The muffled sounds of chatter and the soft thud of loafers against polished floors filtered faintly through the closed door of the office—evidence of life still stirring beyond, though quieter now, more subdued. The clock had just struck ten. Most of the Ministry's personnel had long since punched out, vanished in a swirl of Floo powder to modest flats and creaky stairwells. Yet, scattered among the dim corridors were the usual few burning the midnight oil, hunched over manila folders bound in twine, eyes sore and red from scouring case files by wandlight.
In Chief Robards's office, however, the air was thick with something heavier than paperwork and ink. A storm brewed—dark and bitter as the untouched coffee swirling in his chipped mug. The man himself sat stiff-backed behind his desk, fingers steepled, jaw set tight, a sharp breath drawn between clenched teeth.
Before him stood Harry and Ron.
The debrief had been thorough, yet not nearly enough to quell the look carved into Robards's face. It wasn't what had happened that had left him wordless—but how. Harry remained composed, his expression controlled. Ron, however, had relayed the account with far more color and volume.
"So let me get this straight," Robards said finally, his tone flat with disbelief. "You two—"
"—Along with that bloody Yank," Ron cut in, earning a slow blink from the Chief, whose jaw tightened a fraction further.
"Yes. And the Yank," Robards continued coolly, "met with your informant. At the Leaky Cauldron. That correct so far?"
His eyes shifted to Harry, who gave a curt nod.
"Only to find out," Robards went on, "the bastard set you up. On Rookwood's orders. Tried to have you laid out for St. Mungo's."
"Or a pine box," Ron muttered.
"And the Yank…" Robards gestured vaguely with both hands, "...took care of it. All of it. Alone?"
"Most of them, anyway," Ron said, eyes wide. "Pulled out one of those—" he mimed a pistol with his fingers and made a sharp recoil movement. "Muggle contraptions. The kind you see in the films."
"A gun," Harry supplied. "And he was efficient. Brutal. None of them stood a chance."
"Merlin's beard," Robards muttered, rubbing his temple. His eyes remained sharp, pinned on the pair before him. "So, the bloody stories are true, then." He let out a slow breath. "Anyone left breathing?"
"Just Fink," Harry replied, arms folded. "And maybe one or two who weren't left coughing up lead." His tone was clipped, thoughtful. "I hate to admit it, Chief, but the man's got experience. Too much of it, if you ask me. Especially for someone his age."
"I'll say," Ron added, shaking his head. "Said he's been in the Watch since he was ten. Ten! We were still getting bollocked for being late to Potions back then, getting threatened with detentions by Snape."
Robards gave a long, weary shrug. "I've heard the rumors. Most whispered in passing, never anything official. Even Shacklebolt's been careful not to speak of them plainly." He shifted his mug aside. "From what I've pieced together, the Darkwatch existed long before it was ever recognized on paper. Operated globally. Unsanctioned, underground. Ghosts, really."
He paused, his gaze dropping to the worn surface of his desk.
"They took in children. Mostly Squibs. Orphans. Kids left behind by war or worse. Trained them in Muggle warfare. Guns. Tactics. No magic, no mercy. Just one directive—eliminate threats to both our worlds. Quietly. Efficiently."
Ron's brow furrowed. "But if they were running round like that, why didn't they step in when Voldemort took over the Ministry? Why let it all go to hell?"
Robards nodded slowly. "I've wondered that myself." He tapped a finger on the edge of his desk. "But if I had to guess… Voldemort drew too much attention. Too many eyes. Stepping in then might've exposed the entire operation. And I don't reckon the wizarding public or the International Confederation for that matter—would've taken kindly to a pack of armed squibs playing war behind closed doors."
Harry's jaw tightened. "So instead, they wait. Sit on their hands while the world burns. And now that they've been given a green light, they're running around playing judge, jury, and executioner?" His voice lowered, clipped and cold. "I'm not saying the Ministry's flawless, but an organization with that much freedom, no oversight… That's not protection. That's a bloody threat."
"I don't disagree with you, Potter. Not for a second," Robards said. "That said, you can't argue with results. Since Voldemort's fall, they've kept the peace far more efficiently than anything we've managed through protocol and paperwork." His gaze hardened. "History's shown us time and again, when a tyrant falls, there's always a vacuum. Loyalists regroup. Pretenders crawl from the woodwork, hungry for the same power."
Ron frowned, eyebrow arched. "What are you getting at, Chief?"
Robards leaned forward, folding his hands atop the desk as he met their eyes. "Tell me—have either of you heard of anyone actually managing it? Anyone rising up to finish what Voldemort started?"
Harry and Ron blinked. Their eyes widened, realization dawning like a chill settling in the bones.
"No retaliation," Harry murmured. "No real efforts to rebuild the Death Eaters."
"Every whisper shut down before it could get louder," Robards said with a slow nod. "Loyalists vanishing without trace. Others turning up dead. Some in alleys, some in locked rooms, all of them silenced before they could so much as breathe Voldemort's name aloud."
He drew a breath. "And Fudge's assassination didn't just shake the Ministry—it shattered it. You weren't here, but what came after… we had resignation after resignation. Higher-ups walking out, one after the other, like rats deserting a sinking ship."
Ron glanced at Harry. "Because they were afraid."
Robards nodded. "Too right. Afraid that whatever came for Fudge would come for them next. And they had good reason to be. Every one of them had ties. Appointments, favors, debts—all routed back to Fudge. And if the Darkwatch was behind his death, they were sending a message. A loud, bloody one."
"As opposed to what happened at the Leaky Cauldron," Harry said, arms folded tightly across his chest. "Ashford made one call, and minutes later, a bloody army pulled up outside. Within the hour, everything inside had been wiped clean. Ron and I went back in. No blood, no bodies, no broken tables. Looked like nothing had happened at all."
"You should've seen the look on Neville and Hannah's faces," Ron added with a dry chuckle. "Think they were more shocked by the clean-up than the fight itself. They've got better response teams than the Ministry—could've used them during the slime incident a few months back."
Robards gave a humorless grunt before tapping the manila folder in front of him. "Which brings us back to this circus with Rookwood." His eyes sharpened. "According to your report, he's been keeping in touch with your informant—using muggle tech, no less."
His fingers drummed on the file. "Now I don't know about you, but Rookwood's always made his stance on muggles painfully clear. The man wouldn't touch an electric kettle, let alone operate a mobile phone."
"That's what Harry said, Chief," Ron cut in. "Bloke wouldn't know the difference between a pager and a sugar cube."
Robards nodded grimly. "Which means someone's been teaching him. And not just teaching him—they're equipping him. Rookwood's cruel, but he's not stupid. He knows the Watch is on his heels. To stay alive, he needs leverage."
"Exactly," Harry said. "I've seen muggle tech used in wizarding circles, but never by someone like Rookwood. If others follow his lead, we're in uncharted territory."
"I wouldn't worry too much about the rest," Ron said with a smirk. "The Carrows wouldn't know how to work a tele, let alone a stove. Thick as troll dung, the pair of them."
"You're missing the point," Robards said sharply, cutting through the levity. "This isn't about the Watch chasing Rookwood. We already know that." He sat back in his chair, his expression darkening. "Step back. Look at the bigger picture. It's not about Rookwood."
Both men went quiet, watching him.
"It's about whoever he's working with," Robards said. "Someone out there has brought him into the fold—modernized him. Organized him. We're not just dealing with the scraps of a crumbled regime anymore."
He paused, the silence heavy.
"This new group, this shadow organization… if they're moving under the radar, and even the Watch is scrambling to identify them, then we need to be ready for the worst."
Harry's brows drew together. "You think something worse than Voldemort's coming?"
Robards didn't flinch.
"I think it's already here."
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
"Did you at least get Fink to give up Rookwood's location?" Robards asked, his gaze flicking between them.
Harry and Ron exchanged a hesitant glance, but before either could speak, the office door burst open with a loud bang.
"Edinburgh!" Ryan announced, striding in with purpose. The mobile phone gripped in one hand. "Son of a bitch is holed up in Edinburgh."
He marched straight to Robards's desk and dropped the phone with a clatter. "They wiped the device remotely, but my people recovered the metadata and triangulated the signal. That was the last known transmission."
Robards blinked at the phone, then slowly raised his eyes to Ryan. "Right… my apologies, Mister Ashford, but I didn't understand a single bloody word of that."
Ryan exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christ, it's like briefing a room full of cavemen." He turned to Harry, gesturing with an open hand. "You mind?"
Harry let out a long sigh. "He means they were able to trace the last message Fink received back to its point of origin. It leads to Edinburgh. That's where Rookwood's hiding."
"Well, you could've just said that," Robards grumbled.
Ryan dropped into the nearest chair without asking. "Yeah, well, welcome to the twenty-first century."
He leaned back, drawing a slim metal case from inside his jacket. He tapped it against his palm, dislodging a cigarette which he caught between his teeth—only to freeze as Harry shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. With a small scoff, Ryan slid the cigarette back into the case and tucked it away.
Robards had fallen silent, fingers drumming lightly against his chin as something clicked behind his eyes.
"I wonder…" he muttered.
"What is it, Chief?" Harry asked.
"We've got an ongoing investigation up there," Robards replied, gaze lifting. "You've probably heard of it—the Rathbone case."
Harry and Ron stiffened. Ryan just frowned, the name unfamiliar.
"You mean the murder?" Ron asked.
"Exactly," said Robards. "Lord Rathbone wasn't just any wizard. Nobility. Old blood. As prominent as the Malfoys, if not more. Found dead in his estate a month ago. Signs of dark magic at the scene. All evidence points to the Killing Curse."
"What about suspects?" Harry asked.
Robards shook his head. "No clues. No leads. Whoever did it vanished without a bloody trace."
His gaze drifted toward Ryan.
Ryan's expression darkened. "I've no idea what you're implying," he said flatly. "But neither I nor anyone from my division were anywhere near the place. Believe me—if there's one spot they'd rather die choking on Spotted Dick than set foot in, it's Edinburgh. I know I sure would."
"You think Rookwood was involved?" Ron cut in.
"I'm not leaping to conclusions," Robards said carefully, "but I do find it curious that Rookwood's last known location was Edinburgh… and Rathbone just so happened to be one of the few purebloods who refused to bow to Voldemort."
Ryan leaned forward, arms resting across his knees. "That doesn't track," he said, drawing their attention. "Guy's a fugitive. Has a whole damned government after him. Hell, probably more than one. If he had half a brain, he'd be keeping his head down, not icing nobility."
"Unless he's sending a message," Harry muttered.
"Or tying off loose ends," Ron added grimly.
Robards exhaled. "Whatever it is, it's not random. Edinburgh might be the key to more than just Rookwood's hideout."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You saying what I think you're saying, Chief?"
Robards didn't miss a beat. "Potter, Weasley—I want you in Edinburgh by tomorrow. You'll assist with the Rathbone investigation. Follow the trail, see if Rookwood's behind it."
His eyes then slid to Ryan. Cold. Calculated.
"As for you, Mister Ashford."
Ryan tilted his head slightly, a flicker of challenge in his expression.
"It seems that I've underestimated just how much of a liability you might be. I'm fully aware of the organization you represent, and the rather aggressive methods you've grown fond of." Robards' voice dropped. "Let me be perfectly clear—you are operating here under the Ministry's discretion. I won't micromanage your tactics, but I will not tolerate the exposure of our world or the execution of justice without due process."
"With all due respect, Chief," Ryan said, "I know what I look like to you, but I'm far from some overconfident brat fresh outta Hogwarts with a wand and a savior complex."
His expression darkened. "I've been running solo missions since I was thirteen. Real ones. Places where help was a voice over a radio and a prayer, and backup was a luxury I never had. I've reset my own bones. Sewn myself shut with thread from a torn shirt and duct tape."
"I've had to make calls. Calls no kid should ever have to make, all while snot-nosed little purebloods like you were busy wondering if Suzie from Hufflepuff liked liked you back when you were my age." Ryan flicked his hand dismissively. "Now, I don't doubt you've put in your time, but let's not pretend we're the same. What I do, and how I do it, is a whole different league. Put me in a room with Voldy and his freak show, and I'll walk out with his head in a sack. You? You'd be face-down in a ditch, just like the last sorry bastard who sat in that chair."
His eyes locked with Robards as the man's face tightened. "But I digress. You talk about due process. That's adorable. But I've been the one buried under rubble. The one clawing my way out of some hellhole with a busted leg and a broken gun. I've done things that would make your finest Aurors piss themselves in their sleep."
He gestured vaguely. "So, forgive me if I don't salute every time someone waves a parchment. Or pretend bureaucracy's anything more than a slow, polished death sentence. If I'd followed orders to the letter, I'd be rotting in a ditch somewhere. Just like all the others who did."
Robards sat back, unimpressed. "You vastly overestimate your value, Mister Ashford. The Ministry's stood long before your Watch was even an idea. And it will continue to stand long after you've burned out."
Ryan snorted. "Yeah? Just like when Fudge was running the show?"
Robards' jaw twitched.
"You're no dumbass, Chief," Ryan continued. "You know damn well—if the Ministry really had its house in order, if it had been clean all these years… I wouldn't be here. The Darkwatch wouldn't exist."
A tense silence followed, the weight of truth pressing down like fog.
"I could sit here and list every single one of you bums who talked big but folded when it counted," Ryan said, tone razor-sharp. "Torquil Travers. Bartemius Crouch Senior. Amelia Bones. One disaster after another, going back long before I was a damned thought."
Robards moved to speak, but Ryan raised a finger to silence him.
"Don't even start. I've read the files. Studied every department, every directive, every bloody cover-up. They drilled it into us back in the Red Room. Word for word. Day and night. Every failure the Ministry ever buried, we were made to memorize. So, we'd know exactly how deep the rot goes."
"And now look at you. De facto head of the department because the last one let this place turn into a cesspool. Because no one else wanted to clean up the mess. You're sitting there pretending things are fine, when you and half your brass have more grease on your palms than virtue in your chest."
He gestured around the room.
"Faith in the Ministry's circling the drain. You think that damned badge means something? Out there, it's a target. A punchline." A crooked smile tugged at his lips. "So maybe you're right. Maybe I've overestimated my worth. But at least I'm not still pretending this place hasn't already burned down from the inside out."
Robards inhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as his gaze fixed coldly on the young man before him. Fury trembled behind his composure. Ron stood still, eyes flicking between the two. Harry didn't move.
"You'll accompany Mister Potter and Mister Weasley to Edinburgh," Robards said at last. "That is your assignment. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Ryan replied, his smirk unfading, that irritating glint of arrogance still in his eyes.
"And let me make one thing perfectly clear, Mister Ashford." Robards' words sharpened like a blade. "The moment your assignment is complete, I want you out of my department. And believe me, I shall take no small satisfaction in seeing you go. Now, get the hell out of my office."
"Likewise," Ryan said, shoving his chair back with a hard scrape as he rose. He straightened his jacket, smirk never faltering. "Frankly, I'd rather be ducking hexes and chasing Death Eaters than wasting away behind your desk. Not jealous in the slightest."
He moved toward the door, then paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"You've got the dirtiest job in this Ministry—just another overpaid janitor scrubbing Fudge and Voldemort's leftover spunk off the walls, praying no one notices how bad it still stinks. I don't know who you lot pray to, or what passes for religion in your circles, but for your sake, you better hope you get the job done and walk out of here with a shred of dignity. Because if you don't, your name will wind up right in the trash heap. Juse another nutless, limped-dicked failure in a string of nutless, limped-dicked failures."
"Get. Out." Robards growled.
Ryan gave him a wink before stepping out.
Harry exhaled, shaking his head before jerking his chin toward the door. Ron gave a terse nod and followed. But Robards called after them just as they reached the door.
"A word of advice, lads," he said coolly. "Keep your wands close. That man—he's only an ally so long as it serves him. And when it doesn't, I wouldn't count on honor to stay his hand."
Harry turned his head and gave a faint nod.
Then they left, the door clicking shut behind them. Robards leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, the silence in the office heavier now. Ashford's words echoed in his mind, sour and unshakable.
****
As Harry and Ron reached the foot of the stairs, they found Ryan already waiting—leaning back against the wall, arms folded, one foot casually crossed over the other. His eyes met Harry's at once. Harry's gaze, however, was anything but calm. Ron, standing just beside him, wasn't much better. His jaw was tight. Lips pressed into a scowl.
Ryan lifted his chin. "If you've got something to say, Potter, then say it."
But before Harry could speak, a familiar voice called out across the atrium.
"Harry! Ron!"
Their heads turned. A woman strode briskly toward them, heels clacking against the polished floor. She wore a sharp black suit, stockings, and modest heels. Her brown hair was swept into a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. Despite the elegant makeup, the dark rings beneath her eyes told of long nights and longer days. Still, her tired face lit up with a warm smile.
"Hermione," Harry said with a grin, stepping forward as they embraced. "Back from Istanbul already?"
"Morocco, Harry," she replied with a laugh, pulling away. "Do keep up."
She turned to Ron next. The kiss they shared was brief but full of quiet affection.
"I've missed you," she said, brushing his arm.
"Missed you too," Ron replied. "Hope those wankers didn't work you to the bone."
"Oh, I've got stories," she smiled. "You wouldn't believe half of it. But we'll catch up later when we—"
Her words stopped short as her eyes landed on Ryan.
"And who's this?"
Ron glanced back, and just like that, his warmth vanished. "Colleague," he said curtly. "From MACUSA. He's helping us with the Rookwood case."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Rookwood? Why would the Americans be interested in him?"
Ryan stepped forward, his tone cool, casual. "Let's just say he's managed to piss off more than one government." He extended a hand. "Ryan Ashford."
She eyed the gesture for a brief moment, then took it.
"Hermione Granger," she said. "Pleasure."
"Likewise," Ryan replied, releasing her hand. "Nice to meet someone civil for a change."
Hermione glanced between the three of them, sensing the tension like static in the air. Her smile dimmed slightly, but she said nothing.
"So, you're the famous Hermione Granger," Ryan said, slipping his hands casually into the pockets of his slacks. "The half-blood who could run circles around half the purebloods at Hogwarts."
His gaze flicked over her with a knowing smirk. "Top of your class in both magical and non-magical studies. Three promotions in two years. Reformed not one, but two departments. Now you're with Foreign Affairs, and—if I may say so—quite easy on the eyes. Brains and beauty."
He shot Ron a crooked grin. "You really hit the jackpot, Weasley."
Ron's jaw flexed, and he let out a quiet, simmering growl.
Hermione raised a brow. "That's… unusually detailed. Have you been reading my file?"
Ryan shrugged. "I make it my business to know the key players in the Ministry, ma'am. Especially the ones who helped bring down Voldemort."
Hermione's smile thinned, uncertain whether to be flattered or unsettled.
"Anyway," Harry cut in, stepping between them slightly. "We should catch up soon—but not tonight. Chief's sending us to Edinburgh first thing tomorrow."
"Edinburgh?" Hermione frowned. "What on earth for?"
"We've got reason to believe Rookwood's holed up somewhere in the city," Ron added, jaw tightening. "Bastard tried to have us killed at the Leaky Cauldron earlier today."
"What?" Hermione's eyes widened. "Are you serious? What happened?"
"It's alright, Hermione. We handled it," Harry said, raising a hand to calm her. "No one on our side was hurt."
"I did most of the heavy lifting, if we're being honest," Ryan chimed in with a lopsided grin.
Both Ron and Harry shot him a glare.
Ryan shrugged. "What? Just stating facts."
"What about Hannah and Neville?" Hermione asked, a flicker of panic slipping into her tone. "Are they alright?"
"Hermione, love, they're fine," Ron said quickly, resting a hand on her arm. "Bit rattled, sure. They weren't exactly thrilled about all the blood and bullets—"
"Wait—bullets?" Hermione's eyes widened in disbelief. "Please tell me I didn't just hear you say bullets."
Ron froze, eyes widening. "Er… I might've said that a bit loud."
Her gaze snapped to Harry, who looked equally caught out, then swung to Ryan—who raised both hands in mock innocence.
"Don't look at me," Ryan said. "I'm not saying anything they're not ready to admit."
Hermione exhaled sharply, then turned back to Harry. "It had better be a very good story."
"It is," Harry said with a sheepish shrug. "We'll explain everything once we're back. Promise."
She studied the three of them a moment longer before letting out a reluctant sigh. "Fine. I'll hold you to that."
She leaned in to give Ron a soft kiss. "Shacklebolt's called me in. I'll see you at home later, alright? Try to get some sleep."
"Now?" Ron frowned. "Blimey, it's nearly midnight—can't it wait till morning?"
"Apparently not," Hermione said with a wry smile. "He says it's urgent. Oh—speaking of urgent. What's going on with Ginny? I walked into my office to find a dozen owls screaming about it."
"Bugger," Ron muttered, rubbing his forehead. "She's gone dark the past day. Mum's gone spare over it. I told her to calm down—Ginny can handle herself."
"I'll pass a word to my contacts in Bucharest," Hermione said. "See what I can dig up."
She started up the stairs, pausing just long enough to glance back at Harry. "Take care of him, would you?"
"Always," Harry replied with a small grin.
Then she turned to Ryan. "Once again—pleasure."
Ryan nodded. "Likewise."
And with that, Hermione disappeared up the steps, her heels echoing into the quiet.
Harry ran a hand through his hair and let out a sharp breath. "Right. If you don't mind," he said, shooting a pointed glare at Ryan, "it's been an exhausting day, and I'd rather it not end on an even worse note."
"Seconded," Ron muttered, his own glare just as cutting.
The two of them turned and started off. Ryan scoffed under his breath, watching them go, but as he pivoted to leave, something pulled at him—an itch at the back of his mind. Kurumi's words. Damn kid. He paused mid-step, that familiar, grating scrape of guilt rubbing at his insides like sandpaper. He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck before turning on his heel.
"Wait," he called after them.
Harry and Ron stopped. Both turned, their expressions wary, clearly unimpressed.
Ryan stepped closer, his hands slightly raised. "Look… maybe we got off on the wrong foot."
Ron snorted. "Understatement of the bloody century."
Ryan's jaw flexed, but he held the line. "Alright, yeah—I was kind of an ass."
"Kind of?" Harry folded his arms, unimpressed.
Ryan gave a small nod, clearly forcing it out. "Fair. So how about we start over."
Ron raised a brow. "Start over? What, shake hands, smile, and pretend you didn't shoot up the Leaky Cauldron?"
"I'm not asking for a group hug," Ryan said. "Just… a drink. My treat. Top shelf. No strings."
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance—part suspicion, part curiosity.
****
The three of them passed through the revolving doors into the hotel lobby, its golden frames and spotless crystal glass gleaming beneath the lights. The interior unfolded like something from a forgotten era—art-deco elegance dressed in alabaster walls and intricate carvings. Plush wooden furniture lined the marble floors, cushioned in dark velvet, while amber lighting spilled from brass lamps crowned with emerald shades. Exotic carpets lay beneath polished tiles, and towering windows stretched up toward vaulted ceilings.
A rich, layered scent hung in the air—tobacco, aged liquor, and something faintly sweet, like sandalwood.
Ron let out a low whistle, his eyes wide as he turned in place. "Bloody hell. Walked past this place a hundred times. Never figured I'd step inside. Always seemed too posh for the likes of me."
Harry didn't answer. His eyes scanned the room instead, noting how the staff and a few lounging guests were watching them—quiet, discreet, but unmistakably aware. Too aware. He'd never been much more than a name in the Muggle world. So why did this place feel like it knew exactly who he was?
At the front desk stood a sharply dressed woman in a tailored black uniform. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was immaculately styled, and her steel-grey eyes met Ryan's with crisp professionalism.
"Welcome back to the Continental, London, Mister Ashford," she said smoothly. "We've been expecting you."
Ryan gave a faint grin and reached into his jacket, pulling out a small golden coin unlike any Harry had ever seen. No familiar markings, no indication of country or currency—just something heavy with quiet significance. He slid it across the counter to her.
"Good to be back, Charlotte," he said. "I'll take the usual. Also, book me with the tailor first thing tomorrow. Need a new fitting."
"Of course," she replied, taking the coin and slipping it beneath the desk with practiced ease. "And how long will you be staying with us?"
"For the foreseeable future," Ryan said with a half-smirk. "Work assignment. If the room I had last time's still free, I'd appreciate it."
"I'll see to it," Charlotte said with a nod.
"Much obliged," Ryan replied, stepping back. "Bags are in the car. Keys are with the valet."
"Have a pleasant evening, Mister Ashford," Charlotte said with a faint smile. "As always, we are happy to be of service."
Harry looked from Charlotte to Ryan, the sense of familiarity between them and the place making him uneasy. Whatever kind of hotel this was, it wasn't ordinary.
Ryan turned toward Harry, one brow cocked. "You always this wound up, Potter? Relax. It's a hotel, not a morgue." His smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth as he jerked his head toward the corridor. "Come on. Bar's this way."
Without waiting for a reply, he started down the hall, boots tapping steadily against the marble floor.
Ron gave a shrug and fell in behind him.
Harry lingered for a moment, casting one last glance over his shoulder. The guests hadn't looked away. Their stares still clung to him. Measured, quiet, like they were watching more than just a man walk past. He felt it in his bones. Not fear exactly. Just something off.
He exhaled, slow and tense, then turned and followed.
****
"And so, she says, 'It's Levi-ooo-sa, not Levi-o-sar,'" Ron gestured with both hands, his cheeks flushed from his third glass of scotch. "And me, being the little tosser I was, I told her that's why she hadn't got any friends."
"No way," Ryan burst out, nearly choking on his bourbon. "You didn't! You absolute ass!"
"Don't hold it against me," Ron grinned. "We've all been idiots once."
"Right," Harry chimed in, smirking. "Then we ended up in the girls' bathroom, wrestling a troll. I jammed my wand up its nose. Still don't know what possessed me—and Ron here knocked it out cold with its own club using the Levitation Charm."
"Wand smelled of troll bogies for a week," Ron added with a laugh.
"Professor McGonagall gave us five points," Harry said, shaking his head. "Called it nothing more than sheer dumb luck."
Ryan chuckled as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Alright, I take it back. Sounds like Hogwarts wasn't all homework and broody professors." He took a swig. "Man, JD still hits like home." He set his glass down on the low table next to two half-drained bottles of whiskey.
"Could've done without the homework, mind you," Ron muttered, swirling the scotch in his glass. "What were you up to, then?"
"Me?" Ryan leaned back, sinking into the worn leather of the couch, his arm draped lazily over the side. "If I'm remembering right, I was learning a neat little trick called the Mozambique Drill."
Ron raised a brow, sipping from his glass. "Sounds exotic. What's it do?"
Ryan leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You shoot a guy twice in the chest, then one in the head."
The table went quiet. Harry and Ron stared, caught between disbelief and unease.
"They made us run it until it was second nature," Ryan said. "First on paper targets. Then mannequins. Then…" He hesitated for a beat. "Then live ones."
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, his drink forgotten.
Ryan gave a dry scoff and waved his hand. "Relax. We weren't actually shooting each other, alright? Rubber rounds. Paintballs. Not real bullets—at least not at first. They weren't that insane." He leaned back again with a tired grin. "Though, I'm not sure what's worse. Getting shot in the vest or trying to scrub orange paint out your eyes for a week."
Ryan looked between them, then let out a long breath. "Alright. Let's do this," he said. "Ask me anything. About the Darkwatch. About me. About…" He motioned vaguely with his hand. "All of it. Anything I can answer, I will. No lies. No dodging. But don't expect me to go spilling state secrets."
Before either of them could speak, he held up a finger. "But for every question you ask, I get one of my own. That fair?"
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Ron reached for the scotch and poured himself another, muttering, "Gonna need a top-up for this bloody mess."
Harry nodded slowly, then leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "Alright. We're game."
Ryan gave a crooked smirk. "You start."