Dumbledore—saintly smile still stapled in place like a campaign poster from a politician nobody trusted anymore—finally found his voice. His blue eyes twinkled, though it looked more like a malfunction than actual merriment.
"Well... I... certainly hear your concerns, my dear boy." He clasped his hands behind his back in that way that screamed *I'm totally in control here, why do you ask?* "But surely we can discuss this as... as reasonable men? After all, the greater good—"
Harry held up one gloved hand. Just one. And like magic—or maybe just the kind of intimidation that came from being six-foot-three of pure muscle wrapped in Kevlar and attitude—Dumbledore's mouth snapped shut mid-sentence.
"No," Harry said with the kind of calm that made smart people check their life insurance policies. His emerald eyes—the kind of green that made forests jealous—pinned the old man like a butterfly in a display case. "We're not doing that speech tonight, Professor. You had years to make this right. You didn't. And for the record—" He tilted his head just enough to let the torchlight catch the gold threading on his armor in a way that was definitely intentional, "—if you say the words 'greater good' one more time, Natasha's going to show you just how much good she can do with a knife."
Natasha Romanoff—five-foot-seven of lethal grace with auburn hair that caught the light like burnished copper—grinned with the kind of smile that made grown men write their wills. She flicked another blade into her palm with liquid ease, the steel singing a soft, deadly song.
"And it's... a lot, just to be clear," she purred, her voice carrying that slight accent that made everything sound like either a seduction or a threat. Sometimes both. "I've been told I'm very thorough."
Tonks—bubblegum-pink hair today, because apparently facing down the most powerful wizard in Britain called for cotton candy aesthetics—bounced slightly on her toes and added helpfully, "Oh yeah, she's *very* good. You'd be amazed how much 'good' can fit between a person's ribs. It's like a geometry lesson, but with more screaming."
Her hair shifted to a deeper magenta as she spoke, which Harry had learned meant she was either amused or planning something that would require an alibi. Possibly both.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, clearly trying to salvage some dignity from the smoking wreckage of his authority.
"Yes, well..." he began again, fumbling for something that sounded headmaster-ish. "I... must protest the tone, at the very least. Surely you see the position I was in? Decisions had to be made—"
"Yeah, yeah," Harry cut him off with the kind of lazy wave you'd use to brush away a particularly annoying fly. "We've all heard your tragic little speech about how hard it is to play God. Try selling it to someone who you didn't abandon to grow up in the cupboard under the stairs." His voice dropped to something that could have frozen hell. "With the spiders."
That one hit harder than a Bludger to the face.
Even Moody—grizzled, paranoid, probably-older-than-dirt Moody—gave a low whistle that sounded like a tea kettle having an existential crisis.
Jean Grey, standing to Harry's left like a redheaded goddess of justified wrath, let her green eyes flare with just enough psychic energy to make the air shimmer. Her voice was silk over steel when she spoke.
"Albus Dumbledore," she said, and somehow made his name sound like a curse word, "you might want to stop talking now. Before I decide to show you exactly what Harry experienced. In real time. With full sensory detail."
Ororo Monroe floated a few inches off the ground, her white hair crackling with static electricity, her dark eyes fixed on Dumbledore with the kind of intensity that usually preceded natural disasters.
"The child in me," she said with the kind of calm that came before lightning strikes, "wants to see if you'd last a week in that cupboard. The adult in me knows you wouldn't last a day."
Dumbledore actually floundered. He *floundered*. It was magnificent, like watching the Titanic discover that icebergs were surprisingly solid.
"I... well... I can assure you, I had only your best interests—"
Harry ignored him completely and turned to Moody, who was leaning against his walking stick like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Which, knowing Moody, it probably was.
"Alastor," Harry said smoothly, his voice carrying that command-voice that made people stand straighter without realizing it, "how exactly did this—" he gestured lazily at the bound, magically-gagged figure on the floor, who was glaring at everyone with all the fury of a man caught mid-villain monologue, "—manage to get the drop on you?"
Moody's scarred face twisted into something that might have been embarrassment if embarrassment could growl and look like it wanted to bite someone.
"Caught me with my guard down," he admitted, his magical eye spinning furiously as he glared at the trussed-up Death Eater. "Had a nasty bout of cold that week. Took a sleeping draught. Woke up to this little weasel trying to shove me in my own bloody trunk."
Laura Kinney—small, dark-haired, and currently crouched by their prisoner like a predator deciding which part to eat first—looked up with the kind of innocent expression that fooled absolutely no one.
"Did it hurt?" she asked with genuine curiosity.
"Like hell," Moody growled.
"Good," Laura said brightly, her claws extending just enough to catch the light. "I was hoping it hurt."
Tonks made a face that would have been adorable if it weren't for the context. "Ew. Cozy."
Moody snorted. "If by cozy you mean a living nightmare with questionable hygiene and a tendency to monologue about the Dark Lord's greatness, then yeah. Cozy as a coffin."
Dumbledore blinked, then blinked again, like his brain was trying to process information that didn't fit his carefully constructed worldview. His sharp blue eyes went to the man on the floor—thin, wild-eyed, unmistakably alive, and definitely not supposed to be either of those things.
"Barty...? Barty Crouch Junior?!" His voice actually cracked, which was probably the first genuine emotion he'd shown all evening. "But... but you... died. You died in Azkaban! Over a decade ago!"
Barty Crouch Jr. tried to snarl something around his gag but only managed a muffled string of curses that would've made a sailor blush and a nun reach for her rosary.
Natasha's knife twirled lazily in her fingers just above his face, which shut him up pretty quick. She had that effect on people.
"You know," she mused, studying her blade like it was a particularly interesting piece of art, "I've always wondered if fear makes people more or less talkative. In my experience, it's usually less." She glanced down at Crouch Jr. with the kind of smile that belonged in a predator documentary. "But then again, I'm very good at asking questions."
Harry crouched by the bound Death Eater, resting his armored elbow casually on one knee. His green eyes glowed faintly in the torchlight as he studied him, completely unamused.
"You've been impersonating Alastor Moody for almost a month," he said conversationally, like he was discussing the weather. "Impressive. Stupid, but impressive." He smirked faintly, and several of his girlfriends felt their hearts skip a beat. "Shame you didn't count on me showing up before you could kill one more student for your boss."
Crouch Jr. glared murderously, but Natasha's blade tapped his cheek just lightly enough to make him freeze. The touch was feather-light, but the message was crystal clear.
"You keep making that face," she murmured sweetly, her voice carrying all the warmth of a Siberian winter, "and it's going to get stuck that way. Trust me, I've seen it happen."
Tonks leaned over Harry's shoulder, her bubblegum-pink hair flipping forward in a way that made Harry's pulse quicken despite the circumstances.
"So what do we do with him?" she asked, close enough that he could smell her shampoo—something floral and completely at odds with the violence in her eyes.
Harry stood, his red-and-gold cloak swirling behind him like a storm made of silk and righteous fury. The movement was fluid, predatory, and several people in the room—including some of his girlfriends—took a moment to appreciate the view.
"Well," he said with that easy, commanding grin that made his girls grin back automatically, "that depends on how much fun we want to have before we hand him over to SHIELD."
Laura finally spoke up, her claws glinting in the light as she crouched by Crouch Jr.'s side like a particularly deadly Christmas present.
"I say we let me take a finger for every rule he broke while he was pretending to be Moody," she suggested with the kind of cheerful pragmatism that made grown men reconsider their life choices. "Should only take... ten minutes. Maybe fifteen if I'm feeling artistic."
Madelyn Pryor—who had been watching this entire exchange with the kind of fascination usually reserved for particularly good reality TV—sighed happily.
"Best. Intervention. Ever," she declared, looking like someone had just told her Christmas was coming early.
Dumbledore finally managed to speak again, though his voice was tight with something that might have been panic.
"You can't... Harry, you cannot simply—"
"Oh, but he can," Jean cut in smoothly, her green eyes narrowing with quiet fire as she looped her arm through Harry's. The contact was casual, possessive, and sent a little thrill through both of them. "You made him this way, Dumbledore. You don't get to complain about the results now."
Ororo floated closer, her white hair crackling with static, her dark eyes fixed on Dumbledore with the kind of intensity that usually preceded weather reports about unprecedented storm systems.
"And you no longer get to decide what is right or wrong for him," she added, her voice carrying the rumble of distant thunder. "That privilege was revoked the moment you decided a cupboard was an appropriate nursery."
Harry stepped closer to Dumbledore, his towering presence and emerald stare cutting through the old man's composure like a blade through parchment. At this distance, Dumbledore could see the flecks of gold in those famous green eyes, could feel the barely-leashed power that radiated from him like heat from a forge.
"You should probably go back to your office now, Professor," Harry said softly, though there was nothing kind in the words. They were polite the way a funeral director was polite—professional, inevitable, and completely without warmth. "We'll clean up your mess. Just... try not to get in our way this time. You're not great at it."
The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded either violence or surrender. Sometimes both.
Dumbledore stared at him—at them all—and for the first time in his very long life realized what it felt like to be irrelevant. To be the old man in the corner while the real power moved around him like a tide he couldn't control.
And when Harry turned his back on him, cloak snapping behind him like a banner of war, and the girls followed without sparing the Headmaster another glance, Dumbledore felt the chill of something he hadn't felt in nearly a century.
Fear.
Not the dramatic, battlefield fear of facing Voldemort or Grindelwald.
This was worse.
This was the quiet, creeping fear of a man who had just realized he was standing in a room full of people who no longer needed him.
And worse still—people who no longer wanted him there.
---
# THE INTERROGATION
The door closed behind Dumbledore with an almost merciful click. Natasha slid the deadbolt home, and with that, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Harry stood in the center, arms folded, expression unreadable as he studied the bound Barty Crouch Jr. Even in the dim dungeon light, his emerald eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire that made the prisoner shift uncomfortably.
Moody and Natasha exchanged a glance before moving to flank the prisoner, like wolves circling a wounded stag.
"All right, boy," Moody began, his voice gravel wrapped in steel, his magical eye swiveling to focus on Crouch with unsettling intensity. "You're going to tell us everything you know. And you'd better hope it's worth our time."
Natasha crouched to eye level with Crouch, her blade whispering free of its sheath again as she let it dance idly between her fingers. The metal caught the torchlight, throwing dancing shadows across her face. "Or," she purred, her voice carrying that dangerous sweetness that had made grown men confess state secrets, "we start getting creative. And trust me, you're not going to like our kind of creativity."
"Oh, can we?" Tonks piped up from her position by the door, her hair shifting from bubblegum pink to a predatory red. "I've been working on some new tricks. Want to see what happens when I morph someone's face inside-out?"
Laura's claws extended with a soft *snikt*, the adamantium gleaming wickedly. "I vote we start with the fingernails," she said conversationally. "Work our way up."
Ororo floated a few inches off the ground, white hair crackling with barely contained electricity. "The storm inside me is quite restless tonight," she murmured, her voice carrying the distant rumble of thunder. "It would be... therapeutic to let it out."
Harry's lips curved in something that might have been a smile if it hadn't been quite so cold. "Ladies, please. Let's be civilized about this." He stepped closer to Crouch, his presence somehow managing to be both casual and utterly menacing. "Though I have to say, Barty, you really should have done your homework. Did you know that Natasha once made a Russian oligarch sing opera while confessing to embezzling three billion rubles?"
"It was a beautiful soprano," Natasha added helpfully, twirling her blade. "Very moving. The judges gave him a standing ovation before they shipped him to Siberia."
Crouch glared at them with feral defiance, spitting, "You think you can intimidate me? I've served the Dark Lord! I've—"
"Served a half-dead snake man living in a graveyard?" Jean interrupted, stepping forward with that graceful, predatory walk that meant someone was about to have a very bad day. "How... quaint."
Her hand pressed lightly to the side of his head, and her eyes flared a luminous green that made Harry's look almost pale by comparison.
Crouch began to scream.
Images flickered through Jean's mind: foggy, twisted, riddled with dark magic. A broken manor house. An infant-shaped thing of pale flesh and red eyes, cradled in the arms of a rat-faced man. Ritual circles drawn in blood. A plan whispered over and over: *The boy's blood. The boy's blood. Soon. We rise again.*
Jean tore the knowledge out of him like weeds from a garden, her psychic presence burning through his mental defenses with surgical precision.
When she finally pulled her hand back, her eyes still glowed faintly as she spoke, her voice razor-sharp. "Little Hangleton," she said, her tone making the name sound like a death sentence. "He's hiding in the Riddle house. Weak. Barely alive. Living off Peter Pettigrew's care."
Harry's eyebrows rose slightly, and his smile turned genuinely amused. "Peter," he repeated, almost fondly. "Oh, Dad and Sirius are going to have such fun with that reunion. I should probably warn them to bring rope. And possibly a muzzle."
"For Peter or for Sirius?" Tonks asked, grinning wickedly.
"Yes," Harry replied without missing a beat, earning snickers from the group.
Moody leaned heavily on his staff, his magical eye drilling into Crouch. "So the Goblet, eh? That's how they planned to get Voldemort a body? Put Potter's name in the Cup, no backing out, and during the Final Task drag him to Little Hangleton for the ritual?"
Jean's face darkened, her psychic presence radiating displeasure. "Yes. Dumbledore's plan and Voldemort's just happen to line up beautifully, don't they? He was going to force Harry into the Tournament anyway... Voldemort simply co-opted it."
"Two puppet masters, one set of strings," Natasha murmured, her blade idly tracing a line down the side of Crouch's cheek without quite breaking the skin. "How economical. Too bad we already cut them."
"I do so love it when a plan comes together," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular tone that meant someone was about to become very, very sorry they'd ever been born. "Especially when it's *my* plan."
Laura spoke up now, her enhanced senses picking up the rapid flutter of Crouch's heartbeat. "He's still hiding something."
Jean didn't even look at her—she just reached out and ripped deeper into Crouch's mind. He choked, gasped, his body convulsing against the bonds as she pulled his secrets out like poisoned teeth.
"There's more," she said coldly, her voice carrying an undertone of disgust. "Wards at the Riddle house. Nasty ones. Some designed to kill outright, others to alert him if someone comes too close. There's... ah."
Her eyes flared brighter, and her lips curled in faint contempt.
"There's a backup plan. If this fails, he'll try again next year. And the year after that. He thinks... he thinks he can't be stopped. That Harry has to be the one to bring him back, because of the prophecy."
Ororo's expression darkened, electricity crackling more intensely around her. "Then we'll break the prophecy," she said simply, her voice carrying the weight of an approaching storm.
Harry's smirk widened. "Oh, Storm. I do love it when you get all dramatic and world-shaking. It's incredibly attractive."
A faint blush colored Ororo's dark cheeks, though her expression remained stern. "Flatterer."
"Guilty as charged," Harry replied, then turned his attention back to Crouch. "But she's right, you know. Prophecies are funny things. They only work if people believe in them. And I've never been much for following other people's scripts."
He crouched low in front of Crouch, green eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight. "Here's what's going to happen, Barty. You're going to tell us everything else you know. Every ward, every backup plan, every contingency your master thought was so clever. And then you're going to hope that SHIELD has better accommodations than Azkaban."
Crouch's defiance crumbled under that emerald stare. "You... you can't... the Dark Lord will—"
"The Dark Lord," Harry interrupted softly, "is currently subsisting on snake milk and the care of a man who spent twelve years as a rat. Forgive me if I'm not trembling in fear."
Natasha laughed, a sound like silver bells wrapped in razor wire. "Oh, I like that. 'Snake milk and rat care.' That's going in my report."
"Feel free to add that he's also hiding in a graveyard," Tonks added cheerfully. "Because apparently dramatic irony is his hobby."
Jean's hand pressed to Crouch's temple again, and this time she didn't bother being gentle. "The ward configurations," she commanded. "Now."
As the information poured out, Harry straightened and looked to Natasha. "Call Hill. Once she gathers the team, tell her to let me know and I'll open a portal for her. They'll want to collect him before sunrise."
He glanced at Laura, Jean, and Ororo, letting the unspoken instruction hang in the air like a blade.
"In the meantime," he continued, his voice carrying that particular tone of quiet menace that made even hardened criminals reconsider their life choices, "make sure he doesn't forget what happens to men who pretend to be Alastor Moody."
Natasha gave a mock salute, already pulling out her communicator. "With pleasure, boss."
Moody snorted softly, his scarred lips curling into something like approval. "You're a cruel little bastard sometimes, Potter."
Harry's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Only when people threaten my family. Then I become absolutely savage."
Jean moved to his side, her psychic presence wrapping around him like a warm embrace. "I love it when you get all protective and dangerous," she murmured, her voice pitched low enough that only he could hear.
"Careful, Grey," he murmured back, his eyes darkening with heat. "Keep talking like that and I might have to show you just how dangerous I can be."
The psychic feedback between them was almost tangible, making the air shimmer with barely contained energy.
Ororo floated closer, her white hair crackling with electricity. "Should we be concerned about the structural integrity of the dungeon?" she asked, though her tone suggested she was more amused than worried.
"Only if you keep looking at me like that," Harry replied, his voice carrying that particular warmth reserved for his most dangerous women.
Tonks bounced on her toes, her hair shifting through several colors in quick succession. "Ooh, are we having a moment? Because I love moments. Especially the kind that involve Harry being all commanding and sexy."
Laura's claws retracted with a soft *snikt*. "If you're all done flirting, can we get back to the part where we terrify the prisoner?"
"Who says we stopped?" Natasha asked, her blade still dancing between her fingers. "I find the combination of romance and violence quite effective."
As SHIELD prepared to collect the prisoner, Harry stepped off to the side, his phone already out as he sent a single message to James and Sirius.
*Wormtail Found. Little Hangleton. Let's talk soon. P.S. - Bring rope.*
The faintest glint of satisfaction lit his eyes as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned to his team—his family, his partners in all the best kinds of crime.
Jean looped her arm through his as if they'd rehearsed it, her psychic presence warm and proud. Ororo fell into step on his other side, lightning still humming faintly around her. Laura trailed just behind, wiping flecks of blood from one claw with casual efficiency. Natasha sheathed her blade with a flourish, and Tonks skipped alongside them, her hair now a satisfied purple.
And as they walked out of the dungeon, leaving Crouch to SHIELD and Dumbledore to his own irrelevance, Harry allowed himself one last, quiet thought.
*Let them play their games. I already own the board.*
Behind them, Moody's wooden leg echoed against the stone, and his gruff voice carried just a hint of admiration. "Constant vigilance, indeed," he muttered. "Though I think you've got that well in hand, Potter."
Harry's only response was a smile that promised very interesting times ahead.
—
THE SAFEHOUSE
Somewhere in lower Manhattan, nestled in a nondescript brick building SHIELD swore didn't officially exist, the Potter-Black safehouse was its usual mixture of controlled chaos and questionable legality.
Books on magical theory were stacked high on one end of the massive worktable, their pages occasionally turning themselves when they got bored. At the other end, enchanted fireworks, half-dissected Muggle electronics, and a suspiciously glowing cauldron competed for space like territorial cats.
In the middle of it all sat Rose Potter, fourteen and already wearing the patented Marauder smirk that had been terrorizing authority figures for generations. She watched her father and godfather with barely-suppressed glee as they demonstrated the finer points of creative mischief.
James Potter, his dark hair only slightly tamer than it had been at seventeen (and that was mainly due to Lily's threats), grinned as he demonstrated the final wand motion for a hex that made shoelaces tie themselves to chair legs.
"And that, Rosie, is how you introduce the concept of humility to an arrogant Quidditch captain," James declared proudly, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. "Guaranteed laugh every time. Though I suppose it helps that gravity is always on your side."
Sirius Black, looking every bit the charming rogue in a black leather jacket and jeans that probably cost more than most people's rent, leaned over and added with a conspiratorial wink, "And if they get mouthy afterward, you follow up with the one that makes their tongue stick to the roof of their mouth. Works great on pompous Head Boys. Just ask your dad."
"Hey!" James protested, though he was grinning. "I was a very reasonable Head Boy, thank you very much."
"You hexed three different prefects in your first week," Sirius countered, crossing his arms. "And that was before you found out they were planning to ask Lily out on a date to Hogsmeade."
"That was research!" James shot back. "I needed to know if the hex worked on people with inflated egos!"
Rose clapped her hands in delight, her eyes sparkling with wicked glee. "Brilliant! Can you teach me the one that makes people's robes turn inside-out in the middle of class?"
"Now you're thinking like a true Marauder," Sirius said proudly, ruffling her hair. "Though might I suggest starting with something subtler? Like the one that makes quills write insulting poetry about the person holding them?"
"Sirius," James warned, though his tone was more amused than stern, "Lily's going to murder us if Rose gets caught."
"Please," Rose scoffed, practicing the wand motion on an old chair. "I'm not getting caught. I'm a Potter. We don't get caught, we get creative explanations."
"That's my girl," James said, beaming with pride.
Unfortunately, that was the moment Lily Potter chose to walk in, wearing reading glasses and holding an open Ancient Runes textbook. Her emerald eyes—the same shade as Harry's and Rose's—narrowed dangerously when she saw the triumphant grins on her husband and his best friend's faces.
"Oh for Merlin's sake, James! Sirius!" she snapped, striding into the room with the kind of purposeful energy that had once made her Head Girl and still made grown wizards step aside. She plucked Rose's wand right out of her hand with the efficiency of someone who'd had plenty of practice. "I leave her alone with you two for fifteen minutes and you've already started teaching her pranking spells?"
Rose had the decency to look at least a little sheepish, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that she was still grinning. James and Sirius, however, did not.
"She asked," James protested, raising his hands innocently. "Very politely, I might add. With please and everything."
"She needs to know the classics," Sirius added, looking wounded in that particular way that suggested he'd been practicing the expression in mirrors. "It's a cultural education, Lily. Would you rather she grow up humorless and boring like Snivellus?"
"Can you not call him that?" Lily shot back, even as her lip twitched with barely suppressed amusement.
"Not in this house," Sirius declared with the air of someone making a royal proclamation. "In this house, he's still the greasy git who tried to curse James's broom during a Quidditch match."
"He what?" Rose perked up with interest.
"Nothing!" Lily said quickly, shooting both men warning looks. "And you two are not helping your case."
"Look, Lily," James said, his tone becoming more reasonable, "she's going to learn this stuff eventually. Would you rather she learn it from us, where we can teach her proper technique and ethical guidelines—"
"Ethical guidelines?" Lily interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "From the man who once transfigured Snape's shampoo into hair-growth potion?"
"That was a public service," Sirius interjected. "His hair was already greasy. We just made it more obvious."
"And the time you charmed all the Slytherin dormitory doors to only open when someone sang show tunes?"
"Educational!" James insisted. "We exposed them to culture!"
"Half of them still can't hear 'My Fair Lady' without having flashbacks," Lily pointed out.
"See?" Sirius grinned. "Long-lasting impact. That's quality education right there."
Rose giggled. "Did they actually sing?"
"Oh, they sang," James said, his eyes gleaming with the memory. "Lucius Malfoy did a surprisingly good rendition of 'The Rain in Spain.' Though I think that was more out of desperation than artistic merit."
Before Lily could deliver what was undoubtedly going to be a scathing retort about the psychological damage they'd inflicted on their fellow students, James's phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen casually at first—then his expression sharpened like broken glass.
The change was immediate and dramatic. The easy humor vanished from his face, replaced by something cold and dangerous that reminded everyone present why James Potter had been one of the most feared names whispered in Death Eater circles.
Sirius noticed immediately, his own expression sobering. "Prongs?"
James didn't answer at first. He just turned the phone around so Sirius could see the message, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
*Wormtail found. Little Hangleton. Let's talk soon. P.S. – Bring rope.*
For a heartbeat, the room went utterly still. Even the enchanted fireworks seemed to sense the sudden shift in atmosphere and stopped their cheerful sparking.
Then Sirius's face darkened, his easy grin vanishing like smoke, replaced by something feral and hungry. "They found him," he said quietly, his grey eyes flashing with a dangerous light.
James's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles going white. "And hiding in Little Hangleton," he ground out, his voice low and deadly. "Of course the rat would scurry back to his master's ancestral home."
Lily's breath hitched, her hands tightening around the Ancient Runes book until her knuckles whitened. She met James's eyes, and there was no mistaking the unspoken question in her gaze.
James nodded grimly, his expression set in stone.
"Yes," he said, his voice carrying the finality of a judge's gavel. "It's him."
Rose glanced between the three adults, her youthful bravado slipping in the face of their sudden, palpable rage. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped twenty degrees, and she could practically feel the magic crackling in the air around her father and godfather.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice smaller than usual. "Who's Wormtail?"
Sirius's laugh was humorless, sharp as a blade and twice as cutting. "Wormtail, Rosie, is a rat who sold your parents out to Voldemort, got twelve innocent people killed, and then pretended to be dead while I rotted in Azkaban for almost four years."
Rose's eyes widened. "He's the reason you were in prison?"
"Among other things," Sirius said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. "But mostly, he's the reason your brother spent his first few years thinking he was an orphan."
James's hand gripped the table edge hard enough to leave indentations in the wood. "I always knew the rat was too sneaky to be dead," he muttered, his voice a dangerous growl. "Should have known he'd crawl back to his master the moment he thought it was safe."
Lily placed a steadying hand on his arm, though her own green eyes were blazing with fury. "James," she said softly, but there was steel in her voice.
"Don't," James said, his tone gentle but implacable. "Don't try to talk me out of this, Lily. Not this time."
"I wasn't going to," she replied, surprising him. "I was going to ask if you needed help disposing of the body."
Sirius barked out a laugh, this one genuine and delighted. "And this is why I love your wife, Prongs. She's got the right priorities."
James's expression softened slightly as he looked at his wife. "What happened to 'bring him back alive'?"
"That was before I remembered what he put our family through," Lily said, her voice carrying a note of steel that could have cut diamond. "What he put Harry through. What he put you through."
Rose looked between them, her expression shifting from confused to intrigued. "So... we're going to kill him?"
"We're going to have a conversation," James said carefully. "A very pointed conversation about the consequences of betraying one's friends."
"With rope," Sirius added helpfully, already shrugging on his jacket and pulling a length of enchanted rope from the duffel bag in the corner. "Lots and lots of rope."
He glanced at James with a wolfish grin that would have made actual wolves nervous. "Well? You gonna make me wait, or are we going to go pay our old friend a visit?"
James stood, his wand already sliding into his hand with practiced ease. His face was set in grim determination, and for a moment, Rose could see exactly why her father had been one of the most feared Aurors of his generation.
"I'll grab the Portkey," he said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that made people step aside.
"And I'll get the good interrogation supplies," Sirius added cheerfully, as if he were discussing what to bring to a picnic. "The ones that make people very eager to talk."
Lily pressed her lips together, but when she spoke, her voice carried a note of steel that reminded everyone present why she'd been one of the most brilliant witches of her generation. "Bring him back alive, if you can manage it."
James's eyes flicked to hers, and though his words were light, his tone left no room for doubt. "No promises, love. But I'll do my best."
"That's all I ask," Lily said, then added with a dangerous smile, "Just make sure he understands exactly what he's cost us before you're done."
Sirius chuckled darkly as he slung the rope over his shoulder like a fashion accessory. "Merlin, I've been waiting for this for thirteen bloody years," he muttered. "Do you know how many times I've imagined this conversation?"
"Probably not as many times as I have," James replied, checking his phone one more time. His expression softened slightly as he read the message again. "'Bring rope,'" he read aloud, a note of pride creeping into his voice. "Atta boy, Harry. Marauder through and through."
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Sirius agreed. "Though in this case, it's more like the apple learned to make explosives and decided to blow up the entire orchard."
"I'm so proud," James said, wiping away a mock tear.
Rose watched this exchange with growing fascination. "Can I come?"
"Absolutely not," Lily said immediately.
"But—"
"Rose." James's voice carried that particular tone that meant the discussion was over. "This is adult business. Very adult business."
"The kind of adult business that involves making people regret their life choices," Sirius added. "Which, while educational, is probably not appropriate for someone your age."
"I'm fourteen!" Rose protested. "I'm practically an adult!"
"When you're old enough to legally use the Cruciatus Curse, we'll talk," James said, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Until then, you stay here with your mother and practice your hexes on furniture."
And with that, the two men disappeared into the safehouse's floo network, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and the lingering promise of violence.
Rose stared at the empty fireplace for a moment, then turned to her mother with the kind of expression that suggested she was plotting something elaborate.
"So," she said carefully, "how long do you think they'll be gone?"
Lily set the Ancient Runes book down, her expression hardening into something resolute. "Long enough for us to have a very important conversation about family loyalty and the consequences of betrayal."
"Are you going to tell me about the war?" Rose asked, her voice suddenly serious.
"I'm going to tell you about justice," Lily replied, her eyes glinting with a dangerous light. "And about what happens when someone hurts the people you love."
Rose's grin came back, sharp and full of wicked promise. "I do love a good family reunion," she said.
Lily just smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the same dangerous intelligence that had made her one of the most feared witches of her generation. "Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea."
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, as if the very sky was anticipating the storm that was about to break over Little Hangleton.
And in the safehouse, mother and daughter settled in to wait for the reckoning that had been thirteen years in the making.
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