The gravel crunched as the last car pulled away down the drive. Engines faded. Voices disappeared with them. Moonstone Dunvegan settled into a brief, echoing quiet.
Vernon remained where he was.
Harry noticed it only when he turned to follow the others and found a large hand closing around his wrist—not rough, not painful, but firm enough to stop him.
"Harry," Vernon said.
Something in his voice made Harry turn fully. Vernon's face had gone pale beneath his moustache, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on Harry's with an intensity that didn't belong to casual curiosity.
"Stay a moment," Vernon said. "Just you and me."
Harry didn't resist. He waited.
Vernon glanced once toward the empty drive, as if making sure they were truly alone, then looked back at Harry. His shoulders were squared, but there was a faint tremor in his hands that he hadn't quite managed to hide.
"Harry," he said again, slower this time. "What did you do in Azkaban… that night?"
The question landed harder than any accusation.
Harry stilled.
For a fraction of a second, he considered deflecting. Redirecting. Saying something vague enough to soothe but not satisfy. It would have been easy. He'd done far worse things without blinking.
But this was Vernon.
His father who loved him even if he wasn't his own son. Harry lifted his eyes to meet his father's.
Vernon swallowed. "Be honest with me, son," he said, his voice cracking despite himself. "Did you kill the Death Eaters?"
The word son made the choice for him.
"Yes," Harry said quietly. "I did."
No embellishment. No justification. No apology.
Just truth.
Vernon staggered back half a step, as though the air itself had struck him. His hand came up to brace against the stone balustrade, fingers digging into the cold surface.
"You—" He stopped. Breathed. Tried again. "All of them?"
Harry nodded once. "All of them. Except Bellatrix."
The silence that followed was raw and heavy.
Vernon's chest rose and fell too fast. Fear was there—naked and unmistakable—but it wasn't alone. Anger coiled alongside it, sharp and protective and helpless.
"You're twelve," Vernon said hoarsely. "Twelve years old."
Harry didn't argue. He didn't look away either.
Vernon's voice rose despite his effort to control it. "Do you have any idea what that means? What you're saying to me right now?"
"I know exactly what it means," Harry replied evenly.
That was what frightened Vernon the most.
There was no tremor in Harry's voice. No uncertainty. No visible weight pressing down on him. He wasn't proud—but neither was he haunted. It was as if he were discussing the weather, or a solved equation.
Vernon clenched his fists. "Did you feel anything?" he demanded. "Guilt? Fear? Regret?"
Harry replied. "Why should I feel guilt or regret for taking out the worst criminals of the society, dad?"
Vernon flinched—not at the words themselves, but at how reasonable they sounded.
Too reasonable.
Harry's voice hadn't risen. It hadn't hardened. It was calm in the way of someone stating a principle he had already tested and accepted.
"They were a threat," Harry continued, steady as stone. "Not abstract. Not theoretical. They would have gone back to their ways the moment they were out of Azkaban. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next year. But they would have."
He lifted his eyes to Vernon's, green and unblinking.
"I did what I had to do to stop innocent people from dying by their hands again."
For a long moment, Vernon said nothing.
Then his jaw tightened, teeth grinding faintly beneath his moustache. "That's not how justice works," he said, though the words lacked conviction. "You don't get to decide who lives and who dies."
Harry didn't argue.
He simply replied, "Someone already had. The system decided to keep them alive despite knowing exactly what they were."
That hit harder than any shout.
Vernon's breath stuttered. "You're talking like an executioner," he said. "Or a general. Not a boy."
Harry absorbed that without protest. "I didn't enjoy it," he said. "And I didn't hate it. I didn't feel anything because feeling wasn't relevant in this case."
"The world doesn't need saving," he said.
Vernon stilled.
"It's not broken in a tragic way," Harry continued calmly. "It's broken in a mechanical one. Cause and effect. Pressure and response. If something keeps producing the same damage, you remove the component."
Vernon's jaw tightened. "You're talking about people."
Harry nodded once. Just once.
"Yes."
There was no heat in his voice. No anger. No righteousness. That was the part that chilled Vernon the most.
"I'm not here to be a hero," Harry went on. "Heroes hesitate. They hope things change on their own."
"I'm not naive enough to be like that."
He met Vernon's eyes again, steady and unflinching.
"The world doesn't need mercy applied blindly," he said. "It needs problems to stop existing."
Silence crashed down between them.
Vernon felt it then. Not fear of magic. Not fear of power. But fear of certainty. Of a child who had already decided what lines mattered... and which ones didn't.
Harry wasn't asking permission.
He was stating a fact.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The noon sun was high on the harbor. Cranes stood frozen like titans mid-prayer, and beyond them—dwarfing everything—loomed the ship.
The Nexus Icon.
Even seasoned dockworkers had gone quiet.
She wasn't merely large. She was impossible. Her hull stretched longer than most city blocks, layered in midnight-blue alloy that drank in light instead of reflecting it. Gold letters saying Nexus Icon were etched along her sides. Twelve decks rose like terraces of a floating palace, crowned by observation domes and gardens that shouldn't have survived salt air but did anyway.
Ten thousand passengers.
Not counting crew. Not counting staff. Not counting the parts of the ship no brochure would ever acknowledge.
Reporters packed the press platform, notebooks open, cameras clicking, microphones raised. Newspapers from across Britain were present. Shipping analysts. Luxury travel critics. A handful of early digital hobbyists with clunky camcorders and homemade "online magazines." No one quite understood how a previously unknown company had built this or how it had done so without even letting a single rumor leak outside.
They were about to find out only the surface truth.
A series of cars rolled in, ranging from sleek black Rolls, and Bentleys to a few Ferraris, Lamborghini's and Porsches.
The Parkinsons arrived with quiet authority. Percival sharp-eyed and composed, Amaryllis serene, Pansy already scanning the crowd like a general surveying a battlefield. The Greengrasses followed, elegance and restraint wrapped in old money confidence. Edmund's gaze lingered on the ship with something like reverence; Adorabella smiled knowingly. Daphne and Astoria stood close together, holding hands. Harry arrived next in the McLaren F1 which was already pulling every eye there to it, Abigail got out from the other side and they both walked up towards the others, holding hands.
The Lovegoods came next—Pandora radiant, Xenophilius already muttering theories under his breath, Luna gazing at the ship with unblinking fascination, as though she could see layers others couldn't.
The Weasleys arrived laughing, bright, unmistakably new to wealth but wearing it with comfort rather than greed. Arthur stared openly. Molly pressed a hand to her mouth. Bill grinned like a man looking at the future and liking what he saw. The twins, Ron and Ginny followed them, along with Victor who had driven them there.
The Grangers were quieter, despite arriving in the Porsche. Dan and Emma exchanged looks that said this isn't normal and we're going to need to redefine that word. Hermione stood ramrod straight, eyes burning with questions she wasn't asking yet.
Then the Dursleys and Sirius.
Vernon and Petunia stepped out of the Silver Spurr along with Sirius and the trio made their way towards the platform.
The Tonks family arrived last among the Nexus leadership. Ted and Andromeda kept a straight face as they got out of the Bentley and made their way towards the platform. Nymphadora on the other hand watched the security perimeter with professional interest.
Cameras snapped harder. Reporters leaned in. Both professionals and personal. They all looked at the people gathered in the platform, not knowing that this was not multiple families coming together for a project but rather a single clan.
Victor approached the podium first, voice smooth, practiced. "Ladies and gentlemen. Members of the press. Distinguished guests. Today marks the launch of a new chapter in global travel."
Polite applause.
Percival stepped forward.
It stopped.
Not because he demanded it—but because something in him made noise feel inappropriate.
"This project was not built overnight," Percival continued. "It represents collaboration—between families, industries, engineers, designers, and visionaries. Nexus exists to redefine what is possible when innovation is not strangled by fear."
He gestured once.
The ship's running lights ignited in sequence, a slow cascade from bow to stern. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
He stepped aside as Edmund Greengrass took his place.
"Travel has always reflected power," Edmund said calmly. "Who may move. Who may see the world. The Nexus Icon was designed to challenge that assumption, not publicly, not loudly, but structurally."
A reporter shouted, "What powers this titan?"
Sirius's lips curved faintly.
"Custom-built," he said. "Based on a dual-fuel concept. Extremely efficient."
No one noticed the name Wärtsilä 31DF wasn't spoken.
No one could have understood that the engines below deck were running at a theoretical perfection that violated multiple laws of thermodynamics—held together by magic layered so precisely it behaved like physics. Moreover an engine that wasn't even supposed to exist yet.
Magic, Harry would quietly recharge every six months.
Next came Dan Granger, as he stepped forward with confidence.
"I can tell you this ship in theory was so hard to complete, that we nearly gave up." he said, adjusting the microphone. "Capacity of hosting 10,000 people without counting the staff and the crew is a staggering number."
He hesitated, then added honestly, "That alone should tell you this wasn't built by cutting corners."
That drew real applause.
Vernon stepped forward next.
"The Nexus Icon," he said smoothly, "is a world-cruise vessel. Fully certified. Fully staffed. Designed for global operation. She will sail continuously, adapting routes, cultures, and experiences without sacrificing safety or sustainability."
Then Ted jumped in, "Let's not bore you with anymore talk. It's time for the launch."
With a nod from everyone, the girls pressed the button to activate the sequence.
Lights rippled across the Icon's hull in a slow cascade. Deck by deck, she woke. Beneath the waterline, engines came alive—not with a roar, but with a deep, steady hum that resonated through the harbor like a held breath.
The sea trembled.
The ship moved.
Smooth. Effortless. As though the ocean itself had decided to cooperate.
Cheers erupted. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted over one another.
But those who knew, those standing closest to Harry, weren't watching the ship anymore.
They were watching him.
Because while the world saw a corporate launch led by multiple families and polished executives. They knew the real truth, of how a 12 year old crafted the entire ship in just two days, yet he had stayed away from even giving out a single sentence.
Nexus had launched its icon, and the world applauded, unaware of how thin the surface of that truth really was.
Sirens sounded. Ropes were cast free. The Nexus Icon eased away from the pier with glacial patience, her mass obeying forces that should not have been enough. Water parted cleanly along her hull, no strain, no protest. Even the harbor seemed to yield, waves smoothing themselves as she passed.
On the press platform, reporters shouted questions that went unanswered. Who financed it? How long did it take? Where was it built? Names were written down. Faces catalogued. Narratives already forming about old money backing new vision, a coalition of families, a bold but explainable miracle of engineering.
They would argue about it for weeks.
Behind the cordon, among the families, no one spoke.
Percival watched the ship with the satisfaction of a man who had placed a cornerstone exactly where it needed to be. Edmund's expression was thoughtful, already measuring second- and third-order consequences. Sirius smiled like someone who knew the rules had just shifted. Dan Granger exhaled slowly, as if only now allowing himself to believe it was real. Vernon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, eyes never leaving the ship.
Harry stood quietly among them.
Several hours later, night settled over Moonstone Dunvegan like a held breath finally released.
The living room, more like the great hall had been transformed. The walls and architecture had disappeared and space had been unfurled in silent majesty, thanks to Harry's illusion. Stars burned cold and sharp. Nebulae drifted in slow spirals. planets turned with stately patience, their rings casting soft prismatic light across the gathered crowd.
Music threaded through it all—warm, lively, human. Laughter rose and fell in waves. Glasses clinked. Platters floated past on elf-guided trajectories, stacked with food that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Nearly thirty house-elves moved with delighted efficiency, proud and glowing in their work.
This was celebration without restraint.
Vernon stood with Arthur and Ted near a long table, drinks in hand, arguing cheerfully about engineering versus magic. Molly laughed loudly nearby, flanked by Andromeda and Pandora. Sirius held court near the center, grinning like the world had finally remembered how to be kind. Percy discussed logistics with Victor. Edmund and Percival spoke in low, satisfied tones—men who understood that tonight marked a turning point.
Children darted between adults. Daphne and Pansy danced near the edge of the illusion, pointing out constellations that shouldn't have been visible from Earth. Luna lay flat on her back, staring upward as if listening to the stars hum. Hermione argued with Bill about orbital mechanics. Ginny laughed, spinning Abigail around until both were breathless. Ron and the twins along with Percy seemed to be planning something.
And Harry sat on one of the far couches.
A butterbeer bottle rested loosely in his hand, unopened. He hadn't noticed when it had been pressed into his palm, and he hadn't moved since. His gaze was fixed on the moon—not the real one beyond stone and wards, but the illusion hovering above them, serene and distant.
He looked… empty.
Not sad. Not tense. Just quiet in a way that didn't belong to the noise around him.
Abigail noticed first.
She slowed mid-laugh, eyes narrowing slightly as she tracked his stillness. Without a word, she slipped away from Ginny, grabbed a bowl of ice cream from a passing tray, and padded over.
She climbed onto the couch beside him without asking, legs tucked beneath her, spoon clinking softly against porcelain.
"Harry," she said around a mouthful of ice cream. "You're being weird."
He huffed softly. Not a laugh. Just air.
"What's wrong?" she asked more gently.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes never left the moon.
"I don't know," he said at last. "That's the problem."
Abigail frowned. "But today was… huge."
"I know Abby." His voice was calm. Too calm. "The Icon launched. Everything worked. People are happy."
"So?"
"So I thought I'd feel something." He tilted the bottle slightly, watching the liquid slosh inside. "Pride. Relief. Satisfaction. Anything."
"And you don't?"
He shook his head once. "It's like checking off a task. Necessary. Done."
Abigail stared at him. "That's… not normal."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm aware."
He leaned back, eyes finally lowering from the moon to the illusion of distant stars beyond it.
"I'm happy that everyone else is happy," he continued. "Genuinely. I just—" He paused, searching. "I don't feel finished. And I don't even know what I'm unfinished with."
Abigail scooped another spoonful of ice cream and held it towards Harry, who took it without holding back. "Maybe you're just tired. Or maybe you're just thinking about the gateway being shut down."
"Maybe."
She studied him for a long moment, then bumped his shoulder with hers. "You don't always have to fix things, you know."
Harry looked at her then and smiled.
He reached out and ruffled her hair gently, fingers warm against her curls. "Go enjoy the party, Abby" he said softly. "You're supposed to be having fun."
"But..."
"I'll be fine, Abby. I have something to do."
She hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but nodded anyway. Sliding off the couch, she cast one last look over her shoulder before rejoining the others.
Harry watched her go.
Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist—
The stars vanished.
Space folded in on itself without drama, without light. The moon dissolved mid-orbit. In its place, water rushed in.
The hall transformed.
Not an illusion laid over reality, but something that felt like displacement. The air thickened. Blue light filtered down from an unseen surface above. Schools of fish glided past, scales shimmering. Coral structures bloomed along the walls, vivid and alive, anemones swaying gently as if in a current no one could see.
A collective gasp swept the room.
People reached out instinctively—and found substance. Cool water against skin. The textured ridges of coral beneath fingertips. A curious fish brushing past an outstretched hand. Yet it was all just an illusion.
Laughter erupted again, louder now, edged with wonder.
Harry stood.
He took it in for a moment. The awe, the joy, the way the world reacted when something impossible was made gentle.
Then he turned away and disapparated without a sound.
Harry appeared in the Dursley Mansion's living room without so much as a whisper of displaced air. The house was quiet—peacefully so, the wards humming at a familiar, domestic pitch rather than the alert tension of Moonstone Dunvegan.
He exhaled once, slow.
"Moppy," he called softly.
With a gentle pop, the house-elf appeared in front of him, dressed neatly, hands folded, eyes bright. He bowed deeply.
"Master Harry called for Moppy?"
Harry smiled, real this time. "Could you bring some of the food from the celebration? And… a good bottle from the cellar. Red."
Moppy's ears twitched with delight at being useful. "Of course, Master Harry." He hesitated, then asked dutifully, "Shall Moppy inform..."
"No," Harry said gently. "Please don't tell anyone."
Moppy nodded at once. "Moppy understands."
He vanished.
Seconds later, he reappeared, balancing a generous platter of food in one hand and a dark glass bottle cradled carefully in the other. Harry took both with a quiet murmur of thanks.
"Thank you, Moppy."
Moppy beamed, bowed again, and disappeared.
Harry turned and walked down the corridor, the platter and bottle levitating behind him with lazy precision. He stopped at a door on the ground floor, unassuming, reinforced, warded in ways that spoke of care rather than confinement.
He knocked twice.
Then opened it.
"Aunt Bella."
Bellatrix Black looked up from her book.
She was seated on a couch by the window, legs crossed, posture relaxed. Her hair was pulled back loosely, dark and glossy rather than wild. Her eyes—once fever-bright—were sharp now, lucid, watching him with warmth that didn't burn.
She smiled. Small. Genuine.
"Harry," she said. "You're late."
"Had to escape my own party, my dear aunt" he replied mildly as he stepped inside.
He set the platter and wine on the low table and dropped onto the couch beside her, leaning back with a faint sigh. Bellatrix marked her page and closed the book, turning it so he could see the cover.
Advanced Arithmantic Structures: Recursive Wards and Anchors.
Harry raised a brow. "Light reading."
She huffed softly. "You left it lying around. I was curious."
"That's dangerous," he said dryly. "You sure, you won't get an aneurism, reading that?" he teased her.
She chuckled, "I'm fine, thank you." She nodded toward the food, "Successful, I take it?"
"It is," Harry said. "Nexus Icon launched today. Smoothly. No disasters. No explosions. Very boring."
"Pity," she said, reaching for a burger. "Explosions add character."
He poured the wine with a flick of his wrist, handing her a glass with a smirk. "That's what I always say."
"People are happy," he added after a moment. "That part went exactly as planned."
"And you?" Bellatrix asked, studying him over the rim of her glass.
Harry shrugged. "Functional."
She didn't push. Bellatrix had learned when silence was more useful than questions.
She took a sip of wine, hummed approvingly. "Good choice. Old. Properly aged."
"Thought you'd appreciate it."
"I do." She glanced at him sidelong. "You vanished rather dramatically, you know."
"I tend to do that a lot."
"Yes, I noticed," she agreed. "It's become a habit?"
They ate for a few moments in companionable quiet. Outside, the wards shimmered faintly as the night settled in.
Finally, Bellatrix spoke again, her tone casual. "You're thinking about the gateway."
Harry didn't bother denying it. "Something shut it down. Cleanly. Decisively."
"And you don't like being told 'no.'"
"No," he said simply. "I don't."
She nodded, unsurprised. "Still… you came here instead of tearing reality apart. That's progress."
He glanced at her, amused despite himself. "High praise. Maybe I'm just bidding my time before I do it?"
Bellatrix smiled, softer now. "You did well today, Harry. Whether you feel it or not."
They ate in silence after that, the kind that didn't press or demand to be filled. When the last of the wine was poured and the platter stood empty, Harry lifted his hand once, casually.
The dishes vanished without a sound.
He stood.
Bellatrix noticed immediately.
Harry moved to the center of the room, positioning himself deliberately, feet planted, shoulders squared. No wards flared. No defenses rose. He simply stood there, still as stone.
Bellatrix's expression changed.
The warmth drained from her eyes, replaced by something sharper—older. She set her glass aside and rose slowly from the couch.
"…Harry," she said, carefully. "Are you certain?"
He nodded. "Yes."
Her jaw tightened. "You don't need to do this."
"I do," he replied. "And you know why."
She stepped closer, studying him as if looking for any sign of doubt. "It will hurt," she said quietly. "Not metaphorically. Not philosophically. It will be painful. Very painful."
"I know," Harry said. "I'm counting on it."
Bellatrix exhaled through her nose, frustration and something like fear flickering across her face. "Then reconsider," she urged. "One last time. There are other ways."
Harry met her eyes, unflinching. "I've already reconsidered. But this is the best method, and you know that Aunt Bella."
She searched his face, then shook her head faintly. "I don't like this."
"I know," Harry said gently. "That's why I asked you. Only you can do it properly."
The words sat heavy between them.
Bellatrix stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow, resigned breath. "Every day I know you," she murmured, "it becomes harder to believe you're only twelve."
Harry chuckled softly. "You'd be surprised how often I hear that."
Her gaze hardened again, professionalism overriding reluctance. "Last chance," she said. "Are you sure?"
Harry nodded once.
Bellatrix's wand appeared in her hand as if it had always been there. She raised it, arm steady, eyes locked on him.
"Crucio."