The morning crept in slow.
Golden light spilled through the high library windows, catching the dust motes like floating stars. The fire from the night before had burned itself down to a lazy glow, still warm against the chill of Grimmauld Place's old bones.
Haneera's tail gave a sleepy thump against the rug.
Pando was already sprawled upside-down near the hearth, tongue half out, snoring like a train with feelings. The room smelled faintly of smoke, parchment, and toast — which was strange, because no one had cooked yet.
Shya stirred first. She blinked herself awake, hair a tangled mess, cheek imprinted with a line from Cassian's sweater. "Ugh," she croaked, sitting up. "Why does existing hurt?"
"Because you insist on falling asleep sideways," Talora murmured from the armchair across the way, not even looking up from her notebook. Her voice was the sound of tea steeping — slow, calm, and faintly judgmental. "And because that rug has approximately the texture of despair."
Cassian was already awake, sitting cross-legged by the fire, flipping through a book with a pencil tucked behind his ear. He looked too composed for someone who'd fallen asleep in the middle of a crisis.
"Morning," he said softly, eyes still on the page.
Roman groaned from his nest on the couch. "Is it?"
Shya stretched, joints popping like bubble wrap. "Barely. Where's the smell of toast coming from?"
"Kitchen," Cassian said. "Dad's cooking."
"Cooking," Roman repeated, skeptical. "Or setting things on fire for warmth?"
Before anyone could answer, Sirius appeared in the doorway — hair half-tamed, sleeves rolled up, holding a mug and looking every bit the man who had not yet decided whether he was a fugitive or a father.
"Good morning, delinquents," he said dryly. "Tea's on. Toast's edible. Possibly."
Haneera bounded to him immediately, tail wagging, pressing her head against his knee like she'd known him forever. Sirius bent to scratch behind her ears, smiling without meaning to. "And good morning to you, little one."
Pando, realizing there was affection to be had, rolled upright, blinked, and trotted after her — bumping into a chair on the way.
Talora snapped her notebook shut. "Breakfast sounds excellent. Especially if it involves food that didn't fall off a moving train."
"Follow the smell of butter," Sirius said. "It's the only thing keeping this kitchen civilized."
He vanished back down the corridor, dogs trotting after him.
The kids exchanged looks — that subtle, post-chaos agreement that said yes, we survived another night, now let's act like people again.
Shya stood first, shaking out her hair. "Come on. Before Roman eats everything."
"I don't eat everything," Roman protested, grabbing his wand and his hoodie. "I eat strategically."
Talora arched an eyebrow. "Strategically?"
"Yes. Strategically fast."
Cassian snorted under his breath and closed his book. "Let's go before he proves it."
They filed out one by one, barefoot and bleary-eyed, the floor cold under their feet. The house didn't groan this time — it hummed, low and warm, as if approving of the intrusion.
And for the first time in years, the library at Number Twelve didn't feel like a mausoleum.
It felt lived in — messy, loud, alive.
The kitchen of Number Twelve had changed overnight.
It wasn't cheerful — nothing here ever was — but it tried. The long stone counters gleamed faintly where someone (probably Cassian) had wiped them down. The air smelled like burnt toast, cheap coffee, and a sort of valiant effort.
Sirius stood by the stove in an apron that said "Mischief Managed (Mostly)", brow furrowed as he stared down a frying pan like it was a duel.
"Don't say anything," he warned as the kids entered. "It's edible."
Roman sniffed. "That's a bold claim."
Sirius didn't even look up. "You can starve."
Haneera and Pando trotted straight under the table, tails wagging. The floor was cool stone; the dogs loved it. Haneera nudged Shya's ankle until she bent down and whispered, "Fine, you can have toast too, but you're sharing with me."
Shya slid into a chair beside Cassian, eyeing the table — mismatched mugs, half a newspaper, sugar spilled like confetti. Talora joined her, notebook already out like breakfast required minutes. Roman flopped into the seat across from them and immediately poured tea that wasn't his.
Sirius flipped the eggs, muttered something unprintable, and then finally said, almost absently, "Do you know what's funny about vengeance?"
"Nothing?" Talora guessed.
"That it makes you sentimental," he said, setting the pan down. "You plot a thousand ways to destroy someone and then… you see your kid sleeping on the couch and you forget the script."
Cassian glanced up sharply. Sirius smiled faintly at him. "I didn't just escape Azkaban to make breakfast," he went on. "But somehow, breakfast happened anyway."
Shya blinked. "That's very poetic for a man wearing an apron with a pun."
"Survival makes poets of us all," Sirius said, deadpan, sliding the eggs onto plates.
Cassian reached for the Daily Prophet lying half-folded on the table. The front page glinted under the light — the Weasley family grinning in front of a pyramid, their robes sun-bleached and joyful. At the bottom of the photo, Ginny waved proudly, and on her shoulder sat a fat gray rat.
Sirius's hand stilled mid-motion. For a heartbeat, the air changed.
"Oh," he said, almost conversationally. "Right. That's the one."
"The one what?" Roman asked, through a mouthful of toast.
Sirius didn't look at him, still staring at the picture. "The one I broke out for."
Cassian straightened. "You mean—"
"Pettigrew," Sirius said quietly. "That rat. He's been in hiding for years. I thought he was dead, but—" he tapped the moving image, where the rat twitched its nose obliviously — "he's not. I escaped for vengeance, not breakfast. I just got… carried away."
Talora's pen froze over her page. "Carried away?"
Sirius half-smiled. "By domestic bliss. Happens to the best of us."
Roman leaned closer, frowning. "Wait. Isn't that Ron Weasley's pet? Why's he not in the picture?"
Cassian glanced up. "Good point."
"Probably grounded," Talora said dryly. "You don't get to endanger your classmates and walk away smiling."
"Yeah," Shya added, pouring herself tea. "He's probably stuck at home polishing cauldrons or reflecting on his life choices."
Sirius blinked. "Why?"
Shya looked up, spoon halfway to her mouth. "You didn't hear?"
"No," Sirius said, curious now. "What happened?"
Talora gave a tiny smirk. "Shya, you're the dramatist."
"Gladly." Shya straightened, voice dropping into her best scandalous whisper. "So. Picture it — end of term, the Chamber disaster, all the usual heroic nonsense. Dumbledore's called this big meeting, right? Governors, Ministry people, McGonagall looking like she's about to combust—"
Roman leaned in. "Oh, this is going to be good."
"It was good," Shya said, delighted. "Dumbledore goes full thundercloud. I swear the torches dimmed when he spoke. He said—" she deepened her voice — "'You have defied every instruction, endangered your peers, and placed your faith in vanity and rumor.' Like, spine. Chills. Full dramatic monologue. McGonagall's there, looking murderous, and one of the governors actually suggests expulsion."
Talora nodded solemnly. "He wasn't wrong."
Shya grinned wider. "Oh, it gets better. Dumbledore's like, 'If they had reached the Chamber, it would be justified.' Then he turns to them and goes, 'But as they did not, we will punish them with purpose, not vengeance.' I was this close to clapping."
Sirius blinked. "He actually said that?"
"Word for word," Shya said proudly. "Then this Ministry guy stands up with a parchment like he's at an award show — 'Effective immediately,' he goes, 'their wands are confiscated. Full academic probation. No Hogsmeade. No Quidditch. A whole year of detentions under Ministry oversight.'" She threw up her hands. "Harry was crying. Ron looked like a squashed tomato. McGonagall's lip was trembling from the sheer power of her disappointment."
Roman let out a low whistle. "Ouch."
Talora took a sip of her tea. "Frankly overdue."
Sirius had gone still, expression shifting between concern and something warmer, almost nostalgic. "Harry," he said softly, testing the name like an ache. "Harry Potter?"
Cassian frowned. "Yeah. Why?"
Sirius blinked back to the present, eyes sharp again. "Because he's my godson."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
"You're what?" Shya blurted.
"My godson," Sirius repeated. "His parents were my closest friends."
The words fell gently, but they hit like a bell. Cassian looked down. Shya's mouth hung open; Talora tilted her head, absorbing it like new data.
"Well," Shya said after a moment. "That's… an awkward transition."
Sirius smiled faintly. "You have a talent for understatement."
Roman pointed with his fork. "So, not to be rude, but if he's your godson — and Ron's his best mate — and you're saying the rat's actually—"
"Pettigrew," Sirius finished for him. "The man who betrayed Harry's parents."
Talora exhaled slowly. "That's— a lot."
Shya broke the silence first, because she couldn't help herself. "Okay, so— sympathy for your godson aside, Ron is the worst Weasley."
Roman choked on his toast. "Shya!"
"What?" she said, shrugging. "It's true! The others are decent. We've met some of them. Percy's uptight but nice. The twins are fun. Ginny's adorable. But Ron? He's rude, lazy, and his entire personality is just—" she gestured vaguely, "—jealousy with a side of food."
Talora nodded primly. "He's also remarkably mean to Hermione."
Roman gave her a look. "Wait, don't you hate Hermione, Shya?"
"Hate is a strong word," Shya said, stirring her tea with dramatic patience. "I look down on her desperate need to be needed by those two idiots. I have no respect for the way she rejects girlhood — her disdain for softness, her constant need to center herself around men. It's tragic. She could almost be as good as Talora and me if she wasn't wasting her time babysitting Harry and Ron."
Sirius tried — and failed — not to smile. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"No promises," Shya said sweetly.
Talora added, "At least we're honest."
Sirius took a long sip of his tea and muttered, "You're terrifying."
"Thank you," the girls chorused.
The kitchen was warm now — sunlight catching the edge of the table, dogs curled beneath it, toast crumbs scattered like confetti. Sirius leaned back in his chair, the paper folded beside him, expression thoughtful but steady.
"Well," he said at last, "it seems fate's been kind enough to drop Pettigrew's trail right back into our laps."
The room went quiet.
Cassian's eyes darkened. "You mean—?"
"I mean it's time to finish what started twelve years ago," Sirius said. "But not today. Today, we eat breakfast."
Haneera lifted her head, as if seconding that motion.
Shya smiled. "Breakfast first. Vengeance later."
"Precisely," Sirius said.
The meal dissolved into that lazy, comfortable quiet that follows big conversations. Plates half-finished, tea cooling, dogs underfoot.
Sirius collected dishes with an ease that made it look like he'd been doing it for years; Cassian moved beside him, efficient and wordless.
Roman stretched, pushing his chair back. "I'll get some air," he said. "This house is incredible, but I need to see sunlight before I forget what it looks like."
"Don't wander off," Sirius said automatically, like a father issuing a reflex warning.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Roman replied, already heading for the front hall.
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was still cloaked — hidden neatly between Numbers Eleven and Thirteen. From the outside, Muggles saw nothing but a gap of brick and shadow. But from within that sliver of air, Roman could see both houses perfectly, like neighbors frozen mid-conversation.
And standing right between them, peering at the space as if trying to make sense of their own faulty vision, were Henry and Milos.
Roman grinned. He pushed the door open just wide enough to slip out, the wards sighing softly as they let him through. "You two are going to give yourselves migraines doing that."
Milos jumped slightly, hand flying to his chest. "Jesus— oh. You."
Henry squinted, then broke into a slow smile. "Thought we'd imagined this place again."
"You didn't," Roman said, stepping onto the pavement. "Though I admire your commitment to confusion."
They looked exactly as they always did: Henry in his pressed navy jacket, Milos in his bomber coat, both of them with the faintly frazzled air of men who spent their lives keeping track of brilliant but chaotic families. Their car was parked crookedly half up the curb, a stack of bags in the backseat.
Henry gestured toward it. "We've got the girls' things. Parents said you'd probably be here awhile."
Roman nodded, no hesitation. "Yeah. Looks like we're settling in for the rest of summer."
"That's fine by us." Henry's smile warmed. "Tell Miss Livanthos and Miss Gill if they need anything, we're around. Phones on. Day or night."
"Will do." Roman took the duffels, bracing under their combined weight. "Appreciate it."
Milos leaned on the car door. "You lot staying safe here?"
"As safe as we ever are," Roman said lightly.
"Which is to say, no," Henry muttered.
Roman laughed. "I'll let them know you're betting against us."
Henry's eyes twinkled. "We're not betting against you, lad. We're just realists."
Roman shifted the duffels to one shoulder, raising a mock salute. "Thanks for the delivery."
The men nodded and climbed back into the car, the engine coughing awake. They didn't look back as they drove off, and within seconds the space between Eleven and Thirteen shimmered back to emptiness — as if nothing and no one had ever stood there.
Roman lingered a moment longer, watching the street — the sunlight hitting the stone, the ordinary London day carrying on obliviously. The city hummed; the world didn't stop for magic, and that was somehow comforting.
He turned and slipped back through the threshold, the door shutting soundlessly behind him.
Inside, the kitchen was all chatter again. Shya had apparently discovered Sirius's attempt at cooking bacon and was mid-interrogation.
"Did you boil this?" she demanded.
Sirius looked deeply offended. "It's crispy."
"It's shiny," she corrected. "That's not the same thing."
Roman dropped the bags onto the floor beside her with a grin. "Delivery for Her Majesty's Chaos Division."
Shya brightened instantly. "Oh my God, my sketchbooks!"
Talora's head snapped up. "And my herb press!"
"They send love," Roman said, leaning against the counter. "Also, they said to tell you they're on call if you need anything. Guess they've accepted you're staying."
Talora exchanged a look with Shya — that quiet, satisfied spark of realization. "Then it's official," she said.
Shya nodded solemnly. "We live here now."
Haneera barked once, as if confirming it.
Sirius, towel slung over his shoulder, looked up at that. "Do you, now?"
"Temporarily," Talora amended quickly. "Until September first."
"Two weeks of chaos, then," Sirius said. "Merlin help me."
Cassian smirked. "You like it."
Sirius didn't deny it.
Upstairs, the air smelled like polish and old secrets.
The cleaning charms Cassian had cast the night before had scrubbed decades of dust from the walls, but the house was still itself — dark wood, narrow corridors, and portraits that whispered like gossipers with bad timing.
"God, I love it here," Shya said, stepping into one of the unused bedrooms and spinning in place. "It's like if a haunted mansion and an art studio had a goth baby."
Talora followed, arms full of jars, peering critically at the wallpaper — black lilies, faintly embossed. "It's tasteful horror," she decided. "Like… murder, but with good lighting."
Cassian leaned against the doorframe, half smiling. "That's one way to put it."
Roman appeared behind him, carrying a stack of folded blankets. "You two are disturbingly comfortable with living in a house that sighs."
"It's called aesthetic," Shya said, pulling open the curtains. Dust danced in the sunlight like confetti. "This is gorgeous."
The dogs darted in first — Haneera's paws pattering across the wood floor, Pando bounding after her. They sniffed corners, chased invisible motes, then claimed opposite sides of the rug with the instant certainty of creatures who understood property rights better than humans.
Talora set her jars on the dresser and immediately began sorting them by color and potential toxicity. "You're taking this room," she said without looking up. "I want the one next door — the one with the arched window. Better morning light."
"Morning light?" Shya said, mock scandalized. "You're voluntarily exposing yourself to the sun?"
"It's ideal for herbs," Talora replied primly. "Some of us cultivate things that grow."
"Same," Shya said, pointing at herself. "Chaos."
Talora didn't even look up. "That's not a plant."
"It's a lifestyle."
Cassian huffed out a laugh. Sirius's voice floated from the hallway. "Try not to summon anything you can't put back!"
"No promises!" Shya yelled back.
She had already unpacked half her duffel — sketchbooks, colored pencils, a roll of washi tape, and a string of fairy lights that she tossed to Roman. "Help me hang these."
"Why me?" he asked.
"Because you're tall, and I believe in gender equality — which means labor distribution."
Roman sighed, took the end of the lights, and began tacking them along the top of the window while she directed like a general. "Higher. Left. No, my left."
"I'm not psychic," he muttered.
"You're a Nott," she said. "Fake it."
Talora had started unpacking quietly next door, arranging her things with the precision of a botanist setting up a lab. Glass jars lined her dresser — neat rows labeled Oleander, Nightshade, Foxglove, and Absolutely Do Not Eat.
Pando nosed one of them and sneezed. Talora smiled faintly. "Lesson learned, darling."
In the next room, Shya had turned her corner of gloom into a riot of soft chaos — sketch pads fanned out on the desk, art supplies spilling from jars, the fairy lights twinkling against the dark wallpaper. She'd found an old brass lamp shaped like a serpent and repurposed it as an art light.
"This place has vibes," she declared. "I'm thriving."
Haneera curled up on the rug beside her bed, already asleep. The dog's breathing was slow, deep — like the house itself exhaling.
Cassian lingered in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching with an expression that was half amusement and half disbelief. "You two make this look normal."
"Normal's overrated," Talora said, poking her head in from the hall. "We prefer 'cinematically unhinged.'"
Sirius appeared beside Cassian then, leaning on the doorframe. The early light from the landing caught the silver streaks in his hair. "You know," he said quietly, "when I was a kid, I hated this house."
Shya paused, glancing over. "And now?"
"Now it's full of laughter instead of screams," Sirius said simply. "So I'll take it."
Something soft passed between them — not awkward, just true. The kind of thing no one commented on out loud because it was better left in the air.
Roman, who had finished hanging the lights, flopped dramatically onto the bed. "So, does this mean we officially live here for the rest of August?"
"Looks like it," Cassian said, smiling a little. "We're calling it temporary chaos residency."
Shya grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. "Then we need matching uniforms."
"Please don't," Sirius said, walking away before he had to see what that might entail.
The girls spent the next hour turning the upstairs corridor into a scene out of a teenage fever dream — soft laughter, clinking jars, fairy lights flickering, dogs wandering between rooms. The portraits on the wall whispered irritably about "unruly youth," but the house, for once, didn't seem to mind.
When Shya finally collapsed onto her bed, arms flung wide, she sighed happily. "Haunted, but make it home."
Talora smirked from the doorway. "You're impossible."
"You love me," Shya said, eyes half-closed.
"Tragically," Talora replied.
The clock on the landing chimed noon. The smell of something edible drifted up from the kitchen — soup, maybe, or sandwiches. Cassian's voice floated from downstairs.
"Lunch!"
"Finally," Roman groaned. "I was starting to hallucinate food."
"Bring your appetite," Sirius called. "And your moral compasses. We're planning."
Shya swung her legs off the bed. "You heard the man. Time to cause productive trouble."
Talora grabbed her notebook. "The best kind."
Pando barked once. Haneera yawned. The dogs trotted after them as they clattered down the stairs again — the sound of new life in old halls.
By midday, the kitchen felt alive — sunlight spilling across old tile, the smell of basil and toast curling through the air, the steady warmth of something ordinary in a house that had never known it.
Sirius stood over the stove, coaxing a pot of soup into behaving, while Cassian efficiently plated sandwiches beside him.At the table, Shya and Talora had already spread their notebooks like generals drafting war strategy. Roman sat diagonally from them, expression halfway between fascination and regret.Under the table, Haneera and Pando snoozed — shadows and light made flesh, breathing in sync with their girls.
"Eat before you start scheming," Sirius said, setting down a ladle with finality.
"Multitasking builds character," Shya replied, already chewing.
"I think it builds indigestion," Cassian muttered.
Roman pointed at the girls. "And felonies."
"Only if we get caught," Shya said brightly.
Sirius sighed, rubbing his temple. "Merlin help me."
The first few minutes were surprisingly calm. They talked logistics, timing, the way Pettigrew would think. He'd go back to Hogwarts, they all agreed — where the noise and wards would hide him.
"He thinks the school's safe," Talora said, methodical as ever. "He'll want to be close to the Weasley girl again. Familiar ground."
Shya leaned back, spoon twirling. "Exactly. So we catch him where he feels invisible."
"In a puddle?" Cassian said warily.
Shya's grin spread slow and wicked. "You know me too well."
Sirius froze mid-sip. "No puddles."
"Fine, fine," she said, waving him off. "But you have to admit—"
"No," he interrupted.
"—it would've been poetic," she finished anyway.
Talora jotted something in her notes. "We'll use subtler methods. Controlled ones."
Roman arched a brow. "Controlled, like the time you 'accidentally' unleashed carnivorous ivy in Greenhouse Three?"
"That was an experiment," Talora said primly. "And it worked."
Shya's grin widened. "She's already growing poison again, by the way."
Cassian's head snapped up. "You're what?"
Talora didn't flinch. "Foxglove, oleander, monkshood. Beautiful, dangerous. They thrive under care."
Sirius blinked. "You're cultivating toxins."
"For aesthetic and scientific purposes," Talora said serenely. "Also possibly strategic ones."
Shya nodded. "She's the brain, I'm the chaos. Together, we're efficiency with moral ambiguity."
"More like efficiency with a body count," Roman muttered.
Talora ignored him. "If we're smart, we could synthesize a truth serum blend. Organic. Slow-acting. Easy to hide in—"
"Tea?" Shya offered.
Cassian groaned. "You two are terrifying."
"Thank you," Shya said sweetly.
Haneera stirred under the table, stretching her front paws. The shadows around her shimmered faintly, like smoke in reverse — drawn toward her. Across from her, Pando lifted her head, white fur glowing faintly gold in the light. For a moment, the air in the kitchen hummed like distant thunder.
Sirius watched with quiet awe. "They're not just pets."
"Familiars," Talora said softly. "They choose their partners."
"Haneera's a Gwyllgi" Shya added proudly. "Welsh death hound, said to hunt and gather souls."
"And Pando's from Guatemala," Talora said. "A Cadejo Blanco — he's a guardian spirit."
"Fitting," Sirius murmured. "You're both truth-seekers — just a bit… unconventional."
Shya beamed. "We prefer morally flexible idealists."
Cassian leaned back, rubbing his temples. "That's what villains say before building death rays."
"Please," Shya said, waving a hand. "If we built a death ray, it'd be stylish."
They kept spiraling, faster and louder, until Sirius finally gave up trying to impose logic.
"So, what exactly is the plan?" he asked.
"Simple," Talora said. "We don't act here. We wait for term. Hogwarts is safer, structured. We'll observe. Find the rat. Corner him."
Shya leaned in, voice conspiratorial. "And if he resists…"
Roman groaned. "Don't say it."
"...we drown him in a puddle," she finished, grinning.
"Or poison him slowly," Talora added thoughtfully.
"Or I throw a knife really close to him," Shya said. "For intimidation."
She gave a theatrical shrug. "I was actually brilliant with knives. Best in my Girl Scout troop — earned a badge for precision. Very handy skill."
"No one is poisoning, drowning, or throwing knives at anyone," Cassian said firmly.
Shya groaned. "You're no fun."
"I'm alive," he said. "That's the difference."
"Technicality," she muttered.
Sirius folded his arms, giving Shya a long look. "I'm afraid to ask, but… Girl Scouts?"
Cassian snorted. "Oh no, don't."
Shya blinked innocently. "It was a character-building experience."
Talora didn't look up from her notes. "She burned down the entire camp."
Sirius nearly choked. "You what?"
"It was an accident!" Shya said defensively. "I found an old skeleton in the woods — like, probably a deer or something — and thought, wow, what a noble end. So I tried to give it a Viking funeral."
"A Viking funeral?" Roman repeated, horrified and impressed.
"There was a lake," Shya said, gesturing. "A small one. I used lighter fluid. It was beautiful for about thirty seconds."
Talora finally looked up. "Then the wind changed. The flames spread. Six Cabins gone. The forest nearly followed, Truly a miracle no one died."
"I was trying to honor its spirit!" Shya said indignantly. "How was I supposed to know birch trees were basically nature's kindling?"
Sirius stared. "And your father—?"
"Had to pay a fortune so they wouldn't press charges," Talora finished. "She was permanently banned."
"From Scouts?" Sirius said weakly.
"From american forests, technically," Shya said. "They made me sign something."
Cassian groaned. "You are a walking cautionary tale."
Shya grinned. "And yet, you keep hanging out with me."
"Because I enjoy suffering," he muttered.
Talora flipped a page. "Anyway. Step one: confirmation. Step two: tracking. Step three: containment. Step four: controlled truth extraction."
"Step five," Shya added. "Cake."
Roman sighed. "You always end with food."
"It's how we celebrate survival," she said matter-of-factly.
By the end of lunch, the plan had shape — rough, chaotic, but undeniably theirs.
Talora's notebook was full of diagrams and lists, Shya's sketchpad littered with dramatic doodles: a rat in a crown labeled Enemy of State, a puddle tagged Justice, and a burning camp tent titled Character Growth.
Sirius leaned back, watching them. "You lot are going to land us ALL back in Azkaban."
Shya smiled, lifting her glass. "Us? We're saving your reputation."
Cassian gave a short laugh. "Merlin help us all."
Haneera thumped her tail once against the tile. Pando echoed it with a low, approving huff.
The kitchen filled with sunlight and laughter — the kind that stuck to the walls and made the old house hum with something close to joy.
Shya raised her glass higher. "To Operation Rat Trap, version two."
Talora tapped hers against it. "To ethical poison."
Roman sighed. "To plausible deniability."
Cassian smirked. "To surviving the term."
Sirius lifted his mug last, voice soft. "And to finding truth."
Their glasses clinked — a pact sealed in sunlight, soup, and utter madness.
For the first time in years, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place felt not haunted — but alive.