something?”

“That’s all I know, I swear!”

“The Alliance doesn’t stumble into my operations by chance. You leave me no choice, as I no longer have the time to waste.” Gellert said in disappointment before raising his wand, its tip hovering an inch from the man’s forehead, and whispered. “Legilimens.”

His mind surged forward, a storm breaching a crumbling dam, tearing into the hostage’s thoughts. Images flashed; hurried briefings in a dimly lit tent, commanders barking orders, faces blurred, no names spoken. Patrol the Carpathians, secure the caches, watch for any magical power surges.

The man’s fear was a jagged pulse, his memories fragmented, but Grindelwald pressed deeper, seeking the source. A shadowed figure loomed in one memory, cloaked, authoritative— but almost familiar. The image frayed, dissolving into static, and the hostage screamed, a raw, animal sound that echoed off the walls, blood trickling from his nose, staining his cloak.

Grindelwald withdrew, his breath steady, his wand lowering. The man slumped, gasping, chains clanking as he sagged against the stone.

So the fool was telling the truth. Ignorance was the Alliance’s shield to his plans— his superiors had ensured it, spending the man’s life as one would spend Knuts; frivolously.

This also gave further confirmation to his conclusions after Mulciber’s interrogation. His enemies were indeed being sent to places to thwart his plans, and so he would need to adjust accordingly to throw them off of his true trail. Perhaps an extra campaign or two?

The thought of potentially spending the valuable lives of his own people galled him, but there didn’t seem to be another path forward. Grindelwald’s jaw tightened.

“Sir, please…”

“I didn’t say you could talk.” Gellert ground out harshly, and the man huddled in the corner, too afraid to say anymore. Gellert, growing weary of this fool’s mannerisms, raised his wand to end it, but stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps.

The cell door creaked open, a harsh scrape, and Vanessa stormed in, her auburn hair wild, cascading over her shoulders like a flame. Her dark eyes blazed, her fists clenched, her leather armor scuffed from recent patrols.

The hostage flinched at her entrance, but she ignored him, her gaze locked on Grindelwald, fury radiating like heat.

“You took Kai.” She snapped, her voice trembling with rage, heedless of the chamber’s weight. “He was mine, Gellert. I dragged him here, planned to break him myself, and you snatch him for your ritual?”

Her words were a lash, raw with betrayal, a lover’s scorn as much as a lieutenant’s.

Grindelwald turned, his expression stone, his wand still in hand. Vanessa’s passion was her strength, but her defiance was a spark he’d not tolerate.

“I’ve analyzed the boy. Kai is vital.” He said, his voice cold, unyielding, each word a hammer. “His magic will serve as an anchor to the nexus.” He stepped closer, towering over her, his eyes boring into hers, and she flinched, her fury flickering but not extinguished. “I have humored your indiscretions, my friend, but not this one. I cannot leave things to chance.”

Vanessa’s jaw tightened, her hands twitching as if to strike, but she held his gaze, her breath sharp.

“You don’t trust me.” She said, quieter now, a wound beneath the anger. “After everything, you take my prize and give me orders like a dog.”

Her voice broke, and she stepped back, her boots scuffing the damp stone, the torchlight catching the sheen in her eyes.

“That is not what I said. I trust you with my life.” Grindelwald said, his tone softening, a calculated shift. “But I’ll give you the chance to prove that I can trust you with the boy’s. Guard him. Everything depends on him.”

He gestured to the door, a clear dismissal, and Vanessa stiffened, her anger a smoldering ember. She nodded, a curt jerk, and strode out, the door slamming behind her, its echo swallowing the hostage’s whimpers.

He stifled a wince— he had not handled that well.

The whimper of the prisoner took his attention again, and Grindelwald turned to him. He gave the man a regretful look. “I’m afraid that you’ve heard too much. I was going to keep you prisoner, but should the worst occur and you escaped, well… I can’t abide that.”

“No, please!” The man immediately begged. “I’ll… I’ll join you!”

“Loyalty is never borne out of fear, young man.” Grindelwald said, shaking his head. “What is your name?”

“M-my name?”

“Yes.” Grindelwald nodded. “Your name. I wish to know the name of the man I am about to kill, who to send his remains to.”

“Ple— please…” The man’s pleas died in his throat, and Grindelwald watched the light dim in his eyes, and a hard look slowly enter them as blood continued to seep out of his nose, pooling in the cracks in the stone. “My-my name.”

Grindelwald nodded again.

“My name is Luca Bianchi.” He said slowly.

“And do you have any last words, Luca Bianchi?”

The prisoner, Luca, raised his eyes to meet his own, and for the first time, Grindelwald was surprised by their intensity. “Fuck you.”

“Hmph.” Grindelwald nodded, the ghost of a smirk on his face as he raised his wand, its tip steady and glowing green. Luca met it with a solid stare.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light flashed, sharp and final, and the hostage crumpled, chains rattling, his body still against the cold floor. Grindelwald exhaled, the air heavy with death’s aftertaste. He waved for the guards to come in.

“Take him— his body is to be treated with respect.” Grindelwald said as his followers got to work. “A good death; that is all any of us can hope for.”

“Sir.” The guards nodded and took the body of their dead prisoner away.

He stood motionless, his wand warm in his hand, his mind racing for a few moments before he stilled it. He needed to be clear to his purpose, and to that end, he needed to meet with his lieutenants.

Pressing his wand against the patch on his shoulder, he activated it and made his way back to his solar. Before long, he reached the main chamber of the manor, with Matthias joining him.

“I just finished speaking with Diallo.” Matthias said.

“And?”

“Almost ready.” Matthias said. “One or two more sessions.”

“Good news.” Grindelwald smiled as they ascended the stairs towards his solar. “You’ve done well, my friend.”

“Thank you, Gellert.” Matthias said, smiling back before his expression turned to one of curiosity. “And your summons?”

“All will be explained.”

“Of course. Forgive my presumption.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Matthias.” He said as they entered his office. Several people were already there. Grindelwald’s eyes swept over the lieutenants ringed around the dais, their faces a mosaic of loyalty and unease— Rafiq, bandaged but unbowed, his chest wound a dark stain; Ai Xiu, her black braid tight, her gaze steady; others, less certain, shifting in their robes.

Vanessa’s absence was a silent wound, her fury over Kai’s seizure still raw.

The Alliance’s ambush had cost them Marek, who’d been a shoe-in for lieutenant, given another mission or two, and the hostage’s broken mind had revealed only fragments— vague orders, no names, though the man behind it almost seemed familiar to him.

He knew it wasn’t Dumbledore’s hand, but someone else he’d faced— the uncertainty gnawed at Grindelwald, a splinter in his vision.

He pressed a hand to an anchor, its warmth searing through his palm, its pulse syncing with his own, but the discord lingered, a shadow in the rhythm. His lips tightened, a rare flicker of doubt, and he banished it, his gaze hardening.

The lieutenants waited, their breaths deep and calm. Grindelwald’s voice, when he spoke, was clear, commanding every ear.

“The anchors are sufficient, I’m pleased to say.” He said, his words echoing off the sigils. “We integrate them on Friday, which will stabilize the nexus by month’s end. The ritual will hold on Halloween, and it will not be able to be stopped.”

Ai Xiu nodded, her voice crisp, a soldier’s certainty. “The anchors are potent, sir. Silver infused with Dragon’s blood, pure. There was a surge, last night, from the southwest.” Her eyes flicked to Rafiq, then back, and Grindelwald’s jaw clenched. The southwest— perhaps, where Voldemort moved to stir things up once more. Or could it have been Clarke’s doing, however unlikely? The boy’s power was a wildcard, almost a mirror to his own ambition, and the thought tightened his grip on his wand.

“It matters not.” Grindelwald said, his tone low. “Whoever’s doing this— their actions may disrupt our plans, but not so much that they will halt them altogether. The British so-called Dark Lord is a threat, true, but not our ultimate focus.”

He stepped to stand behind his desk, the light shining the silver streaks in his hair. “The Alliance’s strike was no accident. Their orders were vague but had a specific target. This suggests a mind guiding them.”

His eyes flicked to Rafiq, whose bandaged form stood rigid. “We assume nothing.”

A sub-lieutenant, a wiry man named Torvald, shifted, his voice hesitant. “Sir, if the Alliance Ministries are involved, if they’ve caught wind of the surges— ”

He faltered under Grindelwald’s gaze, a glacier’s weight, and swallowed, his robe creasing as he shrank back.

“And what proof have you of this?” Matthias said, and Torvald didn’t have anything to say. “A shame. As far as we know, they are not aware of our machinations beyond seeking powerful artifacts. Perhaps one or two people have sussed out our intent, and yet they have not seen it fit to share with the others.”

“There’s another possibility, of course.” Grindelwald suggested, getting everyone’s attention. “The interfering parties have not sussed out our exact intent, and are operating blindly. One correct guess on their part may not mean that the remainder of their guesses are.”

“Indeed.” Matthias echoed the sentiment. “Our enemies are groping in the dark, or perhaps they are not as allied as they’d like us to believe.”

“True.” Rafiq coughed, a wet sound, and spoke, his voice strained but firm. “The Carpathian raid cost us, sir, but the anchors are worth it. Marek gave his life for it.”

“And may his sacrifice be remembered.” Grindelwald said, expression somber as he turned to the anchors, their pulse steadying under his touch. “These anchors were purchased with his very lifeblood. We will not let it go to waste.”

He turned back to his lieutenants. “We cannot let doubt or distrust stop us now. I won’t let his sacrifice be for nothing.”

“Hear, hear.” Matthias said, and the sentiment was echoed by the remainder of the lieutenants.

“Your support heartens me.” Grindelwald said, smiling for a brief moment before his war face came back on. “Then we’re all agreed. We stealthily fortify the nexus, accelerate preparations. The native boy— Kai— his magic is our key.” He paused, his gaze distant, recalling Vanessa’s fury, her claim to Kai.

The boy’s unique power would bind the anchors and he would serve as the ultimate channeling vessel, but Vanessa’s defiance was a risk, one he’d leash.

“Vanessa guards him.” He continued, his voice hardening. “She’s to fortify his cell, ensure his compliance. No mistakes.”

Ai Xiu frowned, her braid shifting.

“Vanessa’s… unsettled, sir. Kai was her prize. If she’s not fully with us— ” She stopped, sensing the shift in Grindelwald’s eyes, a storm gathering, and lowered her gaze.

“Vanessa will obey.” Grindelwald said, his tone final, his wand tapping his palm, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Or she’ll learn the cost. We’ve all tolerated her quirks to a point, but we have to draw the line somewhere, yes?”

The lieutenants stiffened, looking as if they wanted to share their own experiences with Vanessa, but kept their peace. Nodding, he turned back to the anchors, their veins pulsing, and his mind drifted, unbidden, to Dumbledore— Albus’s voice, soft and warning, on the battlefield, speaking of trust’s fragility.

He banished the memory, his jaw tightening, and faced the lieutenants, his voice a clarion.

“On week’s end, we bind the anchors.” He said, taking his seat. “Xiu, oversee the runic inscriptions; your expertise there will be invaluable. Rafiq, coordinate patrols— wounded or not, you’re needed. You can work from a desk, I presume?”

Rafiq nodded, his face pale but resolute, blood staining his bandages. “Much as it galls me to do paperwork, I will do as asked.”

“My apologies, friend.” Grindelwald pointed to his own stack of untouched reports. “I know the feeling of restlessness all too well, but consider it a break from all the excitement— you are wounded, after all.”

“Would that I had a much younger body, I would recover all the faster.”

“True of us all.” A ripple of cheer passed through the group; much needed. He turned his gaze to everyone else. “The rest of you, prepare for resistance and drill the recruits accordingly in all of our foe’s tactics— British, French, Spanish, Italians, it matters not. We will claim what’s ours, before long.”

The lieutenants bowed, their robes rustling, and filed out. Matthias, ever Grindelwald’s right-hand, remained with him in the aftermath.

“We are so close, my friend.” Gellert said, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes. “And yet things can shift in someone else’s favor with the snapping of one’s fingers.”

“I will have a word with Vanessa.” Matthias promised, understanding what the man was getting at. “Unstable as she is, she has proven to be a reasonable person.”

“And if she remains unreasonable?” Gellert threw the man a look. “She is a very powerful witch. Stronger than you, by far, still.”

Matthias smiled. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Hm.”

oooo

August 3, 1993, 5:30 PM, Grimmauld Place

Adam Clarke

I sat on a creaking chair, my ebony wand warm in my hand, its weight a steady anchor as Professor McGonagall stood before me, her stern face softened by the focus in her sharp eyes. I tried to focus, but the void’s hum was a faint pulse in my chest, restless after the recent disaster.

Withering that chair, blood dripping from my nose, my visions— they clung to me, a nagging weight I couldn’t shake. My white eye ached almost in response, a dull throb, and I gripped the wand tighter, forcing my attention to McGonagall.

Focus.

“As you’re beginning to understand it, Transfiguration in battle is not mere spellcraft, Adam.” She said, her voice crisp, cutting through the room’s silence. She adjusted her spectacles, her emerald robes rustling, and pointed her wand at the teacup. “It’s more akin to philosophy— precision, intent, reshaping reality under duress.”

With a flick, the cup shimmered, morphing into a sparrow that flitted to the light fixture above, its wings a soft blur. “A stone to a shield, a twig to a blade. Control, not chaos.”

Her eyes met mine, piercing, as if she saw the void’s shadow in me.

I nodded, swallowing, and raised my wand, aiming at a quill on the table.

“Mutatio.” I muttered, focusing on a dagger’s shape, sharp and sleek. The quill trembled, its feathers curling, then snapped into a blade, but its edge was uneven, wobbling. The void stirred within me, tempting me to unravel the quill entirely, like I had with the chair. I clenched my jaw, pushing it down, and McGonagall’s lips pursed, her wand correcting my spell with a flick, the dagger’s edge sharpening.

“Intent, Adam.” She said, her tone patient but firm. “Your mind is not focused enough. In battle, such hesitation will lead you to your doom.”

She stepped closer, her heels clicking on the warped floorboards, and we debated transfiguration’s adaptability— its precision versus raw power, its ability to turn a foe’s weapon against them. I tried again, turning a candlestick into a buckler, its surface gleaming, but my focus frayed again.

Still, McGonagall did not stop the lesson, though the practical demonstrations ended as she took another route. She presented me with challenges to help with the honing of the mind. Thought exercises to keep the mind sharp, mantras to hone its focus to an edge, and the like.

She stayed for an hour, altogether.

“There is much for you to learn, still, but you have the basics down, at least.” She said, packing her notes, her eyes softening. “Always remember that the basics are everything. Without the discipline needed, you will fail. Remember that, Mr. Black.”

“Thank you, Professor.” I said. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Black.” She gave me a smile as she stood to leave. “The Headmaster returns to the school this evening.”

“Oh!” I said with a nod. “Please, give him our regards.”

“Of course.”

Her heels echoed as she left, the door creaking shut, and I sank into the chair, the room’s silence heavy, the chandelier’s light dimming. Alone, I stared at the dagger I’d transfigured, its blade glinting.

Why even bother with this when I can unleash the void and unmake anything I touch?

I shook my head. The void was like wildfire, unpredictable, dangerous. It couldn’t be reliably used without killing everything around me.

“It’s functionally useless.” I muttered as I stood, the chair creaking, and picked up the dagger, its weight solid, real. McGonagall’s philosophy echoed— control, intent, reshaping reality. I wasn’t wasting time; I was building a foundation, a way to fight without losing myself.

I pushed open the kitchen door of Grimmauld Place, the familiar creak of its hinges blending with the warm, savory scent of shepherd’s pie wafting from the scarred oak table. The room glowed under the soft light, the air heavy with the comfort of home-cooked food and the faint must of old wood.

Shaking any residual feelings off, I focused on the scene before me: Harry, Sirius, and Remus at the table, their voices a lively hum.

Harry looked up, his green eyes bright behind his glasses, a grin splitting his face, pie crumbs dusting his chin.

“About time, Adam.” He teased, waving a fork. “Thought you’d be turning teacups into chickens all night.”

Sirius chuckled, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his laugh rough but warm, like gravel smoothed by a river. He leaned back, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the table’s scars mirroring his own. Remus, beside him, offered a tired smile, his greying hair catching the lamplight, his face etched with quiet strength despite the weariness in his hazel eyes.

“Dragons are next week.” I shot back, smirking as I slid into a chair across from Harry, placing the dagger on the table. “This week was a dagger.”

“Oh?” Harry took it, examining it as I began to help myself.

The table was laden with Kreacher’s pie, its golden crust steaming, flanked by a pitcher of orange juice and mismatched plates. I grabbed a plate, the ceramic cool, and scooped a portion, the pie’s rich aroma— beef, onions, a hint of thyme— grounding me.

Sirius leaned forward, his grin sly.

“You look wiped out. McGonagall give you hell?” He asked, pouring juice, the liquid glugging into my glass.

“Yeah.” I said, cutting into the pie, its crust flaking. “Teacups to sparrows, quills to daggers. Philosophy, she called it— control, reshaping reality. More like a way to live than just a school of spells to learn.”

I took a bite, the flavors bursting, warm and hearty.

“Reminds me of James.” Sirius said, catching Harry’s attention with that one. “He always was one to make things sound grand— must’ve gotten it from McGonagall.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s where he got it from.” Remus said flatly as he gave Harry a wink. Laughter filled the air, at that, and Remus followed by turning his attention to me.

“Control is good.” Remus said, his voice soft but steady. He sipped tea, the cup’s steam curling, his tired eyes meeting mine. “You’re learning fast, Adam. That’s what matters.”

His words were a lifeline, and I nodded, gratitude warming me. Remus always knew what to say, his quiet strength a balance to Sirius’ fire and Harry’s spark.

Harry nudged me, his grin softer now.

“Remember when Ron tried transfiguring the Twins’ socks?” He said, his voice light. “Ended up with a pile of dung.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “They must not have been happy about that.”

“They made his week miserable.” I said, nodding. “I remember.”

Another laugh was shared between us. I leaned back, my plate now half-empty as I took a sip of my orange juice.

Remus set his teacup down, the ceramic clinking softly, and cleared his throat, his voice low, steady, cutting through the kitchen’s fading warmth.

“There is something you all need to know.” He said, his eyes flicking to me, then Harry, then Sirius. “You two are young, true, but the world will not wait for you to grow up, unfortunately.”

Silence met his words, and then I spoke. “All right, hit us with it.”

Remus nodded. “The underground’s restless. Werewolves, mostly— they’re moving oddly, not like their usual packs. It’s organized, purposeful, like someone’s stirring them from the shadows.”

He frowned, his fingers tracing the cup’s rim, the lamplight deepening the lines on his face.

I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth, the pie’s taste souring. Werewolves, organized? My mind flashed to Voldemort.

“Voldemort?” Harry’s words echoed my thoughts, and his voice was tight.

“That is the strongest suspicion, yes.” Remus said. “But it’s different than before. Greyback’s attacks are reckless and sloppy. This is coordinated. I’ve heard whispers from contacts— werewolves gathering in the north. No names, no clear leader. It’s either a new player, or an old one hiding well.”

“Things really are getting bad, aren’t they?”

“I’m afraid so, Harry.” Remus said, and he looked regretful as he shared a look with Sirius. “We agreed that we wouldn’t keep these things from you— both of you.”

“I appreciate that.” I said, patting Harry on the shoulder. “I know your instinct is to keep us away from danger, but this isn’t something we can run from. We need to be ready.”

“Well said.” Sirius said and leaned forward, his chair creaking, his voice rough but firm. “If Voldemort’s moving, or some new bastard, we need to know.”

His eyes locked onto Remus. “Your contacts— can they dig deeper? Names, places, anything?”

Remus nodded, his fingers stilling on the cup.

“I’ll reach out.” He said. “But we need to be careful. The underground’s volatile, and if Voldemort’s involved, he’s playing a long game.”

“Don’t take any risks, this time.” Sirius said. “I’d rather have you with us than lost in some information gathering quest. Yeah?”

At that, Remus smiled before clasping Sirius on the shoulder. “I can do that.”

Moments later, Kreacher popped in, desserts flying around him. “Dessert for the Masters.”

I grinned, heartened by the prospect of sugar. “Just what we needed. Thank you, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher is glad to serve.”

War was looming, but for now we could be with each other. And that was enough for me.