Ryan tossed the phone to the ground without ceremony and drove his heel into it. The crunch of shattering plastic and splintered circuits echoed against the quiet street. He crouched beside the body, the man's head tilted grotesquely to the side, eyes vacant and glazed beneath a sheen of blood.
With quick, methodical hands, Ryan rifled through the man's coat. His fingers landed on a small notebook tucked into an inside pocket. He slid it free, flipping it open, and for a brief moment, his expression changed. Eyes widened. Then narrowed. He shut it, slipped it into his jacket, and rose to his feet.
He rounded the car and headed back toward the Mustang, unhurried, jaw set. Harry jogged up beside him, wand still trembling in his grip, green eyes flicking from corpse to corpse.
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed. "What just happened? Who the hell were those people?"
"Murdoc's Wizarding Detective Agency," Ryan muttered, not breaking stride. "Freelancers. Mercs. Private wand-for-hire types. Guess who signs their checks?"
Harry's brows drew together. "Emerson?"
Ryan gave a dry chuckle. "Bingo."
Harry's steps faltered. "You're saying that he sent them? That this—" he gestured to the wreckage behind them, "—was a hit?"
Ryan stopped, turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Not the first time someone's tried to put me in the ground, Potter. But between you and me…" He tilted his head, mock casual. "This makes twice now you've dragged me into a bushwhack. I'm starting to think you're cursed."
Harry scowled. "You're unbelievable."
"You should see me when I'm in a good mood." Ryan grinned and started walking again. "But I suppose, like you Brits like to say, there's a silver lining behind this. If we didn't have jack to go on whatever demented hokey-pokey they're playing that damned factory, we sure as Hell have it now."
"Well, that's one way to put it," Harry said, following behind him.
"Cor blimey…"
Ryan and Harry both froze.
Maxine stood frozen beside the car, her wide eyes flicking between the crumpled wreck and the pistol in Ryan's hand. Her lips parted, but no words came. Ryan clocked her stare, then casually swept the gun behind his back with a forced grin that did nothing to ease the tension.
"You…" she stammered, pointing a trembling finger at him. "Y-you're one of them. I didn't get it before... when you said you weren't Ministry, but now it all makes sense. That name. That gun. It's just like in one of Skeeter's articles." Her voice cracked. "You're a Spectre from Section Thirteen. You're Darkwatch."
Ryan winced. "Oh, boy…"
Harry sighed, already raising his wand. A faint blue glow lit at the tip as he raised it, but before he could cast, Ryan stepped in.
"Whoa, whoa, easy." He pushed Harry's hand down gently. "Let's park the mind-wipe for now. We've got bigger problems. Namely the fact that our posh little friend might have a second wave en route."
He looked between them, then jerked his chin toward the car. "And besides, there's something we need to talk about."
Harry hesitated, then nodded. He pocketed his wand and gestured for Maxine to follow. Still visibly shaken, she gave one last lingering look at Ryan before climbing into the back seat.
Ryan circled around to the rear of the Mustang, his eyes narrowing at the damage. Paint gouged to the metal, the back bumper half crumpled. He dragged his fingers across the mangled surface with a slow exhale, jaw clenching.
Then he spun toward the driver's door, snarling under his breath.
"When I get my hands on that smug little rat," he muttered, yanking the door open, "I'm gonna rip his head off and shove it somewhere dark, damp, and incredibly undignified."
****
The Mustang screeched into the inn's car park, tires spitting gravel as it came to a rough halt. Doors slammed open in quick succession. Ryan stepped out first, looking as if he were seconds from setting fire to the whole bloody county. Harry followed, jaw tight, green eyes low with tension. Maxine trailed them, visibly shaken, hands curled into nervous fists.
Leaning casually against the wall beside the pub entrance, Ron raised an eyebrow at the sight of the trio. He straightened, drink in hand, a massive iced coffee with enough whipped cream to shame a bakery. His blue eyes widened.
"Oi, what happened to you lot?" he asked, straw between his lips. "You look like you've just legged it from a cave troll."
"We'll explain inside," Ryan muttered, storming toward the door, only to grind to a halt. His gaze dropped to the oversized iced drink in Ron's hand. He blinked once. Then gave a flat, unimpressed stare. "Really?"
Ron glanced down at the cup, then back up with a shrug. "What? It's bloody delicious."
Ryan exhaled and shoved open the door. "Of course it is," he grumbled. "Any other day I'd be laughing my ass off. But no, Mister-Dead-Eyed-Bureaucrat had to screw the mood and ruin the punchline." He stepped inside. "Just one more reason to put a bullet in his pasty little ass when I see him."
Ron blinked. "What's his problem?" he asked Harry.
Harry let out a long breath. "It's been a day. You'll see."
Maxine's eyes lit up as she stepped closer, recognition dawning. "Wait a second... you're Ronald Weasley!" she blurted. The nerves melted clean off her face, replaced with something close to starstruck wonder. "I always wanted to meet you, and Hermione Granger, of course. but I'll take you first!"
Before Ron could get a word in, she grabbed his hand and shook it so fast it nearly yanked his shoulder out.
Ron shot Harry a bewildered look. "Right… and who's this, then?"
"Hey!" came Ryan's voice from inside the pub. "What is this, a meet and greet? Get your asses in here!"
The three exchanged glances, Ron still holding what was left of his coffee, Maxine still grinning—and with a collective sigh, stepped inside.
****
"Hold on," Ron said, blinking. "You're telling me you found one of the rats behind this mess, paid him a little visit… and he sent a bloody hit squad after you?" He gestured animatedly just as the bartender slid four frosted pints onto the table, ale bubbling lazily. "Blimey, that's straight out of a movie, that one."
"Played out like one too," Maxine replied, lifting her glass by the handle and taking a long swig. She exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for days. "One minute we're spinning across the road, and the next he's out of the car, gun drawn and firing, like bloody James Bond."
Ryan scoffed, tossing her a look. "Bond?" He leaned back with the smirk of a man doing everything but being humble. "C'mon now, I'm way better looking. But hey," he added with a nod to her, "keep the compliments coming. I'm all ears."
Ron raised his pint in Maxine's direction. "And you're a Misslethorpe? As in Witch Weekly's own Misslethorpe?" He let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell, that's a legacy even a Malfoy would trip over."
Maxine gave a tired smile, but her gaze dropped slightly. "Wish I could agree with you," she said softly. "Since Skeeter got booted, we've been limping along. Credibility's hard to come by when your name's been stitched to hers for years. Wizarding Britain doesn't forget, and it damn sure doesn't forgive, not when the press was part of the rot during the war."
Ron scoffed into his pint. "Yeah, well, we can both drink to that. Skeeter's been a walking scandal since day one. Merlin help her if she ever messes up bad enough. I'll haul her arse to Azkaban myself, and I won't even bother with a trial."
Maxine gave a short laugh, but it was hollow around the edges. "You'd have to get in bloody line."
Ryan leaned back, swirling his pint in slow circles. "Figures. The old man used to say nothing's worse than a vulture with a press pass." He raised his glass to Maxine. "But you? You did good. Real good. You helped more than you know."
Her eyes flicked up to his, surprised, then nodded with quiet gratitude.
"Ashford's right, you helped crack the case wide open," Harry said, sipping from his pint. "We'd need a word with the Chief when we get back. Intel like hers should've come from the bloody DoD, not a reporter."
Ryan jabbed a thumb toward Maxine, grinning. "You heard him. Sorry, Weasley. Looks like you're being phased out."
"Bugger off, Ashford," Ron shot back with a scowl. "For what it's worth, your partner, Kurumi, right? Said it'll take a day or two to analyze that phial. She'll get in touch when they find anything."
He took a sip from his straw, then glanced up, deadpan. "Oh, and by the way… for that little coffee stunt?" He raised his drink slightly in mock salute. "Hope you get hit by a bus."
Ryan stifled a laugh, shaking his head. "Bet I gave the kid one hell of a laugh." His eyes dropped to the foam curling at the lip of his ale. "And just to be clear, she's not my partner. Not really. She's one of us, sure, but she's not a Spectre. Never had to get her hands dirty." He let out a soft chuckle. "Lucky kid."
Ron's expression shifted, the usual mischief slipping from his features. "She spoke real highly of you. Sounds like she looks up to you."
Ryan took a long pull from his pint. "Yeah, well. I found her." He set the glass down with a dull thunk. "Brought her into the Watch myself. She's a squib, like me. Back before I earned my name, still fresh off the grind. Was chasing a lead in Tokyo, something my contact at Mahoutokoro tipped me off about. The Inazuma Clan. They ran with the Death Eaters during the war. Used to off muggles, squibs and muggle-borns as part of their initiation ritual. Sick bastards." His fingers drummed once against the glass.
"Hit their base hard. Didn't leave anyone standing."
A pause.
"I found Kurumi locked in a cage two floors down. No more than a kid. Filthy, starving. Skin and bones wrapped in rags." His eyes went cold. "But it wasn't the state she was in that's stayed with me all these years. It was the room. Racks lined the walls. Leather restraints. Rows of whips. Bottles of lube. Used rubber. And toys." He swallowed tightly. "Not the kind meant for children."
The silence at the table turned brittle.
Maxine's hand flew to her mouth. Harry froze mid-breath, and Ron's face went chalk white, as if some dark memory was clawing at the edge of his mind.
"I found the Oyabun—the boss." Ryan's hand clenched around the handle of his pint, knuckles paling. "Shot out his legs. Took him apart, piece by piece. Got every name, every detail I needed." His gaze drifted toward the floor. "Then I tossed the son of a bitch out the window. Thirty floors up." His eyes flickering with the ghosts of that night. "No one buried him."
Ryan's gaze settled on Ron, his expression dimming.
"That jacket she wears," he said slowly, "the one that's two sizes too big, sleeves dangling off her hands?" He let out a humorless breath. "Looks cute on her, don't it? But that's only half the truth. She wears it to cover the scars. Shackles left 'em on her wrists."
"And under that sleeve," Ryan added, "there's a mark. Branded onto her right forearm. We tried getting it removed. Hell, we threw everything at it, but the damn thing's magically sealed into her skin. Permanent."
He paused, his gaze distant.
"She pretends it doesn't bother her. Brushes it off with a joke or a shrug like it's just another scar. But I see it… every time she catches a glimpse of it, it hits her. That look in her eyes, like she's being dragged back into that cage. That brand ain't just ink. It's a reminder of what they made her think she was."
The silence around the table continued.
"See, she's what they call a Burakumin," he went on. "In Japan? That's their version of a House Elf. Only worse. While we Americans, and you Brits, treat house-elves like magical creatures. Maybe not equal, but still beings with some semblance of rights. The Japanese, however, see them as yōkai. Monsters. Curses. So much that once upon a time, they tried to have them eradicated."
His fingers tapped once on the table. "Their alternative? Make their very own."
"You're not suggesting they, enslave their own people?" Maxine asked.
"Oh, I ain't suggesting it. I'm saying it plain." Ryan's voice didn't rise, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "Wizards. Muggle-borns. Squibs like her. Doesn't matter. So long as they aren't muggles, because God forbid the human world finds out the wizarding one even exists."
He shrugged. "It's old practice, ancient even, and I'm talking medieval Japan level ancient. Supposed to be banned centuries ago. But there's always some circle of degenerates who keep it alive in secret. They prey on desperate families. Poor folk. Families drowning in debt with no way out. And while their Ministry's been fighting the good fight… it ain't easy." His jaw clenched. "I've helped where I can. But it's a long, bloody road."
"Bloody hell…" Ron muttered under his breath. "All that… and yet she seems—"
"Normal?" Ryan cut in gently, a faint, sad smile ghosting across his lips. "That's all her. Girl taught herself everything. Coding, hacking, you name it. She's a genius with a machine. Tough as nails too. Smiles more than most people I know. Still finds joy, even after all that abuse, all that filth." His eyes lifted. "Truth is, she's stronger than I'll ever be. Stronger than any of us." He gave a low chuckle. "And that's why Thirteen watches over her like hawks. God help the poor bastard who tries to lay a finger on her."
Harry sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the amber swirl of ale in his glass, words failing him. For so long, he had carried the belief that his own childhood had been something close to hell. The cold neglect of Privet Drive. Vernon's bitter cruelty. Petunia's disdain. Dudley's fists. And while it hadn't been violent in the way some suffered, it was the kind of sustained contempt that left marks invisible to the eye. Then came Hogwarts, and with it, a destiny tied to murder and prophecy. A childhood stolen by war, by loss, by Voldemort.
He had always held onto that injustice, the resentment of a life carved by pain and sacrifice. No parents. No godfather. No normality. Just the relentless weight of survival. And yet, hearing what Kurumi had endured made his own past feel strangely bearable by comparison. A slice of heaven, even. He hated himself for thinking it. But the thought was there, heavy in his chest.
What would he have become, had he grown up in her place? Would he still be who he was now? Or would he have broken? Become something twisted? Something dangerous? A quiet shame crept through him, not because his pain hadn't mattered, but because someone else had borne so much worse… and still managed to smile.
"Hey, Potter," Ryan called out, snapping Harry from his thoughts. "You alright over there? You've gone all quiet."
Harry blinked, then gave a small shake of his head. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, I was just… thinking." He hesitated for a beat. "How did she manage to get back on her feet, if you don't mind me asking?"
Ryan's expression shifted. For a moment, something raw flickered in his eyes before settling into a quieter, hardened calm.
"It wasn't easy," he said. "First few weeks, she barely spoke. Anytime I came by her room, she'd just lie there. Silent, still, staring at the ceiling like she wasn't really in the room at all. I suppose that's when they…" His gaze drifted, the memory dragging a shadow across his features. "Broke me in ways I didn't even realize. Took a hell of a lot of therapy, time, and patience to bring her back from that edge."
He leaned further back in his seat, exhaling softly. "Eventually, she found her footing in tech. Guess it gave her something to focus on, something she could control. And she was scary good at it. Picked things up in days that took others months. Before long, she was tearing through databases, cracking down on wizarding yakuza networks, exposing every corrupt politician and crooked badge they had on payroll."
Ryan gave a dry chuckle. "Guess that was her way of getting payback. Me? I was just the gun she pointed."
He took a sip from his pint, then added with a faint smile, "Nowadays, she just drives me up the wall with her obsession over shut-in anime culture. Keeps calling me onii-san like I'm the grumpy older brother she always wanted, and I guess, in a way, she's the little sister I never had."
Maxine sat in silence. Her brows knit in something between sorrow and disbelief. Ron's face was tight, his fists half-clenched on the table, simmering between quiet fury and stunned horror.
"That why you're so invested in this?" Ron asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he met Ryan's gaze. "The missing Muggle kids."
Ryan didn't answer right away. He let the question hang for a beat, his fingers drumming once against the side of his glass before going still.
"Wasn't at first," he said finally. "But yeah… I guess you could say that." He tilted his head. "The trail leads to Rookwood and whoever the hell's got him on a leash. That's what I'm after. But if saving kids comes as part of the package, then hell, I won't complain."
He paused again. "Now, I don't know what those bastards are doing in that factory," he said, quieter now. "But I pray to God it ain't anything close to what Kurumi went through."
Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the table, his eyes shadowed under the warm light of the pub.
"But I know what it's like, being a kid, powerless. Watching monsters rip apart everything you care about. Watching the whole damn world turn its back and pretend it doesn't see." His jaw tensed, and his eyes flicked sideways to Harry. "Something you sure as hell know all too well."
Harry's face stiffened. His hand on the glass stilled as Ryan continued.
"See, I clawed my way through the worst the Watch could throw at me just to get where I am now. Not for glory. Not for vengeance. But to make damn sure no one else gets chewed up and spat out the same way I did. Especially not kids. Not on my damned watch."
"So… everything Skeeter wrote about the Darkwatch," Maxine said, "it was all true?" Her eyes locked on Ryan. "That you're some covert division running black ops in the shadows, protecting both the wizarding and Muggle world?" She leaned in slightly. "And is it true… that you were behind the assassination of Cornelius Fudge?"
Ryan's eyes flicked toward the bartender. The man gave a tired sigh, stepped out from behind the bar, and disappeared through a door leading into the back.
Ryan waited a beat, then. "In regards to Skeeter," he said, rolling his hand lazily, "take it with a heap of salt. Half of it's tabloid trash—wild theories, missing context, dramatic headlines." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "But the other half? That part's dead on."
He tapped his fingers upon the table as he continued. "The Darkwatch was around long before Voldy came prancing in with his Death Eater cosplay and fascist fan club. We were already working the shadows when the Ministry collapsed. Picked apart his network piece by piece. We're one of the reasons his little cult was so sparce in the final war. He was busy cleaning up what we'd left behind."
He lifted his pint and took another slow drink before setting it down with a soft clink.
"You won't find this in the Prophet. But when the war ended? The muggle world was pissed. You guys kept your little civil war quiet for decades, then suddenly bodies, muggle bodies, were falling. Places getting blasted to pieces, and the truth came spilling out. Word is, a few of the world leaders were ready to go full Salem 2.0 on the entire wizarding population across the globe." He looked her square in the eye. "And with what they've got, Maxine, they would've flattened the magical world and still made it home in time for dinner."
The table went quiet yet again.
"That's where we came in," Ryan said. "The Watch exists because cooler heads knew someone had to keep both sides from burning the whole damn world down. We promised to clean up the mess, quietly, permanently. And we did."
Ryan tapped the table with one finger, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"And as for Cornelius Fudge," he said, tone dry, "I can neither confirm nor deny the Watch's involvement in his little... assisted suicide."
A dark grin tugged at his mouth.
"But if you're asking me personally?" His eyes narrowed. "That was long overdue. Man nearly got the entire wizarding world nuked off the map and still died thinking he did the right thing. Shacklebolt should've had the guts to toss that son of a bitch in Azkaban with the rest of the bastards."
"That may be true." Maxine's gaze hardened. "Fudge failed the wizarding world in more ways than I can count," she said, glancing at Harry. "He slandered you, undermined Professor Dumbledore, and endangered us all with his denial. But…" She met Ryan's eyes. "He was still a duly elected Minister. As far as the public record shows, he never broke the law. Never abused his office in any explicit sense."
Her tone dropped slightly, steely. "Failure doesn't justify assassination."
Ryan scoffed. "And that's where we split, sweetheart. See, there's a world of difference between botching your O.W.L.s and screwing up so royally that you hand the keys to magical Hitler and his psychos."
He paused, swirling the last of the foam in his glass. "If it came down to that bloated jackass or an entire race of innocents. Kids, families, towns like Hogsmeade or Godric's Hollow going up in smoke? I'll take that shot every damned time."
Maxine opened her mouth to speak, but Ryan leaned in before she could get a word out. "Or would you rather see a place like… I don't know, Diagon Alley in flames?" he said,. "Because I have. I've watched entire wizarding settlements burn. Torched by paladins from the Vatican, dark wizards, and monsters dressed in robes. I've seen what's left when the fire dies down. Ash. Bone. Parents kneeling over what used to be their children."
He glanced at her, jaw clenched. "And you seriously think that pig Fudge would've give a damn about that? Any of it? Please. He'd send his thoughts, maybe issue a carefully worded statement, and move on without losing a wink of sleep." He locked gazes with Harry for a brief moment. "Just as he did with Cedric Diggory."
Harry pushed up his glasses, his expression unreadable but no less dark than Ryan's. Ron turned away, silent, sipping his coffee through the straw without a word.
Ryan sat back slowly, his fingers tightening around the glass as he stared at the dregs of foam at the bottom.
"Stupid, selfish old men playing at politics," Ryan muttered. "More concerned with guarding their chairs than guarding lives. Treating people like pawns on a board, convinced they'd never pay the price for it."
His eyes darkened. "That's how we got into this mess. Shacklebolt made it clear that the law wouldn't touch them. Hell, half of them were still parked in the same damned seats they let others die to protect."
He let out a slow breath. "And like the old man used to say—" his tone dipped into a hard, cold calm, "—sometimes, you need a bullet to make a statement. And I'll tell you this, nothing sends a rat jumping off a barge quicker than the sound of a gun going off in the room next door."
Ryan pulled the bloodstained notebook from inside his jacket. "Which brings us back to this." He set it on the table and flipped it open, the old pages creased, flecked with dried blood. He turned to the most recent entry and laid it flat before them.
Maxine, Harry, and Ron leaned in. Black ink scrawled across the paper. Names. One by one, they read them aloud.
"Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Max—" Ron's brow creased. "Oi, hang on, those are ours."
"Oh, so you can read," Ryan said, smirking as Ron's scowl deepened. He nodded toward the page. "Good. Then keep going, bottom of the list."
Their eyes dropped lower. Harry's face tightened. "Nelson Rathbone?" he asked. "Why the hell is he on their list?"
"Maybe with his father gone, he's started asking the right questions," Maxine muttered, fingers tapping her chin. "Whoever's running that factory probably got tired of him poking his nose where it doesn't belong and decided it was time to cut him loose."
Harry stiffened. "You think they're planning to take him out?"
"They will," Ryan said. "But not right away. They just lost half a dozen mercs and got their tails handed to them. They'll need time to regroup. My guess? They move tonight. Which makes this absolutely perfect."
Ron looked incredulous. "You're joking. What's so perfect about assassins going after Lord Rathbone?"
Ryan smirked. "Because if they throw the rest of their muscle at the manor, then the factory? Barely guarded."
Realization dawned on Maxine. "So that's the opening. They'll shift resources to finish the job on Rathbone, which means we've got a clear shot at the factory."
"Bingo," Ryan nodded. "So here's the plan. You and Weasley hit the factory tonight. Sneak in, find out what they're hiding. I'll head to Rathbone's manor. Keep the poor bastard alive."
Harry gave a firm nod. "Understood."
Ron scoffed. "Hold up, why do you get guard duty and I'm crawling through ductwork with him?"
Ryan didn't miss a beat. "So, you'd rather be guarding a high-profile target from a kill team? These aren't some half-baked Death Eater fanboys hiding in their mum's basement while living off Chinese takeout. These are professionals. Ex-Ministry, Auror washouts, maybe even foreign contractors. Cold. Efficient. Trained to kill and disappear. Murdoc's wouldn't have hired them otherwise."
"I—well—"
"Didn't think so," Ryan said with a crooked grin. "This ain't the Watch's first rodeo with the Murdocs. From what I've heard, they're the go-to goon squad for every two-bit mob boss, death cult, or corrupt pureblood with a fat vault and a grudge. I'll give 'em credit, they're competent. But put 'em up against someone like me?" He tilted his head, smirk widening. "They don't stand a chance. Found that out the hard way."
He jabbed a thumb at Harry. "'Sides, even if we switched, I've seen Potter in action. Guy's solid. Quick, sharp, knows when to hit and when to vanish." He turned back to Ron. "You, on the other hand? You'd be lucky to get a funeral with a body in the box. And if there is one, odds are it ain't gonna be open casket."
Ron's eyes narrowed. "Piss off, you smug yank. I'll have you know I've dodged a few curses in my time."
"I'm sure," Ryan drawled. "Let's just try to keep that streak going."
"Wait," Maxine said, her brow furrowing. "What about me?"
"You," Ryan replied, not missing a beat, "are staying right here."
Maxine's face twisted in disbelief. "Wait, what? You expect me to just sit on my arse while you lot charge into the scoop of the century? Not bloody likely. I was the one who got you that lead in the first place!"
"Maxine." Harry's cut through the tension. He didn't raise his voice, but the authority in his tone made her falter. "Under different circumstances, I'd let you come along. But you're not an Auror. You're a reporter. We've already stretched protocol letting you this far in, but we're not dragging you into the crosshairs of a firefight."
She opened her mouth to argue, but Harry kept going.
"And you heard Ashford. These aren't amateurs. They're trained professionals. They've already tried to kill us once today, and we only just got out alive." His jaw tightened. "I can't… we can't, watch our backs and protect you at the same time. We're not going to let you die just for a story. No matter how good it is."
Maxine's shoulders sank slightly, the fight in her dimming as the weight of his words hit her. She glanced down, then gave a reluctant nod. She understood, even if she didn't like it.
Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "If it makes you feel any better, we'll fill you in on whatever we find we find at the factory."
That perked her up, until Ryan raised a finger. "On one condition. You leave me and the Watch completely out of it. No names. No hints. No exposés. Got it?"
Maxine crossed her arms but nodded slowly. "Fine. But I am getting my story, Ashford. One way or another."
"Sure, sweetheart," Ryan muttered as he turned away. "Just make sure it doesn't get you killed."
"So, it's settled then," Ron said, finishing the last of his blended coffee with a noisy slurp. The straw let out a wet squelch. Ryan winced. "Guess we're doing this tonight."
Harry gave a silent nod.
Ryan leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table. "Word of advice, for the both of you," he said. "If you're gonna keep doing this sort of work, you better be ready to make the hard calls." His gaze settled on Harry. "And I think you know exactly what I mean."
"I do," Harry replied. "But Aurors no longer use Unforgivable Curses. The repeal's been in place since the end of the war."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Potter. There's a thousand ways to skin a cat, just like there's a thousand ways to kill someone," he said. "The Unforgivables only work if you mean it. But setting a guy on fire and watching him burn? Same damn outcome."
He motioned with both hands, as if brushing aside the argument. "This isn't Hogwarts. This isn't a classroom duel or some mock battle club. This is the real world." His jaw tightened. "Back at that ambush? You left 'em alive. Unconscious, sure, but breathing. That was your first mistake. You leave loose ends, and they crawl back up with a wand and a grudge. You think those bastards were goanna stun you and drag you to trial?"
He leaned in. "They were trained to finish the job. Next time, they will."
Ron looked ready to interject, but Harry spoke first. "Maybe they will. Maybe they won't," he said, steady. "But don't assume Ron and I don't know what we're walking into, or what's at stake."
His eyes locked on Ryan. "Because unlike you, I don't believe doing this job means dealing in absolutes. We're not Death Eaters, flinging the Killing Curse around like gunfire." His voice dropped. "And unlike you, I don't need to kill a man to do what's right. Because the day I start treating murder like sport, that's the day I stop being an Auror."
A tense silence hung between them. Ron and Maxine exchanged wary glances, but Ryan didn't flinch. He simply shook his head.
"If I had a dollar for every time I heard that," he said with a humorless grin. "You want to play the white knight, fine, that's on you, but this ain't about being noble, or clean. This is about making sure people live. And when it comes down to the wire, and trust me, it will, you'd better be ready to choose. Because if you hesitate, if you freeze up, if you let compassion slow your hand… someone dies."
He held Harry's gaze a moment longer. "And between mourning a stranger." His gaze shifted to Ron for a brief moment. "Or burying my best friend? I'll take the guilt. Every damn time."
"Then, I suppose this is where we, as you say, split," Harry said, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument.
Ryan returned his gaze to his empty pint, the foam clinging to the glass like remnants of a conversation already past.
"Yeah," he muttered, almost to himself. "Guess it is."