Longbottom Manor – Drawing Room, Next Morning
It was, frankly, infuriating how effortlessly Harry managed it.
He woke up with bedhead that somehow looked deliberate, brushed his teeth, ducked under Daphne's bare, silky legs draped lazily across the armrest of the drawing room's Victorian chaise—as if she were auditioning for a Greek sculpture—and made his way to the tea tray like nothing was out of the ordinary.
Nothing at all about the fact that she was wearing his shirt. Or that it was unbuttoned.
He kept his eyes firmly on the Earl Grey, because survival instincts were a thing. Unfortunately, his peripheral vision had excellent taste and no shame.
Harry sipped his tea with all the innocence of a Victorian maiden and sauntered into a conversation that most people would have prepped an entire legal team for.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the far end of the room like a statue the Ministry had carved out of a thunderstorm and given very good robes. Ministry black, of course, but with silver-threaded cuffs that shimmered when he moved. His wand hand rested on the table's polished mahogany like he was just daring the world to misbehave.
"So," Harry began casually, swirling the contents of his teacup, "about Hogwarts."
Kingsley's dark brow arched. "Already asking for favours, Potter?"
Harry sank into the armchair across from him, legs spread with the deliberate arrogance of someone who had nothing to prove and proved it anyway. He flashed a grin that was all cheek and none of the appropriate decorum. "Technically, not a favour. More of a… tactical recalibration."
"You always did have a way with euphemisms," Kingsley murmured.
"Thank you," Harry said brightly. "I practice in the mirror. Along with my smouldering hero stare. You know, in case there's a Daily Prophet photographer hiding in the shrubbery."
"Which is unlikely," Hermione muttered from her post by the coffee table, "considering we've got anti-media wards covering three acres."
She didn't look up from the stack of parchment, where she was cross-referencing threat maps with a quill that seemed to be losing the will to live.
"He means training," she added, flipping a page crisply. "We need coordination time. Strategy. And a secure location."
"Preferably one that won't collapse if we set a boggart on fire," Harry offered helpfully.
From the window, Neville turned, arms crossed over his chest like a bouncer contemplating violence. "There's a place," he said, voice deeper than anyone remembered it being in school. "Room of Requirement. Hogwarts. It becomes whatever we need."
"Simulations," said Harry, setting his cup down with an authoritative clink. "Combat scenarios. Worst-case spellcasting drills. You know—teenage fun."
"We don't have a week," Neville continued. "We've got maybe thirty-six hours before Aberystwyth gets turned into a cautionary tale."
Kingsley was silent for a long moment, considering. Then he asked, "You think the Headmistress will allow this?"
Harry gave a slow, deliberate smile. "I think Minerva McGonagall would rather see me blow a hole through her fourth corridor than let us go in blind."
Before Kingsley could respond, Daphne entered the room, barefoot and glorious, wearing a coffee mug and a smirk. His shirt slipped off one shoulder like it had given up fighting gravity.
"Besides, Minister," she said with the musical lilt of a girl who'd never been told no and wasn't planning to start now, "if you don't let us in, we'll probably sneak in anyway. What's the point of dating The Chosen One if you can't abuse the privileges?"
Kingsley's eyes flicked to her, to Harry, to the suggestive way she casually perched on the armrest of his chair and let her legs brush against his arm like it meant nothing—and very much everything.
"You know this is a formal negotiation," Kingsley said, tone neutral.
"Mmm," Daphne murmured, sipping her coffee. "But formal is so… boring."
Susan gave a snort from the other armchair, where she was sprawled like she was in the common room and not an emergency war meeting. Her flame-red curls were tied up in a messy ponytail, and her boots were propped on the table next to a half-sharpened dagger.
"We're not above breaking and entering," she said dryly. "Or breaking and exorcising, if it comes to that."
"You mean like what you did to that haunted flat in Camden?" Harry asked innocently.
"That thing had seventeen teeth and a thing for untying my braids mid-sleep," Susan retorted.
"I mean… who doesn't?" Daphne murmured, eyes twinkling, and winked at her.
Susan blinked. Then smirked. "Flirt with me after we survive."
"No promises," Harry said cheerfully.
Kingsley's mouth twitched. "I forget sometimes that you lot aren't students anymore."
"We're not," Hermione said quietly, looking up from her maps. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, met his without flinching. "We're the next line of defense."
The silence that followed didn't fall. It rose—swift and cold, like a blade unsheathed.
Kingsley studied them all, one by one. Neville, built like a blunt instrument, steady as stone. Hermione, precision incarnate. Susan, violence wrapped in charm. Daphne, all beauty and danger and unapologetic power. And Harry, casually leaning back in the eye of the storm, that green gaze unreadable—and unafraid.
"You're young," Kingsley said at last. "Too young."
Harry stood and dusted off his shirt with theatrical care. "And yet terrifying, I hope."
Kingsley gave a brief, dark chuckle. "More than you know."
Harry winked. "We get that a lot."
Kingsley nodded. "I'll speak to her."
"Not to be pushy—" Harry began.
"You're always pushy," Kingsley said, already turning to the Floo. "But in this case… you're right."
As the green flames flared to life, Daphne leaned in closer, her lips brushing the shell of Harry's ear as she whispered, "You owe me breakfast."
He smiled, eyes still on the fire. "Thought I was breakfast."
Susan made a face. "Gods, warn a girl before the innuendos fly."
"No promises there either," Harry said, voice rich with laughter.
"Charming," Kingsley muttered, vanishing into the flames.
Harry folded his arms, watching the fire twist.
"Right," he said. "Now, who wants to pack bug-out bags and charm combat boots?"
"Shotgun the basilisk venom," Daphne purred.
"Shotgun your shirt," Susan added, smirking.
Harry sighed. "Fine, but someone else has to explain to McGonagall why we're all in various states of undress during a magical briefing."
"Oh please," Daphne said. "She's Scottish. She'll respect it."
—
Hogwarts – Entrance Hall, Two Hours Later
The gates of Hogwarts creaked open like a breath being held.
And then released.
They stepped through as one — six figures framed in cold morning mist, battle-ready and ridiculous all at once.
Waiting just inside the threshold, immovable and unimpressed, stood her.
Minerva McGonagall.
No fanfare. No enchanted scrolls or animated gargoyles heralding their arrival. Just the Headmistress of Hogwarts herself, draped in midnight-blue tartan like a storm disguised as a professor, her wand in hand and her expression carved out of Scottish granite — with just enough caffeine behind her eyes to suggest she hadn't slept since the Goblin Rebellion of '92.
"Potter," she said. That voice could chill lava. Or turn a full-grown centaur to stone.
Harry had the audacity to grin.
He looked like trouble in boots and charm — tall, broad-shouldered, windblown, and altogether too pretty for her peace of mind. His emerald eyes practically glowed with impudence.
"Professor," he replied, voice low and cheerful. "You're looking particularly death-by-glare today. Suits you."
McGonagall's lips didn't so much as twitch. "You've brought guests."
Hermione stepped forward, posture straight, tone diplomatic — as if trying to preempt the inevitable catastrophe. "Headmistress, we were hoping to request access to the Room of Requirement. For strategic purposes. Training simulations. Strictly professional."
McGonagall's gaze swept over them like a magical MRI. She took her time.
"Miss Granger."
A curt nod.
"Miss Bones."
A raised brow at the dagger strapped openly to Susan's thigh.
"Miss Greengrass."
The temperature in the Entrance Hall dropped two degrees.
Daphne Greengrass smiled, slow and unbothered, iced coffee in one hand — complete with a tiny enchanted pink umbrella spinning gently in the cold wind. She was wearing a white cable-knit jumper that was definitely stolen from Harry, oversized sunglasses pushed up into her waves of golden hair, and the smug confidence of someone who'd spent the morning distracting the Boy Who Lived from putting on pants.
"Headmistress," she said sweetly. "Love the tartan. Very 'I will obliterate you and not lose a single curl doing it.' Iconic, really."
McGonagall gave no visible reaction. But somewhere deep inside, a vein probably popped.
She turned to Neville next, whose frame filled the archway like a walking tree. "Mr. Longbottom. Still murdering Mandrakes with excessive kindness, I trust?"
Neville flushed. "Only the aggressive ones."
McGonagall sighed. Long-suffering. The sound of a woman who'd taught this lot during puberty.
"You have twelve hours," she said crisply. "The castle will accommodate you. Do not destroy anything. Do not duel in the Great Hall. Do not—under any circumstances—detonate anything enchanted, possessed, or otherwise classified as a 'mystical war crime.'"
Harry placed a hand over his heart like a knight pledging fealty. "Come now, Professor. We're not first-years anymore."
"You said that the day before you flooded the third-floor corridor with Acromantula webs."
"To be fair," Daphne cut in smoothly, shifting closer to Susan like she was sharing a delightful secret, "he was twelve. And had just been possessed by Voldemort's diary. Bit of a rough quarter."
"Still decapitated a sixty-foot murder noodle," Susan said, grinning. "Peak Potter."
Harry groaned. "Are we calling it that now? I would've gone with Chamber of Secretions."
Hermione made a strangled sound. "That's disgusting."
"Terrifyingly on-brand," Daphne purred. "Which is why I'm keeping it."
Susan rolled her eyes. "Please don't put that on a t-shirt. Or a bumper sticker. Or a magically-animated thong."
"Too late," Daphne said. "Already submitted the order."
McGonagall looked like she wanted to Avada the entire room just on principle. "If you must flirt," she said dryly, "kindly wait until I'm no longer within hexing range."
"No promises, Professor," Harry replied with a grin.
She turned with a sweep of tartan and vanished into the shadows of the castle like a wrathful spirit of Scottish academia.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Harry clapped his hands. "Right, troops. Room of Requirement. Time to level up."
Daphne fell into step beside him, her hand brushing his in a touch that felt like a dare. "You mean time to become even more terrifying."
Harry glanced down at her with mock innocence and devastating charm. "Careful, Greengrass. You keep flattering me like that, and I might just fall in love all over again."
"Oh?" she purred. "I thought I was the one who didn't fall."
He chuckled. "You tripped once. On my broom handle. I have witnesses."
Susan groaned. "Merlin's saggy trousers, can we not play another round of sexual innuendo ping-pong in the Entrance Hall? This place already has trauma."
Harry smirked over his shoulder. "Don't tempt me, Bones. You're next on the flirt list."
Susan pointed a finger. "You try that, and I'll hex your trousers into next week."
Daphne raised a hand. "Do it anyway. For science."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose like she was debating whether betrayal was a valid survival tactic. "Less flirting. More war planning. Please."
"You alphabetized the spell list by etymological root," Susan said, falling into step.
"She does that when she's nervous," Neville added with a grin.
"I do not," Hermione said.
"Page one," Harry said helpfully, "is entirely comprised of incantations originating from ancient Greek. With citations."
"I hate all of you," she muttered.
Harry slipped an arm around Daphne's waist, tugging her just a little closer. "You love us. You just express it in footnotes."
As they passed through the towering doors of the Entrance Hall, the torches flared to life.
The stone beneath their feet stirred. The magic in the walls breathed, whispered, remembered.
The castle — ancient, sentient, and entirely too nosy — watched.
Names echoed silently through the bones of the place.
Not as students.
But as warriors.
And Hogwarts, in all her storm-forged glory, held her breath.
Because war was coming.
And so were they.
—
Room of Requirement – Moments Later
Neville stood center stage in the vast, ever-shifting room, arms flung wide as if orchestrating some ancient, invisible orchestra. Behind him, the Room of Requirement unfurled like a dream in motion — walls stretching, shrinking, reconfiguring with the ease of muscle memory. Weapon racks shimmered into being. Practice dummies marched out of stone recesses like wooden soldiers eager to be dismembered. A glowing dueling platform rose from the center like a challenge issued in marble.
"This," Neville declared, chest puffed with an almost cartoonish sense of pride that somehow still made him look like a walking Norse god in a cardigan, "is Hogwarts' Swiss Army knife. You want enchanted blades? Bam. Medical supplies? Got it. Training arenas, concealment simulations, broom courses? She's got more tricks than a cursed vault."
Harry stepped in behind him, hands in his pockets, eyes roving over the room with casual appreciation. His tousled black hair looked like it had lost a battle with gravity — and enjoyed every second of it — and his emerald eyes were alive with amused mischief.
"Impressive," he said. "Though I still say the Room should start taking tips. Imagine the upgrades if we fed it a few modern luxuries. Like a mini-bar. Or a sarcasm-powered espresso machine."
He turned toward the tapestry just beside the entryway — the infamous depiction of Barnabas the Barmy mid-twirl, a frilly tutu clinging for dear life as he instructed a confused troll on how to plié without demolishing the floorboards.
Harry tilted his head. "Barnabas. Patron saint of glitter-related delusion. You've got to respect a man who looked at a troll and thought, 'You, sir, are my Swan Lake.'"
Daphne's voice slipped in behind him like silk dragging across skin.
"Only you, Potter," she murmured, stepping up beside him, iced coffee in hand and that impossible smirk painted across her mouth, "could turn ballet and a murder noodle into the same sentence."
He looked her up and down — white jumper slightly oversized (and very much his), glossy waves cascading past expensive sunglasses, the faint shimmer of lip gloss that made it very hard to concentrate.
"And only you, Greengrass," Harry drawled, inching closer, "could make that umbrella look like it's packing concealed curses and a flirtation clause."
Daphne twirled the tiny pink umbrella between her fingers like she was debating using it as a wand.
"It does bite," she said, "but only when provoked. Or when someone gets cocky."
Susan strolled up behind them, arms crossed over her snug crimson combat jacket, her flaming hair pulled into a messy braid that screamed effortless danger.
"That thing," she said, nodding at the umbrella, "is way too cheerful to not be possessed. I'm expecting it to start singing any second."
"I was going to charm it to serenade Potter," Daphne said sweetly. "Something moody. Maybe Careless Whisper."
Hermione stormed past them, parchment held like a holy artifact, brows drawn so tightly together they could deflect curses.
"We are not," she snapped, "spending the apocalypse serenading Harry Potter with George Michael."
"Not with that attitude," Daphne muttered.
"Focus, please," Hermione said, glaring at all of them. "This isn't a joke. We're on borrowed time. The simulations I programmed—"
"—Will murder us softly with Latin incantations," Harry finished for her, tossing her a cheeky salute. "Noted. Absolutely terrified. And yet — still devastatingly handsome under pressure."
"Still insufferable under pressure," Hermione corrected.
Neville leaned against a rack of spears, arms folded, biceps doing unspeakable things to his Henley. "She does have a point. You're technically not allowed to flirt mid-battle scenario."
Harry grinned. "Which is why I do it before, during, and after."
Daphne hummed in agreement, eyes never leaving his. "Some of us find multitasking... impressive."
"You mean arousing," Susan said flatly.
Harry looked between them, mock-offended. "Am I being objectified?"
"Obviously," Daphne replied. "Get used to it, sweetheart. You're dating a Greengrass. Our house crest might as well be a warning label."
Susan arched a brow. "Please. You two flirt like the walls aren't sentient."
"They are," Hermione muttered, scanning a rune-laced diagram. "And frankly, the walls deserve better."
Neville clapped his hands, voice cutting through the banter like a spell breaking. "Alright, team. Less sexual tension, more preparation for magical annihilation. Let's move."
The room adjusted again — torches flickering brighter, the floor shifting beneath them to accommodate a rapidly growing dueling platform. It gleamed, inviting and dangerous.
Harry leaned toward Daphne, his breath warm near her ear. "Careful now, Greengrass. Keep smirking like that, and I'll start thinking you actually like me."
She tilted her head, lashes low, lips parted just enough to look like a promise.
"Oh, I do," she murmured. "But if you keep talking like that, I might be forced to prove it. Publicly. In ways that'll make McGonagall faint."
"Merlin's saggy y-fronts," Susan groaned. "Can you two maybe not incite magical PDA in the murder room?"
"Don't worry," Daphne said. "You're next, Bones."
Harry blinked. "Wait. I'm next, or she's next?"
Daphne sipped her coffee, pinky raised. "Yes."
Susan narrowed her eyes. "Try me, Greengrass. I'm one snide comment away from hexing your bra into singing Celestina Warbeck."
Harry sighed happily. "My girls. Equal parts chaos and homicide. It's like being in love with two perfectly sharpened daggers."
Hermione waved her parchment in frustration. "Will everyone shut up and practice?!"
Neville laughed. "Right! Let's make legends, team."
The magic in the Room swelled as the group moved into position, energy buzzing between them like a living spell.
As Harry stepped up to the platform, he caught Daphne's eye again — heat flaring between them like the strike of a match.
"No matter what happens," he murmured, "just remember... I'm still the most charming disaster in the room."
Daphne grinned, sharp and glorious. "Only because I haven't started a full catastrophe yet."
And Hogwarts — ancient, aware, and watching — braced herself.
Because this wasn't just a training session.
This was the beginning of the end.
And they were going to make it glorious.
—
Room of Requirement – The Armory Chamber
The chamber exhaled slowly, reshaping itself with deliberate, ancient magic. Walls gleamed with obsidian shadows that seemed to ripple like liquid night, curving around racks of gleaming weapons and armor humming softly with a deep, latent power. The air tasted sharp — a blend of ozone, old leather, and something electric, like the moment just before a storm breaks.
Neville stepped forward first, a grounded force in the swirling magic. His armor bloomed around him with the weight and texture of forest bark — deep ashy greens and bark-browns layered in Ukrainian Ironbelly dragonhide and Acromantula silk. His military-green hood slipped up with a soft hiss, and his face disappeared behind a matte grey-and-forest-green visor etched with delicate runes. Pale green lenses flickered to life like distant stars in twilight.
"Druid's ready," Neville's voice came, muffled but steady, his tone the solid heartbeat of the group.
Harry moved next, slipping forward like a shadow bleeding into flame. The Blood Raven armor wrapped around him with breathless grace: the black bodysuit clinging like basilisk belly-silk—soft, supple, and near-impervious; the red plates shining sharp and unyielding like molten garnets, hard as basilisk skull. His crimson hood snapped tight, framing the black mask that swallowed his voice in a silky hush. The white lenses in the mask glowed with ancient runes, swirling beneath the surface — sight beyond sight, magic bleeding in spectral waves, threats burning in heat.
"Blood Raven's ready to bleed the night red," Harry intoned, voice a low hiss, serpentine and darkly hypnotic beneath the magical distortion.
Daphne was a whisper of winter as she stepped forward, her Skadi armor a perfect contrast — sleek white and icy blue, more second skin than armor, clinging to every lithe curve with the lethal grace of a stalking predator. Fireball hide glinted faintly beneath the shimmering Acromantula silk, runes etched into her white hood's lining glowing like frozen stars. Her voice vanished under enchantment, replaced by an ethereal echo — a breath of Arctic wind haunting their comms.
"Noctua, Morrigan, Druid," her voice sang, cold and clear, like ice fracturing in a still lake.
Hermione followed, all keen intellect and silent precision. Her Noctua armor was the color of earth and shadow — layered Ukrainian Ironbelly dragonhide and Acromantula silk, black and brown with runes pulsing softly beneath the surface. Her hood dropped over her face with a whisper, runes flickering alive inside, voice cool and sharp through the magical veil.
"Morrigan, Druid—systems green," Hermione said crisply, the calm command of a scholar who'd long ago mastered the battlefield.
Susan brought up the rear, a storm cloaked in black and crimson. Her Morrigan armor melded iron scales with supple leather, crimson runes smeared like fresh blood streaking across her arms and chest. Her black hood and half-mask left only fierce, burning eyes visible — a predator's glare that promised chaos. The faint scent of garlic and ash clung to her, and her boots made no sound as she flexed, prepared for death's silent dance.
"Storm's ready to break," she growled, voice low and dangerous, like thunder rumbling over a battlefield.
Harry's emerald eyes caught Daphne's through the mesh of their hoods, heat sparking between them beneath their magical veils. His voice slid into her ear, low and teasing despite the filter.
"So," he murmured, "ready to see if your frostbite can handle my fire tonight?"
A frosty chuckle slipped back. "Only if your flames don't fizzle out before the hunt's over, Raven."
Neville snorted, dry and steady. "Less flirting, more fighting, you two. Save the pyrotechnics for after we survive, yeah?"
Hermione's voice cut through sharp as a blade. "This isn't The Bachelor, Potter. Focus. The enemy's simulated but every bit as lethal. No lone wolves—we're a team."
Susan's voice flickered with dark amusement. "Yeah, and that means knowing when to hex... and when to make 'em stay hexed."
Harry's chuckle was soft, a spark of mischief. "That's my girls. Deadly charm with a side of death — perfect combo."
Daphne's icy echo was a teasing purr. "Careful, Blood Raven. Keep distracted and I might charm you first."
His eyes glittered, emerald fire. "Charm me? Darling, I'm the one wearing the venom."
A beat passed, then Neville raised a steady hand. "Alright. Team Blood Raven—on my mark. Engage Simulation Alpha."
The room convulsed, walls dissolving into black mist. When the haze cleared, they stood beneath skeletal trees silhouetted against a starless void. Shadows pooled and stretched, whispers curling like smoke in the chill wind.
Hermione's voice crackled over comms, sharp with warning. "This simulation adapts. Don't give it an inch."
Harry's white lenses flared, picking out heat signatures in the cold dark. "Let's light it up."
The hunt had begun.
—
Moonless Forest – Simulation Alpha
The cold bit deep, the skeletal trees clawing upward like desperate hands, their twisted limbs silhouetted against the merciless void above. The air was sharp with frost and danger, tasting like the promise of blood spilled on ice. Shadows writhed unnaturally, flickering at the edge of vision, as if the forest itself breathed with malicious intent.
Harry crouched low, every muscle coiled and ready to spring. His emerald eyes blazed through the runes etched on his mask, white lenses pulsing with spectral light. The red pauldrons of his Blood Raven armor caught shards of pale moonlight, glinting like molten garnets set to ignite.
"Alright, Team," Harry breathed into their comms, silk and smoke twisting through his voice, "we're the only warm things in this frozen hell. Let's make damn sure it stays that way."
A breath of cold blue whispered back through the link.
"Keep up, Firestarter," Daphne's voice was ice sliding over glass—cool, lethal, teasing. "Don't want you melting before the fun even begins."
Harry's grin was audible behind his mask, dripping charm. "If you're the frost, then consider me the sun—ready to burn your world down, sweetheart."
Neville's voice rumbled steady and sure like distant thunder. "Focus up. I'm taking the left flank. Noctua, rear overwatch. Morrigan, eyes sharp on the right."
Hermione's tone cut razor-sharp through the frost air, no nonsense and commanding every second. "Sensors active. Multiple heat signatures thirty meters out, closing fast. They're trying to flank us."
Susan's growl rolled like thunder low in the back of the comms. "Let 'em try. I'll paint these shadows crimson if they get close."
Harry's gaze flicked to Daphne through the magic mesh of their hoods, heat crackling between them despite the chill.
"You look dangerously cold," he murmured, silk and fire combined, "but I do love a challenge."
Her voice, smooth and dangerously teasing: "Careful what you wish for, blood mage. I bite harder than this goddamn cold."
The underbrush exploded—a dozen simulated fiends, twisted by dark enchantments, their eyes glowing like dying stars.
Harry's lenses flared, runes lighting up on every target like a hunter's map.
"Targets locked," he said, voice sharp as broken glass.
With serpentine grace, Harry struck first—magic crackling from his gauntlets, claws of pure force snapping like vipers. His gauntleted fist slammed into a lead fiend's skull, bone-shattering and merciless. The creature vanished into a whisper of black mist.
Daphne was a streak of frost and fury, moving through enemies with balletic lethal grace. Her icy runes flared, releasing a pulse of frost that froze a cluster mid-charge, their screams swallowed by brittle silence.
Harry swallowed hard at the sight, admiration flickering beneath his mischief. "Nice freeze. But can you handle the burn?"
Her laugh—a crystalline, haunting chime—sent shivers crawling down his spine. "Try me."
Neville's voice steadied the cadence. "Left flank clear, Potter! Watch your six!"
Harry twisted just in time to block a shadowy blade, his pauldrons flaring with a red-and-black kinetic shield. He retaliated with a brutal pulse of energy that sent enemies flying like ragdolls caught in a storm.
Susan's voice sliced through, dark and sultry. "Careful, Firestarter. Get distracted and you'll end up on the wrong side of my hex."
Harry's grin was a devilish growl even through the filtered comms. "Oh, Morrigan, if I'm distracted, it's only 'cause you and Frostbite here make a damn tempting pair."
Daphne's icy chuckle warmed the comms. "Watch it, Raven. Or you'll have both of us on your heels."
Hermione's voice cut through, sharp and unyielding. "Tight formation, people! We're a team, not a bloody circus."
Neville's tone was dry, amused, a grounded anchor. "And Potter—no flirting until we clear this simulation."
Harry's voice dipped low, conspiratorial. "Where's the fun in that?"
They moved like a storm incarnate—Daphne's frost and Harry's fire clashing in perfect chaotic harmony, turning the spectral forest into a battleground of ice and flame. Susan's shadows danced with lethal grace, twisting around enemies like living daggers, while Hermione's precise strikes and tactical calls kept them two steps ahead of the adaptive simulation.
As the final shadow crumpled, the forest seemed to hold its breath before dissolving into swirling mist.
Harry exhaled, voice rough and satisfied. "Well, that was almost too easy."
Daphne's voice held mock reproach, low and thrilling. "Careful, Firestarter, or I'll have to show you how the real cold bites."
Harry's emerald eyes glinted with promise. "Maybe you should. I'm more than willing to get frostbite."
Susan's laugh was a sultry rumble, dark amusement threading through it. "And don't forget who's lurking in the shadows, ready to keep you both honest."
Hermione sighed, equal parts amused and focused. "One thing's clear—Team Blood Raven might just survive the night… if you ever stop flirting long enough to fight."
Neville's steady chuckle sealed the moment. "Yeah, yeah. Now let's see if you can pull it off without trying to seduce the enemy."
Harry's last word was a breathless, playful whisper. "Where's the challenge in that, Neville?"
—
Moonless Forest – Simulation Beta
The air had thickened, heavy with the scent of ozone and raw magic. The cold now burned like acid on skin, the forest's spectral trees twisting into grotesque shapes, their branches like claws ready to snatch and tear. The simulated enemy had leveled up, and so had the stakes.
Harry's breath steamed in the freezing air as he scanned the dim horizon, emerald eyes slicing through the darkness like twin lasers. His gauntlets glowed with volatile energy, humming with barely restrained power.
"Alright, firebugs and frostbite," he purred into comms, "let's see if this place can handle a little chaos."
Daphne's voice slid back, silk over steel. "You talk big for someone who almost got iced last round."
Harry's grin was pure sin through the mask. "A near-death experience only sharpens the appetite."
Neville's voice rumbled in, steady as a war drum. "Positions. Noctua, cover the rear. Hermione, Morrigan, flank left. Daphne, Potter, center push. Let's crush them before they know what hit 'em."
Hermione's calm, clinical tone was a razor. "Thermal spikes detected—at least forty hostiles converging on our position. They're adapting to our last engagement patterns."
Susan's growl was dark velvet, dripping with promise. "Then we'll have to surprise them. I'll cloak us in shadows—let's make these fiends choke on darkness."
Harry's emerald gaze flickered with amusement. "Shadows, frost, and fire. Quite the recipe for disaster."
"Don't forget the secret ingredient," Daphne teased, voice cool and dangerous. "A dash of irresistible charm."
Harry's chuckle was a low burn. "You mean my British sass? That's classified weaponry."
The forest erupted. Shadows surged forward—twisted creatures moving like liquid nightmare.
Harry's gauntlets sparked as he unleashed a wave of fire, a blazing arc that swallowed half the charge. Daphne was a ghost of ice, her hands weaving crystalline sigils that erupted in shards, slicing through enemies with surgical precision.
Harry caught a glimpse of her eyes—icy blue flecked with molten gold—and felt the heat of something deeper crackling between them. He ducked a swipe, then threw a glance at Susan, who melted into the darkness, her shadowy tendrils snaking around foes like vipers.
"Frostbite, you're a damn marvel," Harry muttered. "And Raven? You're one wicked shadow queen."
Daphne's reply was a breathless tease. "Flattery will get you killed out here, sunshine."
Susan's laugh was low, a dangerous purr. "Careful, Potter. Or I'll hex you into next week."
Neville's bark cut through the banter. "Eyes up! Incoming from the right!"
Harry spun, deflecting a barrage of shadow blades with a fiery kinetic shield. He countered with a blast that sent enemies reeling, their forms flickering like dying embers.
Daphne dove forward, ice shards exploding with lethal elegance, freezing foes mid-strike. She glanced over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Try and keep up, Firestarter."
Harry shot back, voice dripping with challenge. "Lead the way, Frostbite."
The battle intensified—a deadly ballet of flame and frost, shadow and steel. Hermione's voice cut in with tactical commands, each strike coordinated and precise. Neville was the immovable bulwark, fists crushing enemies with brutal efficiency.
And then, in the thick of the chaos, Harry found himself caught between Daphne's icy heat and Susan's dark allure—a triangle of tension sharp enough to slice through the storm.
Breathless, Harry's voice teased, "If this whole saving the world thing doesn't work out, I might just recruit you both for a very different kind of mission."
Daphne's laugh was a promise. "Don't tempt us, Potter."
Susan's growl was a sultry threat. "You're playing with fire—and shadows."
Harry's grin was wicked. "And I'm already burning."
---
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