Professor Severus Snape looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon. Or hexed one. Hard to tell with Snape. In his defense, levitating an unconscious Lucius Malfoy through the castle wasn't exactly on his evening to-do list. But there he was, gliding out of Dumbledore's office like a goth bat dragging a disgraced aristocrat balloon behind him.
"I'll see to it that our guest is... comfortable," Snape said, his voice dripping sarcasm thicker than treacle tart. "Though I'd suggest warding the dungeon against dramatic monologues. He'll be unbearable when he wakes up."
Dumbledore gave the tiniest smile, the kind that suggested he'd once out-riddled a Sphinx over tea. "I trust you to use... adequate soundproofing, Severus."
Snape's eyes narrowed just enough to be threatening and judgmental at the same time. "Soundproofing, yes. Padding, no. I have standards."
Then he spun with the flair of someone whose robes were legally classified as a sail, and Lucius flopped along behind him like an entitled jellyfish.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—yes, all five names, thank you very much—sighed softly, like he'd just watched his least favorite opera. And then he moved.
The kind of moved that made the portraits on the walls straighten their frames and pretend they weren't eavesdropping.
A flick of his wand, and a shimmering phoenix Patronus soared from it, elegant and glowy and way too smug-looking for a magical messenger.
It streaked through the walls, headed straight for Remus Lupin, who was, at that very moment, grading third-year essays and quietly reconsidering every life choice that had led him to read about hinkypunks at 9:43 p.m.
The Patronus flared silver as it delivered the message:
"Remus, please fetch Harry Potter and Jean Grey from Gryffindor Tower, and Susan Bones from Hufflepuff. Bring them to my office at once. Try not to scare them unless you absolutely must. But if Harry's with Ron, good luck."
With his junior errand squad now being assembled, Dumbledore turned to his fireplace like a wizard with a plan—and a flair for dramatics.
He threw in a handful of Floo Powder and spoke clearly:
"Marauders' Den, London."
Green fire burst from the hearth, and a moment later, the angular, scruffy-jawed face of Sirius Black appeared in the flames.
Shirtless. Of course.
"Albus," Sirius said with a grin that had broken about sixteen school rules in its day. "If you're calling for tea, I'm out of biscuits. If you're calling for blood, I'm dressed for it."
Dumbledore raised one snowy eyebrow. "I suggest you find a shirt. You're about to be in the company of a Ministry official and an unconscious Death Eater."
Sirius shrugged. "Fine. Pants first, shirt maybe. Who's the Death Eater?"
"Lucius Malfoy."
Sirius blinked once. Then grinned wider. "Did Snape hex him, or did Malfoy finally choke on his own hair products?"
"A bit of both, I imagine."
"I love this day already."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled like Christmas and chaos had a baby. "Come through. Bring your wand. And your manners."
Sirius winked, then vanished from the fire. Hopefully toward a shirt. Possibly toward a leather jacket. Definitely toward trouble.
Next: Phase Two.
Dumbledore leaned in again. "The Ossuary."
The green flames flared a second time, and a woman's face appeared—sharp, beautiful, and framed by impeccably brushed hair that had probably defeated lesser combs in battle.
Amelia Bones. Head of the DMLE. Slayer of bureaucratic idiocy. Most likely to punch Death Eaters in the face and file the correct paperwork after.
"Albus," she said, not bothering with small talk. "Is this a social call? Or something worse?"
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "It is both. I need you at Hogwarts immediately. Preferably with that wand of yours and your usual lack of patience."
Amelia smirked like someone who had been waiting for this invitation her whole life. "On my way. And I'm bringing a few of my Aurors. Just in case."
The flames vanished again.
And then came the final boss.
Dumbledore pulled out parchment, wrote a short message in quick, looping script, and tied it to the leg of Fawkes, who was watching him like, Finally, something interesting.
Fawkes gave a trill, flared his wings, and vanished in a burst of fire. The smell of ozone and anticipation filled the room.
The message?
Alastor,
I wouldn't summon you unless it was absolutely necessary. It is.
Bring your paranoia, your wand, and your ten thousand hidden knives.
The children are in danger.
—Albus
Because when you need to summon Mad-Eye Moody, you don't call—you send a phoenix and hope he doesn't blast it out of the sky.
Dumbledore finally leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes no longer twinkling but storming. Calm, yes. But also ready.
Because he felt it—something was shifting. The shadows outside Hogwarts weren't just creeping anymore.
They were running.
And the people he'd just summoned?
They were going to be the first line of defense when it all came crashing down.
—
Amelia Bones was halfway through pouring herself a perfectly respectable glass of Ogden's Old when her Floo flared green and spat out Dumbledore's face like a polite but dramatic fireball.
Twelve minutes later, the glass was untouched, and Amelia—robe over pajamas, wand in hand, bun already battle-ready—was pacing her study like a woman preparing for polite war.
She didn't bother to sit. She didn't even bother with slippers. She just marched to her fireplace, flicked her wand with a crisp "Activate Ossuary Channel: Bones Protocol," and barked, "Gawain Robards."
A second later, her Floo lit up again, this time revealing the rumpled, sharp-eyed face of Gawain Robards, Chief Auror, looking like someone who'd just lost a fight with his tie and won a staring contest with a Hungarian Horntail. Probably in that order.
"Madam Bones," he said, straightening like her tone alone had yanked his spine upright. "This a check-in or a five-alarm situation?"
"Somewhere between 'Tuesday night annoyance' and 'Dark Lord at the gates,'" she said, voice brisk as a brisket. "Dumbledore has Lucius Malfoy unconscious, Sirius Black shirtless, and Alastor Moody incoming. That's not a tea party. That's a bomb defusal team, and I want in."
Robards blinked. "Well. That escalated."
"Fetch me Kingsley and Tonks. Now."
Robards leaned back, scanning what she assumed was the office logbook. "Clocked out five minutes ago. Might still be in the atrium arguing about cafeteria pudding."
"Perfect. Pull them in before they escape to freedom and processed sugar."
"Want me to come too?"
Amelia hesitated. It wasn't that she didn't trust Gawain—if anything, he was one of the few she did. But her instincts were prickling like a cat in a thunderstorm.
"If this turns into something big," she said, "I'll shout your name loud enough to shatter your windows. But right now? Three Aurors showing up at Hogwarts is caution. Five is a bloody declaration of war."
"Understood," Robards said with a sharp nod. "I'll ring the bells if you don't ring back in an hour."
He was gone before she could say thank you, which was fine. Amelia Bones didn't waste words, and neither did Gawain Robards.
Two minutes later, her fireplace burst into green again—and in tumbled chaos.
First through was Kingsley Shacklebolt, who stepped into her study like a cologne ad come to life. He looked unruffled despite being yanked out of his evening, radiating quiet authority and a distinct I speak softly but hex like thunder energy. His cloak didn't flap. It glided.
He nodded once, because Kingsley didn't do dramatic entrances. He was the dramatic entrance.
Right behind him came Tonks.
Correction: Tonks came in like a Muggle firework someone had forgotten to label this end up.
She tripped, caught herself, knocked over a lamp, and righted it with a grin that said, Yes, I'm chaos, and yes, you love me anyway. Her hair was electric green and standing on end like she'd stuck her finger in a Portkey socket, and her boots were… possibly illegal in seven countries.
"Hey, boss," Tonks said brightly. "So… on a scale of mild inconvenience to total collapse of the wizarding world, where are we tonight?"
"Somewhere in the 'Moody was invited' zone," Amelia said dryly.
Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "We talking Alastor or just the vibe?"
"Both."
Tonks let out a low whistle. "Oooh. Spicy."
Amelia folded her arms. "Dumbledore has Lucius Malfoy under custody and Sirius Black on deck. He sent a phoenix to summon Mad-Eye and asked me to bring you two. Which, let's be honest, means this is probably going to end with at least one duel, three sarcastic remarks, and someone's pants catching fire."
Kingsley glanced down at his pristine robes. "Not mine."
Tonks shrugged. "I make no promises."
"Excellent," Amelia muttered, and turned back to her fireplace. She tapped the edge of the hearth with her wand and muttered a rapid-fire override spell. "Ossuary Travel Access: Bones Protocol Delta-Seven-Seven. Authorization for Shacklebolt and Tonks granted. Code expires in ten minutes, so let's move."
The fire blazed up obediently. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said clearly.
The green vortex roared. Amelia stepped through like she wasn't wearing house slippers, pajamas, and the weight of the entire legal system on her shoulders.
Because when Amelia Bones showed up unannounced with her top operatives, it wasn't to check on the house-elves.
She was bringing the law.
And tonight?
That law was about to make Hogwarts its courtroom.
—
Sirius Black had exactly three moods when gearing up for action:
Dramatic, More Dramatic, and "I'm bringing a sword because it looks cool, shut up."
Tonight? He was firmly parked in column three, probably building a summer home there.
"Right," he muttered, flinging open a wardrobe that looked like it had lost a custody battle to both a glam-rock band and a dragon. A tangle of shirts, jackets, belts, and something that may have once been a battle kilt tumbled out. He ignored all of it and yanked out his trusty black dragonhide trousers. Durable, sleek, mildly terrifying. Just like him.
The Henley he picked—deep red, technically clean, and probably not enchanted to curse the laundry—hugged his frame like it had auditioned for the role. Then came the showdown:
Cloak vs. Jacket.
Safety vs. Sexy.
Practicality vs. "I look like the lead singer of a punk band who moonlights as a duelist."
"Jacket's hotter," Sirius decided aloud, because talking to yourself was normal when your only company was—
POP.
"—a disgrace to your Mistress and your noble House," Kreacher announced, arriving in a puff of indignation and disappointment. The ancient house-elf gave Sirius a once-over like he was a stain on the family tapestry. "Master dresses like a common street wizard again, I see. Mistress would have fainted. Again. She did enjoy fainting."
"Yeah, well, tell her ghost to hold her breath," Sirius snapped, shoving a dagger into his boot with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for butterbeer after Azkaban. "I was disowned, remember? That means I get to wear leather and swear creatively without worrying about family dinners."
Kreacher sniffed, all wounded pride and drama club levels of judgment.
"Master is a blood traitor," he muttered. "Born into glory, now plays dress-up with Muggle weapons and smells of... freedom."
"Say freedom like it's a disease one more time, and I'm sticking you in the sock drawer."
Kreacher recoiled like Sirius had offered him deodorant.
"The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black belonged to great witches and wizards—"
"Yeah, and one of them used to hex my bedroom door shut so I couldn't leave. Real pillars of virtue, the lot of them."
Sirius flexed his shoulders, grabbed his wand, and holstered it with a flourish that would've earned a slow clap at the Ministry (and probably a few raised eyebrows from Snape). His boots—combat, of course—clomped against the floor as he paced toward the mirror.
"You look like a rebellious painting in the Louvre," he told his reflection, grinning like the mirror had just flirted with him.
Kreacher made a noise halfway between a cough and a curse.
"Will Master be requiring the blood-mopping buckets, or just a cover story for the Prophet this time?"
"Just the anti-ponce spray," Sirius called back. "Never know when Lucius Malfoy might start shedding glitter."
Kreacher vanished, but not before muttering something about "respectable ancestors rolling in their crypts" and "pureblood shame." Honestly, Sirius would've thrown something at him, but the last time he did that, Kreacher made all his underwear sing the Black family motto for a week.
With a final smirk, Sirius grabbed his enchanted leather jacket (heavily warded, but also looked amazing in a duel), shoved a few emergency Exploding Snap cards in his pocket—because chaos was a lifestyle, not a hobby—and vanished with a crack that left a scorch mark on the floor.
Destination: Hogwarts.
Mission: Mystery, mayhem, and probably mouthing off to Snape.
He arrived just outside the wards, boots crunching on gravel, the air around the castle thick with the kind of tension that usually comes before a storm—or a Weasley prank gone nuclear. The smell of pine, stone, and impending doom hit him like an old friend. Or maybe an ex.
From the castle, lights flickered on like sleepy giants blinking awake.
Somewhere up there, Snape was probably muttering about "overgrown teenagers with wand envy."
Sirius grinned.
"Home sweet bloody home," he said to the dark.
Then he started walking—shoulders back, jacket swaying, wand humming with anticipation.
He was ready.
Ready to hex.
Ready to flirt.
Ready to punch Lucius in the nose if the opportunity arose.
The stars above him flickered like warning lights. Hogwarts wasn't just waking up.
It was bracing itself.
And so was Sirius Black.
Mostly because he was pretty sure Snape was going to say something snide, and he needed a good comeback locked and loaded.
—
Professor Severus Snape did not walk. He descended. Each step down to the dungeons was a judgment. Each swirl of his robes, an indictment of fate itself. And tonight, fate had most assuredly wronged him.
Trailing behind him like a particularly useless party decoration was Lucius Malfoy—unconscious, still managing to look offended by the very concept of gravity, and reeking of something expensive, cloying, and French. Snape wrinkled his nose.
"Oh yes, Lucius," he drawled, voice thick with disdain, "by all means, marinate in your cologne. Perhaps the werewolves will find you less palatable if they choke to death first."
They swept past a terrified first-year in the corridor. The boy dropped his pumpkin pasty and ran without a word. Sensible child. Snape filed that away under Possibly Not a Complete Dunce.
Lucius floated on, hair pristine, robes slightly singed, expression frozen somewhere between aristocratic panic and faintly constipated disapproval.
"You know," Snape continued, speaking to the unconscious body with the weary familiarity of a man who'd spent far too long around entitled sociopaths, "when I envisioned my Friday evening, I distinctly remember not including 'escort one treacherous twit of a Death Eater to his temporary prison cell.' And yet—here we are."
He stopped in front of a heavily warded door at the far end of the corridor. It shimmered faintly with runes that would make most curse-breakers politely excuse themselves and cry into their tea.
With a flick of his wand, the door groaned open. The chamber beyond was utilitarian in the same way a guillotine is: brutally efficient, lacking in charm, and entirely intolerant of drama.
Snape guided Lucius inside and dropped him—unceremoniously—onto the narrow cot with a thud that echoed in a way Snape found spiritually satisfying.
"Do forgive the décor," he said dryly, conjuring glowing bindings around Lucius's wrists and ankles. "We had a dreadful accident with the last aristocrat who stayed here. He mistook the lava vent for a bidet."
Lucius twitched slightly in his sleep. Snape narrowed his eyes.
"No, don't wake on my account. Really. I'd like nothing more than to hear your sniveling excuses and poorly masked terror. But perhaps after I've brewed something lethal and regrettable."
He paced the room with precise, predatory steps, casting layer after layer of containment spells. Soundproofing. Anti-Apparition. Anti-Portkey. Anti-monologue.
"Yes," Snape muttered, adding one last charm, "let's see you deliver your operatic self-pity now, you flaxen nuisance. Try to pontificate and you'll break out in boils shaped like Ministry bylaws."
He turned, arms folding into the precise elegance of someone just barely holding back a string of hexes. His face—hooked nose, black eyes, mouth drawn into a grim, sardonic line—could have been carved from thunderclouds.
"What possessed you, Lucius?" he asked aloud, bitter and low, even though the man was still unconscious. "Did your common sense finally elope with your dignity? Did you think allying with Greyback—Greyback!—was the logical next step in your descent from Pureblood Pomp to full-blown imbecile?"
Snape rubbed his temples.
"Of course. Threaten your son, and suddenly you're singing like a canary that's overdosed on Veritaserum. How noble. How predictable."
He stepped toward the door, pausing only once to ensure the containment runes pulsed in a dull, menacing red. Everything was in place.
Almost.
His hand lingered on the heavy stone arch. His eyes darkened.
"Werewolves," he said quietly. "At Hogwarts."
He didn't shudder. Snape didn't do shuddering. But something sharp twisted beneath his ribs.
The children. Merlin help him, the dunderheaded, potion-spilling, cauldron-melting children.
He loathed them on principle. They were noisy, nosy, occasionally flammable, and incapable of telling the difference between a bezoar and a bonbon. But they were his. His charges. His responsibility.
And if Greyback's pack so much as breathed in their direction—
"They will regret it," Snape said aloud, voice like cut glass. "I will personally ensure that their entrails are sorted alphabetically. And I shall enjoy it."
His fingers tightened around the door frame.
"Children in danger," he sneered. "As if the mandated curriculum wasn't torture enough. If Albus wanted to test my patience, he needn't have summoned a werewolf army—he could have simply handed me another batch of fourth-year essays on bezoars."
He stepped out, robes billowing behind him like the wings of a very angry, very caffeinated bat.
Above, the castle whispered with restless magic. The torches flickered in warning. Halloween approached. And something dark was coming with it.
Snape didn't believe in omens.
But he did believe in wards.
And he had just made Lucius Malfoy the most secure prisoner this side of Azkaban.
Now it was time to prepare for war.
And Merlin help anyone—be they beast, bureaucrat, or bloody-minded Death Eater—who thought they could threaten his school.
—
Remus Lupin stepped through the portrait hole like a man on a mission. A calm, cardigan-wearing, too-tired-for-your-nonsense kind of mission. You know the look: soft sweater, intense eyes, and the vibe of someone who's read too many books and doesn't trust anyone who speaks in complete sentences after 11 p.m.
Right beside him: Susan Bones. Thirteen, already more organized than most Ministry departments, and radiating the kind of no-nonsense energy that made portraits straighten themselves as she walked past. Her wand was tucked into her sleeve like a threat and her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail that meant business.
The common room was unusually quiet. A seventh-year couple was pretending they weren't making out behind a pile of textbooks (spoiler: they definitely were), a second-year was stress-chewing their quill over a last-minute Charms essay, and a wall portrait was snoring in a way that was definitely fake.
Remus didn't waste time. He had exactly the expression of someone who'd been told, "whatever you do, don't cause a panic," and had immediately replied, "no promises."
"Susan," he said, voice low and serious. "Girls' dormitory. Get Jean Grey. Don't explain. Just tell her it's urgent."
Susan gave a crisp nod and took off up the spiral staircase with the purpose of a secret agent about to storm a Hydra base.
Remus exhaled like a man preparing to walk into a den of sleeping dragons—or, worse, a room full of teenage boys. He climbed the boys' staircase, steeling himself for impact.
He knocked once on the fifth-year door, then entered.
Disaster. Absolute disaster.
One trunk was bleeding socks. Another had exploded. A Chocolate Frog card fluttered under the bed like it was trying to escape. And dead center in the chaos sat Harry Potter—barefoot, hair halfway to supernova, wearing flannel pajama pants covered in tiny golden Snitches and a T-shirt that said "Weird Sisters World Tour '92" in letters that had been washed into tragic fading.
He blinked. "Professor Lupin? Did I miss breakfast? Or are we being raided?"
Remus avoided a pile of suspiciously alive-looking laundry and crossed the room like someone trained to defuse cursed objects.
"Get dressed," he said simply. "We're going."
Harry rubbed his eyes. "Is this another 'save the school' situation or a 'try not to die' one? Just need to know if I should bring my wand or a helmet."
Remus gave him a very serious look. "Both wouldn't hurt. Dumbledore sent for you. Urgently."
Harry sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "Is this about Voldemort? Or Death Eaters? Or did Filch finally snap and declare war?"
"I don't know," Remus replied, tone even but tight. "But it's after midnight and the Headmaster wants to see you. That never bodes well."
Harry groaned. "Why is it always after midnight? Why can't we ever save the world at, like, lunch?"
Remus raised an eyebrow. "Because evil doesn't keep a proper schedule. Now, dress up. You've got five minutes."
Harry stood, grabbing for his socks with the sleepy coordination of a caffeinated squirrel. "Who else got the golden invite?"
"Susan's downstairs. She's fetching Jean."
That made Harry pause mid-sock. "Jean's coming too?"
"Yes," Remus said, almost smiling. "Which means it's probably very bad. Or very important."
Harry yanked his other sock on and muttered, "Probably both. Because if life has taught me anything, it's that fate's got a twisted sense of humor."
Remus turned to go. "And wear shoes. Real shoes. I hear that the last time you sprinted barefoot through a hallway, Madam Pomfrey had to Vanish your splinters and her patience."
"That was one time!" Harry called after him. "Also, in my defense, Peeves threw soap."
Remus didn't answer, but the shake of his head said, I am too old for this nonsense.
Susan reappeared with all the quiet intensity of a kid who probably color-coded her homework.
"Jean's awake," she said. "And mildly annoyed."
Remus nodded. "Good. Mildly annoyed means we're still in the safe zone."
And right on cue, Jean Grey emerged at the top of the girls' staircase like an avenging goddess woken from her celestial nap. Her crimson dressing gown flowed around her like she'd summoned it from a wardrobe made entirely of sass and fire. Her coppery hair was pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, and her eyes—slightly glowing—scanned the room like she was calculating which windows to explode if someone so much as sneezed.
"If this is another Dumbledore prophecy thing," she said coolly, "or magical sewer emergencies, I'm turning someone into a newt."
"Hex me later," Remus said. "We're just the messengers tonight."
Jean reached the bottom step with dramatic flair and zero effort, then turned to Susan. "He didn't say what this was about?"
"Nope. Just 'urgent' and 'now.' Also, Harry's getting dressed. You know, like it's the Met Gala."
Jean smirked. "Well, if he's wearing those pajama pants again, I hope he burns them on the way down."
"I heard that," came Harry's voice as he came barreling down the stairs, now fully dressed but still looking like his hair had lost a bet with lightning. He pointed at Jean with mock offense. "You insult my pajamas again and I'll hex your shampoo to turn your hair blue."
Jean stepped in close—way too close for casual—tilted her head, and smirked. "Oh really? What if I like blue?"
Harry blinked, opened his mouth… and short-circuited.
"Touché," he muttered, brushing past her toward the door. "Still gonna hex the shampoo, though. You've been warned."
Susan rolled her eyes and looked at Remus. "Are we walking to our doom now, or…?"
"Let's," Remus said, gesturing for them to follow. "And let's try not to set anything on fire along the way. Or flirt."
"No promises," Jean and Harry said at the same time—then immediately glared at each other like how dare you copy my sass.
The four of them exited the common room, the Fat Lady muttering something about "bloody dramatic children and their bloody midnight strolls."
The castle was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you whisper even if there were no teachers around.
Something was coming. And it wasn't just another history essay.
—
Alastor Moody was ninety-nine percent sure his coffee table had tried to kill him again.
To be fair, that was kind of the point. The table—oak, cursed, and disturbingly sentient—had once bitten a Death Eater and developed a taste for blood. Moody kept it because it built character. And because replacing it would involve hiring someone, which meant background checks, anti-Imperius protocols, and at least one round of Veritaserum tea. So yeah, the murder table stayed.
His house, if you could call it that, looked like the lovechild of a doomsday bunker and a wizarding antique shop run by someone who thought paranoia was a personality trait. Spoiler: it was. At least if your name was Alastor "Constant Vigilance" Moody.
The living room was a death trap disguised as "homey." There were cursed skulls on every shelf, a mirror that reflected your worst fear (not a Boggart—this one came with audio commentary), and a ceiling warded to collapse on intruders. Also, there were throw rugs. But they were spelled to screech like banshees if anyone stepped on them wrong.
Moody was halfway through booby trap rotation number three (Tuesday's setup had been too predictable) when the air shimmered.
Fire. Trill. Phoenix.
Fawkes landed on a bookshelf with all the arrogance of a bird who knew it could spontaneously combust and no one would question it. Moody didn't react—his good eye squinted, his magical eye spun a full 360, scanning for glamours, Polyjuice, portkey traces, and anything else that screamed "trap."
It didn't scream. It politely hummed "bad news."
The phoenix held out a leg. Scroll. Gold thread. The magical equivalent of a red alert in all caps. And signed by the one man Moody trusted enough not to hex on sight.
Dumbledore.
Alastor,
I wouldn't summon you unless it was absolutely necessary. It is.
Bring your paranoia, your wand, and your ten thousand hidden knives.
The children are in danger.
—Albus
Moody muttered something that would've made a goblin blush. "Figures."
He didn't waste time. Just nodded once, cracked his neck, and got to work.
Step one: Armory check.
He swapped out his usual wand for the good one—oak, dragon heartstring, last polished during the Goblin Rebellion (not a coincidence).
Step two: Battle coat.
This coat had seen more action than a cursed battlefield. Moody slipped it on like a knight donning armor. Pockets? Stuffed with everything from Doxy repellent to a cursed locket that only screamed on Tuesdays.
Step three: Paranoia protocol.
Boots? Reinforced. Traps? Activated. He whispered passwords to locks, charms, and one very temperamental doormat named Nigel.
And then, he paused.
Most wizards would Apparate immediately. Not Moody. Apparating from your doorstep was basically sending an RSVP to your own funeral. Nah. He was old, cranky, and had a routine for a reason.
So he walked.
Every ten steps, he stopped. Eyeball spun like a malfunctioning compass, scanning for everything from Animagi to invisible vampires (yes, those were a thing, and no, they weren't sparkly). One shadow moved weird? He aimed a spell at it. Turned out to be a bush. Now it was a bush with trust issues.
After half a kilometer and five false alarms, he stopped.
"No alarms. No movement. No sudden ambush. Either I'm being too careful…" he paused, snorted, "...or I'm not being careful enough."
And then—CRACK.
Moody vanished in a swirl of cloak and suspicion.
Destination: Hogwarts.
Mission: Protect the kids.
Mood: Grim. Determined. Slightly over-caffeinated.
Because if Albus Dumbledore said "the children are in danger," then it was time to unleash a one-eyed, spell-slinging, coat-swirling nightmare with a wand in one hand and a vendetta in the other.
Moody was coming.
And Merlin help whatever poor bastard stood in his way.
—
Knockturn Alley looked like someone had smeared regret over every brick. The rain hadn't helped—it had just turned the whole place into a greasy slip 'n slide of bad decisions. Perfect, really, for a man like Corban Yaxley.
His boots clicked against the cobblestones with the confidence of a man who either had backup or was the backup. People moved out of his way instinctively, like cockroaches fleeing light. One hunched figure made the mistake of glancing up, locking eyes with Yaxley. He flinched so hard he nearly knocked himself over.
Yaxley smirked. That never got old.
The bell over the door of Eldrin & Varro's Acquisitions let out the same wheezy death-rattle jingle it had the night before, like it resented its life choices.
Inside the shop looked exactly how you'd imagine a magical fire hazard with trust issues would look. Nothing had been cleaned, sorted, or even acknowledged by basic human decency. The suspicious goblet on the shelf was now vibrating. Something under the rug hissed like it had unresolved anger issues.
"Gentlemen," Yaxley drawled, voice smooth as poisoned honey.
Eldrin jumped so violently he nearly impaled himself on a quill. "Merlin's saggy underpants—do you have to do that?"
"I opened the door," Yaxley said, arching a brow. "Unless you'd prefer I Apparate straight into your sinus cavity next time?"
Eldrin muttered something about restraining orders and dusted himself off, trying to salvage some dignity. It didn't go well. "You're early."
"I'm punctual," Yaxley corrected, strolling in like he was inspecting a crime scene. "Which, in this case, means you've run out of time to screw things up."
Varro peeked out from the back, holding what looked like the lovechild of a candlestick and a disco ball, wrapped in glowing string. He was sweating enough to irrigate a greenhouse.
"This... this one's for twelve," Varro said, tiptoeing forward like the object might file a complaint. "Northern edge of the Forbidden Forest. Fifty meters inside the tree line. Precise window: twilight. Very twilighty."
"Is that a technical term now?" Yaxley asked, eyeing him like a snake deciding if it was worth the effort to strike.
"Er... yeah," Varro said, then immediately regretted it.
Eldrin jumped in, grinning like he thought he was on The Apprentice. "It's fine, it's all fine. Took some finesse, but we work best under unreasonable, terrifying pressure. Don't we, Varro?"
"Like diamonds!" Varro said, voice cracking. "That are about to explode!"
Yaxley's gaze shifted to a box on the counter. Inside was what looked like a rusted cauldron lid with glowing runes—and something twitching under a charm.
"That," Eldrin said, nudging the box toward him like it was cursed (because it probably was), "will handle up to fifty... more if they're, you know, compact. Kids. Goblins. Werewolves that haven't eaten in a while."
Yaxley didn't laugh. "You do realize werewolves don't come in 'travel size.'"
Varro winced. "It's... been reinforced. Heavily. You've got about five seconds once it starts glowing before it triggers, so—uh—no dramatic speeches, yeah?"
Yaxley picked up the lid, inspecting the runes. "Is it stable?"
Varro made a sound like a cat choking on uncertainty.
Eldrin, bless him, tried to help. "Define stable. Like... in the sense that it will transport someone. Somewhere. Probably the intended somewhere. Ninety percent. Ninety-five if the wind's right."
Yaxley leaned in, just enough to make both brothers lean back. "If this drops Greyback and his pack into Madam Malkin's, I'll tie your tongues in a sailor's knot and send you gift-wrapped to him."
Eldrin gave him a pained smile. "Duly noted."
Yaxley stuffed the portkeys into his satchel, which expanded like a well-fed Niffler. He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. Classic villain move.
"Oh," he said. "One more thing."
The air in the room froze. Varro swallowed audibly. Eldrin's smile died a slow, painful death.
"If I find out you copied any runic data from those portkeys," Yaxley said, voice smooth and quiet and deadly, "I'll peel your memories out of your skulls like cheap wallpaper. Slowly. By hand."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the alley, leaving behind nothing but tension, fear-sweat, and a faint smell of overcooked ambition.
Varro slumped into the nearest chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "We need to leave the country."
Eldrin was already unfolding a map. "Brazil. I've always liked Brazil."
Varro looked at him, wild-eyed. "Do they have extradition treaties with the UK?"
Eldrin blinked. "What am I, a lawyer?"
Varro moaned. "We're gonna die."
"Not if we pack fast."
Cue packing montage. Possibly with Benny Hill music.
---
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