Harry sat still, glass of scotch in hand, the single ice sphere clinking quietly as it rolled. He gave it a swirl, then looked up and met Ryan's eyes.
"Back in Robards's office, you mentioned something… the Red Room," he said. "What is it?"
"Ah." Ryan leaned forward, grabbed his bourbon, and knocked it back in one go. The glass hit the table with a dull thud as he exhaled.
"Think of it as my version of school," he said. "Only darker. And a whole lot more messed up."
He reached for the bottle of Jack and poured another, the liquid catching the warm amber light. "Before the Watch had a name, it was something else. The Direct Attack Initiative, or the Lycoris Program, depending on who you ask. Cooked up by a handful of lunatics in suits across the globe—people who thought laws weren't safeguards, but shackles."
He tapped the bottle against the table, then lifted his eyes toward Harry.
"Go on. Three guesses what kicked it all off."
"Grindelwald," Harry said without missing a beat.
Ryan smirked. "Houston, we have a winner. First try, too."
Ron blinked. "Who's Houston?"
"Not important," Ryan said, waving it off. "After ole' Grindy nearly dragged the world into chaos, some clever bastard thought—what if we could train someone to move between both worlds? Wizard and Muggle. Someone who could find the monsters hiding in either. Hunt them. Kill them. And someone else went, 'Why not squibs?'"
Ron's brow furrowed.
"Not just any squibs," Ryan added. "Orphans. Unwanted kids dumped by their oh-so-proud wizarding families ashamed of their mistakes. Survivors of murder scenes. Children so broken they had nothing left to lose. They wanted tools, not people."
He downed another sip, eyes distant.
"I was ten when they brought me in," he said quietly. "Before I ever saw a battlefield, I had to make it through training. The Red Room. That's what they called it."
He paused, rolling the glass slowly between his hands.
"There were hundreds of us. Kids. Different races, different ages. They taught us everything—marksmanship, close quarters combat, tactical response, field medicine, infiltration. They drilled it into us day and night. And then the tests started."
Ryan's eyes flicked back to them. "They started with nearly a six hundred from across the globe. By the time it was over… a hundred were left. We lost even more over the years."
"Blimey," Harry whispered. "What happened to the others?"
"Everything under the sun," Ryan said. "Accidents. Mishaps. One jackass thought he'd play hero, tripped a landmine and took five others with him." He took a sip, eyes distant. "Those were the lucky ones."
Ron scoffed. "Lucky? You mental? They died."
Ryan met his gaze squarely. "Yeah. Because the ones who didn't but still failed? They didn't get to die. They just didn't make the cut. And you can't exactly send someone back out into the world when they know everything about the Watch."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look, the horror quietly setting in.
Ryan raised both hands. "Relax. They didn't take them out back and Old Yeller them."
Ron blinked. "What the hell's an Old Yeller?"
Ryan gave a short laugh. "Right. Cultural gap. It's a film. About a dog. Don't worry about it."
Harry's brow furrowed. "So, what did they do?"
"Memory Charm. They wiped 'em," Ryan said. "Clean. Erased the whole damn experience. Sent them back to whatever orphanage they came from or a bus stop in the middle of nowhere—older, emptier, with no clue who they were or what had happened."
"That's… horrible," Harry muttered. "That doesn't make it better, it makes it worse."
Ryan swirled the amber in his glass. "You're preaching to the choir. Imagine waking up one day with scars you can't explain and nightmares you don't understand. And no one around to tell you why."
He leaned back into the couch, eyes half-lidded.
"Trust me," Ryan said, swirling the last of his bourbon. "The dead? They had it easy."
He took another sip, the burn sliding down like it belonged there. "I spent four years in that hellhole. Another four in the field. And let me tell you, fieldwork? That's where most of us dropped. It wasn't unusual to hear that ole' Jimmy, or Carl, or Jasmine, or Sandra—weren't coming back." He gave a hollow shrug. "You learn not to get attached."
A bitter chuckle escaped him. "I once spent six months deep in the jungles of Saigon. Some local insurgents had nabbed an artifact. Nasty piece of work—and I was sent in to get it back. Tracked them for miles. Lived like an animal. Slept in trees, bathed in rivers, ate whatever I could find. Six months. Radio silent. Not a word from anyone. And I knew, that if I died out there, that'd be it. No recovery. No report. Just a footnote somewhere that Ryan's gone. People would nod, maybe raise a glass, and move on."
Harry's expression faltered, the weight of those words pulling at his thoughts.
"We all carry scars," Ryan continued. "But in Section Thirteen, we learned early: you're alone. From the second you walk into that place, that's your reality. You don't rely on anyone. Not your team. Not your handlers. No one. You mess up and can't fix it? You die. You fall behind? You die. You get captured, or injured, or lose your nerve?" He tapped the glass against the table. "You die."
His voice dropped lower. "No one comes for you. No one mourns you. No friends. No family. No comrades. That's who we are. That's all we ever were, and ever will be."
Ron exhaled hard, sinking deeper into the couch. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "Now I'm properly depressed."
"Alright, my turn." Ryan straightened, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "Why'd you become an Auror?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"
"I mean, there's no shortage of options for a guy like you," Ryan said, then shot Ron a cheeky glance. "You either, Red."
Ron gave a sour scowl in response.
"But seriously," Ryan continued. "Why this? You could've gone back to Hogwarts—followed in Longbottom's footsteps. Taught Defense Against the Dark Arts or Charms. Hell, you could've gone pro. Quidditch star, living the dream. Your girl did. And you?" He looked to Harry. "From what I read, you were one hell of a Seeker."
He paused, then shrugged. "I don't have a choice. The Watch is all I've known. But you two? You had options. So why pick the one job that puts a target on your back every other day? Is it guilt? Some kind of personal vendetta?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. He stared into his glass for a moment, watching the amber swirl with thought. Ron, meanwhile, leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.
"You know," Harry said, gaze steady on Ryan, "I've never really thought about it in a deep, philosophical sort of way. It's just… my life's always been tangled with dark lords, cursed objects, death. Bit of a theme, really." He gave a small shrug. "When I found out Aurors existed. People who actively fought that kind of evil—it just made sense. Like I'd finally found something that fit."
"Fair enough," Ryan said with a nod before turning to Ron. "What about you? Or are you just in it for the badge and uniform?"
Ron shot him a withering look. "Not quite. The Weasleys have always been tied to the Ministry, one way or another. Dad's in Muggle Affairs, Percy used to be Crouch's protégé, even my grandparents had a foot in somewhere." He leaned back. "Felt like it was time I stopped riding coattails and did something that mattered."
"And I'm sure working side by side with your best friend and girlfriend doesn't hurt," Ryan said with a smirk, raising his glass.
Ron scowled. "Keep talking, mate, and I'll show you what a wand to the ribs feels like."
Ryan chuckled, holding up a hand. "Alright, alright, just messing. Sheesh, lighten up, will you?"
Ron grumbled into his drink. "Right. Our turn."
He set his glass down with a light clink. "Back at the Leaky Cauldron—what the hell did you do to that table? One second, it's a rickety old thing, next it's a flipping battering ram."
Ryan exhaled, deadpan. "Classified."
Ron's expression soured immediately. "Oh, come off it—"
"Hey," Ryan held up a finger. "I said I'd answer what I could. As the saying goes—I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Lovely. That's reassuring. Alright, here's one for you. Section Thirteen—does that mean there's a One through Twelve? Or is the whole number thirteen thing just a dramatic gimmick your lot thought sounded cool?"
Ryan chuckled. "No gimmick. And yeah, there are others—can't tell you exactly what each one does, but they're out there." He paused, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "Each section has its own focus. Tech, magical beasts, artifacts, intelligence, cleanup… and then there's my personal favorite—the cavalry."
Ron perked up. "Cavalry?"
"You know, the heavy hitters," Ryan said. "The ones you call when everything's gone to hell and you need more than just a guy with a wand and a sidearm. We may be one-man wrecking crews in Thirteen, but sometimes you need shit blown up and loads of bad guys wasted. Think of us as the scalpel. They're the sledgehammer."
Ron let out a low whistle. "Wicked. Wish we had something like that in the Auror Office. I'd sign up in a heartbeat."
Ryan smirked. "No offense, Weasley, but you don't exactly scream special ops. Now your brothers—Charlie, Bill—I could see it."
"Oh, shove off," Ron muttered. "You don't know me."
Harry cut in, "Back at the pub, when you were on the phone, you said you needed a Six. Am I right in thinking Section Six is cleanup?"
Ryan blinked, then grinned. "Damn. You're sharper than you look, Potter." He pointed at him. "Alright, my turn."
"When are you two gonna pop the question to your girls?" Ryan asked with a crooked grin, bourbon glass in hand.
Ron nearly spat out his drink while Harry's expression turned to stone, eyes wide as color rushed into both their cheeks. Ron pounded his chest with a cough.
"Bloody hell, what kind of question is that?" he wheezed.
"I-it-it's n-none of your bloody business, Ashford!" Harry barked, his words tumbling over themselves.
Ryan threw his head back and laughed, smacking his thigh. "Oh, Jesus—you should've seen your faces. You two looked like you'd been caught shoplifting from Walmart." He wiped at the corner of his eye. "What are you, twelve? Still getting flustered like a pair of awkward teens. I mean, come on. You've been with them what—three, four years? Don't tell me old Mommy Weasley ain't itching for grandkids."
"Bugger off," Ron grumbled, sinking back into the couch with a scowl as he took another swig. "It's just… you know… work and all that."
"Yeah, I've heard that one before." Ryan gave a half-hearted smirk, but his gaze dropped to the amber swirl in his glass. "Still… must be nice. Having someone like that. Y'know, going on dates, holding hands, all that lovey-dovey crap they shove into movies."
Harry caught the shift in his tone and glanced over. "You mean… no one in the Watch has a family?"
Ryan gave him a long, flat look. "With everything I've told you, do you really think anyone in Section Thirteen has time for white picket fences and Sunday roast?" He shook his head slowly. "One minute you're heading out for a mission. Next thing you know, they're sending you back in a zipped-up bag, what's left of you rattling in pieces. Nah… I wouldn't wish that on a wife. Or a kid."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was respectful. Understanding. For once, the teasing stopped.
"All right then," Ron said, pointing a finger across the table. "My turn. The Watch is an organization, right? So, where's your headquarters?"
"Classified," Ryan replied with a grin.
"Of course it is," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. "Worth a shot. How about this—how many of you are there, total? Are you lot spread across every country? Every city?"
"Still classified."
Ron leaned forward, frustration rising. "If you're a squib and can't apparate, how the bloody hell do you move around so fast?"
Ryan gave a mock-apologetic shrug. "You guessed it. Classified."
Ron groaned, teeth clenched as he jabbed his glass toward Ryan. "That thing you did with Fink—pulled him out of his apparition with that stick and wire. What the hell was that?"
Ryan sighed, resting his glass down. "Bro, for the last time—classified."
Harry snorted, amused despite himself, as Ron practically fumed beside him.
"Look," Ryan continued, more casually now, "I can't tell you everything. But you want to know about the Watch on a surface level… about me? That's fair game. I like a proper burger off the grill. Ketchup, mustard and a dab of ranch. I'm a Yankees guy, not Red Sox. Pancakes, syrup and extra butter, hot coffee, black—none of that sugary shit. You want my favorite movies, records, albums? I've got a list. But ops, tactics, tech?" He lifted his hands. "That stuff stays in the vault."
"Back in the Auror Office," Harry said, cutting through the low hum of the lobby. Both Ron and Ryan looked up. "During that little incident with Percy… you mentioned something. A list."
Ryan's smirk faltered. His shoulders stiffened, just slightly—but enough. Harry and Ron noticed.
"Back when Ron and I first joined the Auror program," Harry said, "it was always on the wireless—another dark wizard vanished, another pure-blood sympathizer who backed Voldemort found dead." He paused. His gaze fixed on Ryan. "Even the former Minister for Magic. One by one, they all wound up the same way. No evidence. No witnesses. No trial. Just a name… and a body. Case closed."
A faint twitch flickered at the corner of Ryan's eye.
"And then there was Skeeter," Harry added.
Ron sneered. "Bloody Skeeter. Down to the tabloids after the Prophet sacked her. 'Questionable journalism,' they called it." He made air quotes with his fingers. "Still dodging defamation payouts, last I heard. Serves her right."
Harry didn't break stride. "She ran some piece in The Inquirer. Tried to pin it all on the Darkwatch. Said you were behind it. A hit list, she called it. No one took her seriously. Not the Prophet, not the Ministry. Everyone laughed it off. Called her cracked." He leaned in slightly. "I did too."
He set his glass down on the table, the crystal clinking sharply against the glass top. "I mean, who'd believe it, really? An organization operating in the shadows, like smoke. No face, no trace. Tracking down the last of Voldemort's lot, taking out nobles, purebloods and high-ranking officials—past and present. It sounds mad. Unthinkable, even."
He let the silence hang.
"That is… until I met you."
Ryan didn't speak. He didn't move. His expression was blank—but not neutral. It was too still for that.
Harry rested his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The light caught the rim of his glasses, his eyes keen beneath them. "I'll admit, Ashford, I'm no master of deduction. Wouldn't even call myself particularly sharp when it comes to reading people." He exhaled slowly. "But I've learned enough to recognize when someone's carrying a grudge."
Ron frowned. "Harry, what the bloody hell are you on about?"
"No, no," Ryan muttered, holding up a hand, his gaze narrowing. "Let him talk."
Harry nodded once. "Back in the office, you bristled the second you saw Percy. Not just annoyance. Real, visceral contempt. That's not something you feel for a stranger. That kind of reaction only comes when you think someone's wronged you. Or worse, someone close to you."
He paused, watching Ryan carefully.
"You said if it were up to you, Percy would've made the list. But he didn't. Which means whoever is running that list didn't see him as a threat, or as someone who played a meaningful role in Voldemort's rise." Harry's words dropped a shade. "But you… you clearly think otherwise."
Ryan said nothing, but his jaw was tense as he reached for his glass and knocked back the last of his whiskey. The ice clinked softly against the crystal as he held Harry's stare.
Harry didn't blink. "That kind of fury—it isn't about Percy, is it? It's about who Percy worked for." A beat. "It wasn't Crouch. He's long dead. So, it had to be someone else. Someone more political. More… powerful."
Ron turned, confusion beginning to morph into something else—something heavier.
Harry's tone sharpened. "It was you, wasn't it? The one who killed Cornelius Fudge."
Ron's breath caught, his eyes snapping wide.
Ryan didn't move. Didn't speak. The lobby, now emptied of guests save for the staff, was dead quiet—so quiet, in fact, that the faint whirring of gears inside the grandfather clock echoed across the marble floors.
Then came the chime.
A deep, resonant clang cut through the silence, followed by another. Ron nearly jumped out of his skin, clutching the armrest as the clock struck twice.
Two in the morning.
Ryan finally inhaled, the corners of his mouth curling into something too casual to be sincere. "Well, would you look at the time." He set his glass down with a quiet clink and rose, brushing down his jacket with a single sweep. "I'm wiped. We've got a full day ahead, so…" He tilted his head. "Go home, wash up, pack a duffle. Meet me back here by lunch."
Neither Harry nor Ron had the chance to speak before Ryan turned on his heel, heading for the lifts with brisk, almost restless steps. "Be seeing you," he called over his shoulder with a lazy mock salute.
The golden lift doors swallowed him whole a second later.
Ron sat in silence for a moment, staring after him. "Mate… you sure about what you said? About Fudge?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. His fingers clasped loosely around his glass, gaze still fixed on the lift. "Not entirely," he admitted. "But the way he reacted? That told me more than any confirmation ever could."
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "If he's the sort who can take out the former Minister and vanish without a trace… what's to stop him from doing the same to us?"
Harry's expression darkened. "That's what Chief was trying to say. He's an ally—for now. But if we step out of line, or get in his way…" He didn't finish the thought.
Ron exhaled sharply. "So, what now?"
"For now?" Harry looked to him. "We keep playing along. Rookwood's not working alone, and if he's getting cozy with muggle tech, we'll need someone like Ashford." He gave a tired smile. "No one better at navigating both sides of the fence."
Ron gave a nod and raised his glass. "I'm with you, mate. To the end."
Harry clinked his glass against Ron's. "I know."
****
The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Continental, gilding the marble floors in warm light. The lobby buzzed with life—tourists in summer jackets, businessmen tapping at phones, and the faint clatter of footsteps mingled with the soft hum of conversation. On the surface, it looked like any other five-star hotel.
Seated comfortably in a leather armchair tucked into one of the quieter corners, he skimmed the Daily Prophet, one leg crossed over the other. Moving photographs looped endlessly across the front page—Quidditch updates, Ministry announcements, a puff piece about werewolf integration programs. Nothing, of course, about the attempted hit at the Leaky Cauldron.
He smirked. Of course there wasn't. Section Six had been on-site barely minutes after the incident. Efficient. Discreet. Ruthless. He often joked they were the wizarding world's answer to the Men in Black—though his suggestion they wear black suits and Ray-Bans had been met with unimpressed stares and a muttered "Grow up, Ashford."
He lowered the paper slightly, scanning the lobby. Most of the people seated around him looked like average patrons—couples, tourists, men in tailored suits hunched over coffee. But Ryan knew better. The Continental wasn't just a hotel. It was a front, one of the few neutral grounds recognized by every major magical and non-magical intelligence agency. And Ryan was willing to bet Harry had already picked up on it. With a sigh, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a worn metal case, and flipped it open. A cigarette jutted out. He slipped it between his teeth, fumbled for his lighter.
A quiet click and the sharp scent of sulfur cut the air. A flame hovered in front of him.
Ryan glanced up.
An older man stood there, weathered but well-kept—mid-sixties, maybe older, hair grey at the temples, face lined but composed. He wore a pristine navy three-piece suit. A white ascot fastened with a ruby brooch. His presence was the kind that never asked permission—only waited for you to notice.
Ryan leaned forward, lit the cigarette, and exhaled a trail of smoke. "Barnabas," he said with a nod.
The man clicked the lighter shut and lowered himself into the chair opposite. "Mister Ashford," Barnabas greeted with a posh cadence. "What a pleasant surprise. It's been quite some time."
Ryan folded the Prophet neatly and set it on the table between them. "Yeah, well, chasing down Death Eaters across seven continents doesn't leave a lot of room for leisure."
Barnabas smiled faintly. "Still the same charming understatement. So—London, again. Trouble follows you like a shadow."
"It's not trouble. Just unfinished business," Ryan muttered with a shrug, flicking the ash from his cigarette. The ember glowed faintly as smoke curled from his lips. "So, how's the whole Manager gig treating you?"
Barnabas gave a soft chuckle, settling back in his chair. "It's a quieter life, I'll admit. Sometimes I miss the noise, the chase… but the feeling never lasts. You'll understand when you're older."
Ryan snorted. "That's not a when, Barnabas. It's an if."
The old man folded his hands atop his knee. "You had some… distinguished company last night," he said. "The one and only Harry Potter. And young Mr. Weasley."
"Yeah, well—Shaw stuck me with them," Ryan replied, dragging from his cigarette. "Working a lead. We're heading up to Edinburgh once the boys stop dragging their feet."
"Ah, Edinburgh," Barnabas said with a wistful smile. "Charming city. The architecture, the history, the food. Well, perhaps not the food—but it has its magic."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Christ, you sound like a damned travel brochure." He took another pull, then exhaled sharply. "I'm not there to sightsee. Museums, cobblestones, and Shakespearean crap aren't really my thing. All I've learned about Britain so far is your food sucks and you take soccer way too seriously."
"It's football, Ryan," Barnabas corrected gently. "You're in Britain now."
"Not to me, it ain't," Ryan replied with a smirk, tapping ash into the crystal tray on the table. "And I didn't cross the Atlantic for a damned vacation, and even if I did, it wouldn't be this depressing little hellhole. Seems, one of our reports rattled the higher-ups. Got the brass pacing holes in the floor."
Barnabas gave a slow nod. "Yes… I'd heard whispers."
Ryan arched a brow. "Did you now?"
"Just because I stepped away doesn't mean I stopped listening," Barnabas said with a knowing look.
Ryan huffed, the corner of his mouth tugging into a dry smile. "The old man still talks about you, y'know."
"I'd be surprised if he didn't," Barnabas replied, his tone light but touched with nostalgia. "Though I imagine not always fondly."
"Well, he was pissed when you left," Ryan said with a smirk. "Took it out on all of us during training. Christ, I can still feel his knuckles on my jaw."
"I'm sure he was. Shaw always believed we'd go out together—guns drawn, side by side." Barnabas gave a quiet laugh. "Romantic, in a grim sort of way. But I'm not that man anymore. My fangs dulled a long time ago, Ryan. Now I keep the wolves outside the door, not chase them through the woods."
Ryan stubbed his cigarette in the tray. "Yeah, well, I'm still in the woods. And something's out there, Barnabas. Something ugly. I can feel it."
Barnabas's smile faded ever so slightly.
"I don't doubt it," he said. "Just… be careful, old friend. Shadows don't warn you before they bite."
The old man drew a slow breath before rising from his seat. "Well then, I'll leave you to it," he said, adjusting the front of his jacket with practiced ease. "The hotel won't run itself, after all." He buttoned the final clasp, his expression settling into something calm and composed. "And as they say in our little circle—be seeing you."
He gave a polite nod, turning to walk away.
But before he could take more than a step, Ryan's voice cut through the space between them.
"Barnabas," he called.
The older man paused mid-stride, his back still turned.
"What's it like, though?" Ryan asked, eyes flicking up as Barnabas turned to leave. "Walking away from all of it?"
Barnabas paused, then looked back over his shoulder. "Liberating… at first," he said quietly. "But you come to realize, you never truly leave, do you?" With a faint, distant smile, he turned and walked on.
As he crossed the lobby, he passed Harry and Ron coming in. Harry caught the older man's gaze—sharp, familiar, not just a casual glance. Barnabas offered a nod and a knowing smile, one Harry returned, cautiously.
Ron spotted Ryan slouched in his chair and strode over. "Oi, what are you doing lounging about like you're on holiday? We need to get moving."
Ryan stood, brushing off his jacket with theatrical care. "Considering how long it took you to get here, I'd say that's rich coming from you," he drawled. "But then again, if there's anyone who could get lost while apparating, it'd be a Weasley."
"Shove off, you bloody yank," Ron muttered, shooting him a glare.
Harry stepped in, tone clipped. "Alright, let's not make a scene. We're heading to Edinburgh now. Since you can't apparate, you'll need to hold on."
Ryan raised both hands like a man fending off a bad idea. "Yeah, no thanks. Last time someone side-apparated me, I nearly left my balls in Paris and landed ass-first in Berlin."
Ron snorted despite himself. "Sounds like a you problem, mate."
Ryan gestured at him with a crooked grin. "Exactly why I don't trust magical travel. I'll take my car, thanks."
Ron blinked. "As in drive? Are you completely mental? It's a seven-hour trip—half that if we take the bloody train."
Ryan smirked and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Remember last night when you asked how we move around without magic?" He stepped past them. "Well, time to let you in on the secret."
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance as Ryan kept walking.
He paused, glanced back. "You two just gonna stand there slack-jawed, or are you coming?"
Without waiting for a reply, he turned again and headed for the front entrance.
Harry sighed. "I've got a bad feeling about this."
"Welcome to my world," Ron muttered, and they followed after him.
****
The Mustang's engine roared like a beast let loose. Tires screeched as it drifted across the asphalt, smoke curling off burning rubber. Debris scattered in its wake as it tore down the road.
Ron clung to the back seat like his life depended on it. "Bloody hell—has he lost his mind?"
Up front, Harry shot a glance at the speedometer. The needle was pushing well past sane.
Ryan shifted gears, foot gliding between clutch and accelerator with unnerving precision.
"Alright, Weasley," he said, grinning as he tapped a red button beneath the A/C vents. "Time for a magic trick." He snorted to himself. "Heh. Magic trick."
The dashboard shifted with a mechanical whirr—panels folding away as a screen slid into view. More compartments opened on the passenger side, revealing a spherical device embedded with a glowing lavender crystal. The hum of magic filled the cabin.
A synthetic voice echoed. "Floo Network activated. State destination."
"Edinburgh," Ryan replied coolly.
"Affirmative."
Ron's jaw dropped. "What in bloody blazes is that?"
Harry stared at the screen, his expression unreadable. "That's… not Floo as I know it."
The map of London glowed, a scan sweeping across the grid. A single point blinked into view, not far ahead.
"Gate located. Coordinates marked."
"Request authorization. Ryan Ashford. Section Thirteen. Specter status. Codename…" he hesitated for a breath. "Nosferatu."
Harry's eyes snapped toward him. Ron looked like he'd been slapped.
"Identity confirmed," the voice replied. "Authorization granted. Have a safe trip, Mister Ashford."
Ryan cracked a grin and slipped on his aviators. "Hold onto your underwear, boys!"
The Mustang screamed down the road, engine roaring, tires biting into the tarmac with every reckless turn. Ryan weaved through traffic like a man possessed, narrowly missing bumpers and honking horns as they tore through London's morning haze. The map on the dashboard glowed brighter. An arrow blinking toward its destination. But directly ahead was a brick wall.
Harry leaned forward. "Ashford, that's a wall."
"Yup," Ryan replied with a grin, foot pressing harder on the accelerator.
"That's a wall, Ashford!" Harry snapped, louder this time.
Ryan only laughed—wild, unbothered. "Relax, I've done this a hundred times."
"Merlin's bloody beard, we're going to die!" Ron howled from the back seat, clutching the door handle like it owed him money.
"Ashford!" Harry shouted.
The wall rushed toward them. Closer, closer.
And then, with a sudden groan of shifting stone, the bricks shimmered and peeled open like parting curtains, revealing a swirling gateway of emerald flame. The crystal embedded in the dashboard pulsed once.
With a deafening whoosh, the Mustang vanished into the fire.
A moment later, the bricks sealed shut behind them. The road fell silent—no trace left of the roaring car, or the madness it had just unleashed.
****
The bricks shifted with a grinding rumble, sliding apart as green fire burst forth—and out shot the Mustang.
Tires screeched as the car skidded onto the quiet road, slowing just enough to avoid fishtailing. The portal sealed shut behind them, vanishing without a trace.
Ron was curled into himself in the back seat, eyes clamped shut, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Up front, Harry was plastered against the seat, legs braced, arms stiff at his sides, face drained of all color.
Ryan glanced between them—and burst out laughing. He slapped the steering wheel with a whoop. "Oh man, rut me sideways, that never gets old!" He pulled off his aviators, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
With a deep exhale, he flicked his hand toward the windshield. "Well, boys… welcome to Edinburgh."
Harry, still catching his breath, turned to his side. And there it was—Edinburgh. The cobbled streets, the stone buildings, the unmistakable skyline. Somehow, they'd made it.
Ron cracked one eye open, still clutching the seatbelt like a lifeline. "Bloody hell… did we just—?"
He didn't even finish the sentence. The view said it all.
Beside Harry, the crystal and display quietly folded back into the dashboard with a soft mechanical hum, like they'd never been there at all.
Ryan smirked. "Y'all good back there? Just checking in case either of you crapped yourselves. I'm happy to make a pit stop for fresh pants and a bit of Febreze."
He gunned the accelerator, the Mustang roaring down the narrow road.
"Honestly, mate," Ron muttered, leaning back in his seat, "I'm never complaining about appariting ever again."